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The first thing you notice about Number 2, HebbaJebba’s latest album, is that it doesn’t care if you notice it. There’s a kind of self-assured indifference in the way it moves through its 42 minutes, like it’s been waiting in the corner of a dimly lit bar for hours, barely acknowledging you when you finally arrive. That’s the charm though—this album doesn’t beg for your attention. It doesn’t need to. You either get it, or you don’t. And that’s precisely the kind of energy you want from a band like HebbaJebba.
FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/HebbaJebba/
Minneapolis doesn’t exactly scream “rock ‘n’ roll,” but maybe that’s why Number 2 feels so refreshing, like you’ve stumbled upon something rare. Something that thrives off its isolation. The band itself is a patchwork of personalities, fronted by Ted Hajnasiewicz’s vocals and guitars, with Mark Ganje’s “good guitars” filling in the spaces where the world would prefer things stay quiet. Paul Gordhamer (drums, vocals) and Tom Carlon (bass, vocals) anchor the chaos, while Brendan Ober holds the rest together, or at least makes you think he does.
If HebbaJebba were a conversation, it would be one you overheard on the L Train at 2 a.m., just as someone lights a cigarette inside the car. You’d catch half of it, pretend you didn’t hear the other half, and wonder all night what you missed. The songs on Number 2 work like that—disjointed, but somehow cohesive. The album itself is produced by the band, which, in an era of over-produced gloss, feels like an act of rebellion. It’s raw, but not messy. Sharp, but not clean. It’s almost as if they want you to feel a little uncomfortable, like they’re nudging you toward something that could fall apart at any moment but never quite does.
And then there’s the book. Yes, the band made a book. An accompaniment to the album, as if you could stream and read along, though you don’t need to. You don’t need to do anything, really, and that’s the point. They dare you to sit with the music for 42 minutes, uninterrupted. To hold onto the sensation of just being there, in the moment, like you’re rifling through a vinyl sleeve, poring over the artwork, inhaling the dust from the record jacket, pretending like the world outside the window doesn’t exist. The book opens with an unapologetic reminder of that—a demand for your attention, a push toward rediscovering the long-lost art of listening. It’s not arrogance, though. It’s HebbaJebba asking you to slow down. No one else will.
From the first track, Number 2 makes you question where you are, what you’re doing. “Swagger,” one of the album’s standout cuts, is exactly that—swaggering, stumbling, demanding. The accompanying video feels like you’ve been dropped into the middle of a chaotic dream, or maybe a bender that’s gone on just a little too long. Ted Hajnasiewicz’s vocals float over a gritty, unrelenting guitar line, while Gordhamer and Carlon keep everything from derailing, though you can’t be sure how long that will last. The song feels like walking through the city at night, drunk on nothing but the sheer audacity of being alive.
Then comes “Wings of a Dove,” which feels like a completely different animal. It’s the comedown, or maybe the slow-motion moment when you realize you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. The video, all hazy filters and abstract imagery, pushes the song into something ethereal, but there’s still a pulse beneath it, something grounding, almost sinister. HebbaJebba has a knack for taking something soft and giving it teeth.
But it’s “What Do You Want Me to Say” that sticks with you long after the last note fades. Co-written with Matthew French, it’s the track that feels like the heart of the album—if Number 2 has a heart, that is. There’s a resignation in Hajnasiewicz’s voice, like he’s speaking to someone who’s no longer there, or maybe never was. It’s not pleading, but there’s an undertone of desperation, a last-ditch attempt at connection before the song unravels completely. You almost feel guilty listening, like you’ve stumbled into someone else’s private conversation, but you can’t look away.
The album’s been mastered by Ty Tabor at Alien Beans Studio, a name that carries weight but doesn’t impose itself on the sound. It’s clean but unrefined, the perfect backdrop for a band that thrives on the tension between polished and rough, between what you expect and what you get.
And then there’s the rest of the band. It’s easy to forget that HebbaJebba is a group effort, because every song feels so singular, so driven by a specific vision. But then you catch a moment—a drum fill here, a bass line there—that reminds you how integral each member is. Paul Gordhamer’s drums hit like a punch in the gut, while Tom Carlon’s bass rumbles beneath everything, like a storm brewing in the distance. And Ganje’s “good guitars” are just that—good in the way that they hurt a little, in the way that they stay with you, long after the song ends.
BANDCAMP: https://hebbajebba.bandcamp.com/album/number-2
What Number 2 does best is refuse to be what you want it to be. It doesn’t care about the rules, about the way albums are “supposed” to sound, or how they should be consumed. It’s an experience, an experiment, and maybe even an invitation to see what happens when you stop trying to control everything. It’s not HebbaJebba’s job to make you comfortable, to offer easy answers. They don’t care if you’re confused, if you’re left feeling like you missed something. Maybe you did. Maybe that’s the point.
In the end, Number 2 isn’t just an album—it’s a reminder. A reminder that there’s value in stopping, in being present, in taking the time to truly listen. To the music. To the world. To yourself. It’s not special because HebbaJebba says so. It’s special because it dares you to recognize the importance of time, of being here, now, even if just for 42 minutes.
And if you don’t get it? That’s fine. HebbaJebba doesn’t need you to.
Jenifer Munoz
