Blonde Redhead
Penny Sparkle

When I was a child, one day my brother brought home a record that made music my passion, my greatest treasure.

At ten years old, thanks to him, I was listening to Nirvana, Foo Fighters, Placebo, and many other rock bands that I don't remember.

It didn't take long before incredible-sounding records started appearing in his room. I remember the afternoons I spent listening to records at high volume on his stereo when he wasn't there, the room brightly lit by the sun.

One day that first record arrived, followed by many others.

I don't remember the first sensations it might have given me. I remember the allure that the CD cover had on me. It was cardboard and not plastic like usual, and it had a tremendously aggressive air in all its black color. On the front, there were small blood-red negatives of portraits.

It was "Melody of Certain Damaged Lemons" by Blonde Redhead. I listened to it so much that I took it downstairs, to the living room where the PlayStation was. I finished Crash Bandicoot with the volume off with Blonde Redhead playing.

The mystery that permeated the album to my childish ears remains the same today, when I picked up that dusty album with its now damaged edges. I have never found in music a sensation like the one a track like “For The Damaged CODA” gives me: fear. Pure and simple fear, a terrifying anxiety that you can't explain, because what you're listening to is marvelous but terrifies you, leaves you helpless, draining you.

That's why I can't accept an album like “Penny Sparkle.” That's why my heart weeps to hear this chill-out disco electronic crap for halfwits.

Not only do Blonde Redhead have a reputation to maintain as heralds of an indie-rock more creative than ever; they're a part of me, a myth that sparked my child's imagination, memories and melodies that come to life together.

That's why to me Blonde Redhead have stopped making music. They were afraid of the beauty of their memories.