Some bands are built for the present moment, thriving in the here and now. Others seem to straddle time itself, borrowing from the past while bending it forward into something unmistakably their own. HebbaJebba, the Minneapolis quintet behind Number 2, falls squarely into the latter camp, crafting an album that feels both timeless and urgent. It’s rock, sure, but it’s also something messier, a bit more sprawling—music that never rushes to define itself, content to let you get lost in its shifting moods and textures. And in an age where streaming singles rule, HebbaJebba dares to insist you shut off the world for 42 minutes and just be with their album.
Number 2, produced by the band and mastered by Ty Tabor at Alien Beans Studio, plays like a conversation between five musicians who have never stopped enjoying the act of playing together. It’s a strange alchemy, one that could’ve gone wrong in a million ways—self-production is always a risk—but here it just works. Every track feels lived-in, the result of a group that has figured out how to push and pull at the boundaries of their own sound, never settling for the obvious but never straying too far from their roots either.
The opening track “Swagger” lives up to its name, strutting in with Paul Gordhamer’s drums holding the beat steady, while Ted Hajnasiewicz’s vocals cut through like a half-smiling dare. The guitars, courtesy of Mark Ganje and Brendan Ober, feel as integral to the personality of the song as the lyrics themselves—every riff and solo another smirk or raised eyebrow. It’s an audacious beginning for a band whose very existence might seem unremarkable on paper—middle-aged guys playing rock. But there’s nothing middle-aged about the energy in Number 2.
Then comes “Wings of a Dove,” and suddenly you’re in an entirely different emotional landscape. It’s an achingly tender song, one that manages to hover just above melancholy without ever fully giving in to it. Tom Carlon’s bass here is more than rhythm—it’s the pulse of the song’s heart, grounding the ethereal guitar lines in something deep, human, and sad. If Number 2 has a thesis, it might just be this: that rock music can still carry the full weight of emotion, that it can still surprise you with its softness.
But for all its emotional range, Number 2 doesn’t feel like an album trying to prove anything. There’s a kind of quiet confidence here, the assurance of musicians who know that they don’t need to show off. This is a band that’s clearly more interested in creating something that resonates than in crafting the next radio hit. That’s evident in tracks like “What Do You Want Me to Say,” a song that unfolds slowly, almost reluctantly, but with a payoff that feels hard-earned. Co-written with Matthew French, it’s one of those songs that doesn’t scream for attention but demands it anyway, pulling you in with a lyric here, a vocal turn there, until you’re fully under its spell.
One of the most intriguing aspects of Number 2 is its ambition beyond the music itself. HebbaJebba has also created a book to accompany the album, an analog companion piece that invites listeners to stream the album while flipping through its pages. It’s a throwback to an era when albums were experienced as a total package, not just a random shuffle on a playlist. The band’s introduction to the book sets the tone: “Our greatest hope is that you are able to discover, or rediscover, the joy of taking in the long-player recorded album as a piece of art.”
That sentiment feels almost radical in 2024. HebbaJebba isn’t special because they’re reinventing the wheel—they’re special because they refuse to give up on the idea that the wheel itself still matters. Their book is more than a gimmick; it’s an invitation to engage with the music in a way that modern technology has largely made obsolete. You can almost feel the weight of the vinyl record in your hands, the texture of the paper as you read the lyrics and credits. It’s tactile, immersive, a reminder that music is more than just sound—it’s an experience.
Ty Tabor’s mastering adds an extra layer of depth to the project. Known for his work with King’s X, Tabor brings a subtle sheen to the production without sanding down the band’s edges. The album feels raw, but not unpolished—every song is given room to breathe, to sprawl, to unfold at its own pace. The pacing of the album is, in fact, one of its strengths. HebbaJebba understands that an album isn’t just a collection of songs—it’s a journey.
Yet, for all its emotional depth, HebbaJebba never loses sight of the fact that rock music, at its best, should be fun. You hear it in the grooves of “I’m Tired,” a track that could have been a brooding meditation but instead comes out swinging, all swagger and bite. There’s a looseness here that suggests a band that knows how to take the work seriously without taking themselves too seriously. It’s a delicate balance, but HebbaJebba strikes it effortlessly.
And maybe that’s the secret to Number 2—it doesn’t feel labored, even though you know it’s the product of a band that has spent years honing their craft. The songs are tight but never stiff, expansive but never indulgent. The result is an album that feels both grounded and free, a reflection of musicians who know exactly who they are but aren’t afraid to explore where they might go next.
HebbaJebba’s Number 2 isn’t just a rock album—it’s a call to slow down, to listen, to re-engage with music as something more than background noise. It’s an album that rewards patience, one that asks you to spend time with it, to let it seep into your bones. And in a world where everything is faster, louder, and more disposable, HebbaJebba’s insistence on creating something timeless feels like an act of quiet rebellion.
Chadwick Easton