NEW INTERVIEW + PLAYLIST! Blinker The Star
Jordon Zadorozny is living proof that '90s alt-rock veterans need not stay stuck in the past. He dishes on the latest album Animal Math, Lollapalooza, Laurel Canyon and his brush with Paul Westerberg.
It is with great pleasure that I present to you my interview with Blinker The Star founder and mastermind Jordon Zadorozny, along with a career-spanning playlist that I spent a few days curating:
You might also wanna check out a 2020 interview feature I did on Zadorozny:
We may look back on the ’90s as the time when alternative music took on all the excesses of the mainstream, but the fact is that the period is filled with examples of artful records that benefitted from a rare alignment of commercial and creative instincts. It was that confluence of forces that paved the way for Zadorozny to combine the most compelling aspects of heavy rock, psychedelia, space rock, prog, and ’70s AM pop…
On his [newer material], Zadorozny has once again crafted some of the most dynamic, vibrant rock of the modern era. Never one whose work was defined by angst alone, Zadorozny has come up with a mature, rather adult twist on rock that reaches far beyond ’90s stereotypes — while also showcasing the masterful songwriting touch that enables us to imagine another new batch of songs as present-day radio staples.
I don't recall exactly when I stumbled across the video for Blinker The Star's 1999 single "Below The Sliding Doors," but I do remember being immediately drawn-in by the rich, sumptuous piano chords that underscore the song's mournful yet sparkling harmonic aura. I was also piqued by the instantly-recognizable production touch of Ken Andrews, one of the driving forces behind the alt-metal/space-rock outfit Failure.
I've written about Failure and/or Andrews several times (here, here, here, and here) and am in fact in the process of writing another piece revisiting Failure's classic 1994 sophomore album Magnified. So I won't say too much here, besides the fact that Failure was a case of musical love at first sight — the kind that leaves such an impression on your life that it somehow defines who you are as a person. Magnified in particular exudes a sense cobwebby psychic darkness that I find disturbing yet irresistible in its allure, even beautiful.
I made a pact with myself as a teenager never to try hallucinogens. Long story, but I intuited early on — during a classmate's sheepish but empirically neutral presentation on LSD in 11th-grade chemistry class — that my mind would be vulnerable to the risks of going through that door, even though I barely understood what those risks were. My sense of caution has since been proven correct, though, by moments where I've experienced powerful sensations of my perception warping to the point where I could feel myself slipping towards some kind of precipice.
I've had that experience — which can be terrifying, transcendent, or both — after ingesting nothing more than marijuana. It's also happened when I've been stone cold sober. And, while I've never had what one would describe as a schizophrenic episode, I've definitely gone through bouts of white-knuckling it through perceptual currents where the waves have gotten quite choppy. With my cognitive makeup, I just know it's a risk I can't afford to take. And the jarring, apparently traumatic DMT-induced dissolving of consciousness that comedian Neil Brennan described on a recent Joe Rogan appearance sounds like something I would have an extremely difficult time handling.
The good thing is, I don't need LSD or DMT because I've got Magnified. For me, that album is like a doorway into a darkened room that I come back to over and over, tantalized by getting close enough to peer into that darkness — maybe stick my toe just over the threshold — without having to take the plunge. And I find it shocking to the point of hilarious that in its most sinister moments (mind-bending funhouse-mirror songs like "Bernie" and “Frogs,” for example), Andrews and his musical partner in Failure Greg Edwards actually thought they were making pop music!
By contrast, aside from my first taste of “Sliding Doors,” the music of Blinker The Star did not ingratiate itself with me so readily. While I staunchly argue that none of those idiotic "Best Songs of the '90s" lists are complete unless they include "Sliding Doors," I initially found the album August Everywhere to be impenetrable.
I could clearly hear the creative synergy between Zadorozny and Andrews, but the album as a whole frustrated me — and it was all the more frustrating because there was something insistently intriguing about it. I kept thinking there was something there that would eventually unlock. I turned out to be right, although August Everywhere didn't reveal its manifold charms to me until 20 years later, when Zadorozny released the Blinker album Juvenile Universe.
Not only did the title track’s throbbing pulse and haze of plasma-like electricity pull me in right away (not to mention the nod to Alex Lifeson’s iconic guitar tone from Hemispheres, Rush's 1977 prog-rock pinnacle), but I was also struck by how much Zadorozny's singular creative voice had evolved in the intervening decades since August Everywhere. When he sings of (what I presume to be) a deep love in the chorus, his rippling intonation of the words any tiiiiiiiiiiiime seems to resound across the eons. I've been hooked ever since. And burrowing my way through his entire body of work has been a great joy of the last few years.
The free-ranging conversation in the clip above was quite pleasant, and I'm delighted to finally share it. But I must say that I'm even more excited about the career-spanning Blinker playlist I spent several days putting together. The conversation was effortless, but the playlist was a real labor of love. Zadorozny has explored myriad styles throughout his career, especially lately, and I'm bouncing off the walls at the prospect of both fans and newbies alike taking my guided tour through all the contours of his music.
It's a long listen — the density of his music can be a challenge to take-in at a single sitting — so I've also broken the main playlist up into two separate parts (pt. 1 and pt. 2), but I would recommend that you work your way through the full version, as I think Zadorozny's style rewards patience rather nicely. For anyone who's remotely interested or has even a passing taste for the whole alt-rock paradigm, I think you'll find that Zadorozny has singlehandedly expanded the lens through which we can view an entire decade of music and culture — in that we shouldn’t view the artists who made a name for themselves during that decade as frozen in amber.
With the vitality of his latter-day work, I see Zadorozny’s current output as living proof that '90s artists need not stay stuck in the past.
Enjoy!
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