Blur: Damon Albarn, Graham Coxon, Alex James, Dave Rowntree.

Additional personnel includes: Jason Cox (drums); The London Community Gospel Choir.

Engineers: John Smith, Jason Cox, William Orbit.

13 marks Blur hitting the 10-year mark as a band. During their first decade, the band went from being lumped in with Manchester bands such as Happy Mondays to becoming Brit-pop foils to Oasis. Their self-titled 1997 release found them inhabiting the same lo-fi neighborhood as American indie rockers like Pavement. On 13, the London based quartet joins forces with techno-pop producer William Orbit on a record whose inclusiveness manages to find room for both the gorgeous, choir-adorned "Tender" and "B.L.U.R.E.M.I.," a song that sounds like the illegitimate offspring of Wire, Devo, and Rick Dees.

Blur's work with Orbit finds them plunging deep into a lake of space-rock overflowing with wondrous sounds such as the pinging, Floyd-like tinkling, and hypnotic rhythms of "Battle," and the sputtering transmissions and bristling distortion permeating "Bugman." In straddling the dissolving lines between genres in the late '90s, Blur manages to trod the same ground as Underworld on "Trailerpark" and subscribes to the aforementioned jittery, lo-fi aesthetics on "Trimm Trabb." Despite all this experimentation, Blur still sneaks in perfect pop nuggets such as "Coffee & TV," where cheery harmonies share space with a squealing guitar.

Cocky Cockney Damon Albarn spent most of his interview time a couple of years ago telling everyone how great his band Blur was. Now, after all that musty old Scene That Celebrates Itself dust has finally settled, time has proved him correct.

The touchstones on Blur's surprisingly sophisticated sophomore set are obvious-Bowie, Ronson, Sgt. Pepper-era Beatles-but they're marbled together in a big wash of pop culture that sounds sort of like Suede trapped in the studio with H.R. Pufnstuf at the controls. The album is goofy, sometimes awkwardly so, like when Albarn chirps a nonsensical la-la-la chorus on "For Tomorrow," or when the production on "Sunday Sunday" goes completely George Martin AWOL, as if the only thing missing from the mix was a rhinoceros sneeze sample.

But it's Albarn's self-assurance that pays off. When he sings, words like "Star Shaped" suddenly become "Staw Shoiped," and he even sneers like Johnny Rotten at one point ("Advert"). But he has this vision for Blur, see, a kind of crossroads where `70s optimism intersects with early `80s new wave snottiness beneath gummy psychedelic guitar trees.

Okay, so nobody said it'd be pretty, but this group has found a niche, an approach that stays focused for 17 hook-happy numbers and never once appears forced. The last thing anybody probably expected was for bratty Blur to grow into its own clown-sized shoes. But Albarn can kick back and indulge himself in a hearty last laugh. He's earned it.