John Roberts
Glass Eights

A moment ago, I couldn't find any suitable words to start a review worthy of being read from start to finish. Too many thoughts, too much fatigue, too many irritations. Fortunately, the sinuous synths of "Navy Blue," the second track of the album, arrive just in time to transport me to an abstract limbo, a sweet agony. And perhaps it's the black/white contrast of the marble-like cover (which I unfortunately only see on the screen) that reminded me of "8 ½," one of the cornerstones of our cinema, watched with pleasure a few days ago, hard to forget.

So, retracing in my mind the scenes of the Fellini masterpiece while the music flows languidly in the background, I find these words. It almost seems like a filler to cover some lack of inspiration, but this is the condition I feel most like myself at this moment, and it seems to be a good expedient. There are periods when one gets lost in the endless obsessive game of either/or, choices, stances, or that aforementioned limbo, crushed by the pressures of alternatives, by the weight of a freedom we struggle to feel our own. I don't know if maybe there are inept and enterprising people, and I don't even know if this is typical of adolescence (or post adolescence); we all, in our way, have certain moments, some experience them more intensely, some face them more practically. The problem is when the internal lump becomes a long phase of stagnation where reality never unfolds in its variety. Victims of heavy eyes, believing to be (or could be) strangers to the world, incorruptible, but in truth disturbed by daily annoyances, shortcomings, and anxieties, life appears to us faded and monotonous.

And it is here that music becomes the mother of all consolations, breaks the tedium forcefully; or sometimes goes lovingly hand in hand, as in the case of the American, though debuted in Germany, John Roberts and his "Glass Eights" (2010). An album that has nothing difficult, today on the crowded streets of electronics, anyone stands out. The difficulty, when playing requires little or nothing, is to have the spark, be it easy or complex, something worth spending time on. And at least for me, this is worth the time, especially for those who feel consoled by these words.

From the minimalist prelude "Lesser", something pleasant, certainly cinematic and aesthetic is felt in the air. The album immediately takes on a deep turn, with the relaxed proceeding of the first track. I've always thought of deep house (and many genres akin in "use," which ultimately have much in common in some respects with jazz) as an "easy pleasure," for its satisfying immediacy, it is a pure sensation, devoid of concepts, and moreover of simple composition and equally easy enjoyment. Just sensation. But this is not the deep of Luomo, that of his sublime "Vocalcity," one of the genre's pillars, more so the nocturnal orgasms of the more dilated Motorbass (monsters), or of Moodymann. But in this house, which is little danceable, there is something melancholic, but not a moving melancholy, it is still something pleasant, it is that sweet agony I was talking about, between the nauseating and the satisfying. From the spasmodic yet always calm "Navy Blue" to the soft "Pruned" (recalling "La Notte" by Cassius) and the tortuous "Porcelain", the scene is that of a dark night more blurred than ever, where colors fade, signs blur and deform, stunned by an uncontrollable internal myopia. Only "Dedicated", "August" and "Even or Not", at times make us emerge from the stagnant waters, with glimpses of more marching and dynamic electronics. It's the title track (with a mood that cannot but remind one of "Flying Fingers" by Motorbass) that closes the album with measured manners, as if wanting to reconcile.

In the end, I must say that I refuse to call music a consolation, it is not just that and I don’t want to believe it, I feel it. It is more, it is a continuous renewal through art, whether it's the good Roberts or someone else; it is not just an escape into aesthetics, reassured by the strength of our images. At least once, we feel clear, distinct, steady, cradled by the melody, existence paradoxically becomes still, beyond who knows what supposed crisis. And perhaps, beyond our "fooling around", beyond empathizing with who knows what character, beyond visions and desires, there is something more, the most extreme moment of art, where absurdly one feels as they are, savoring a genuine and real balance.

"...Luisa, I feel liberated, everything seems better, everything makes sense, everything is true. Ah, how I wish I could explain myself...but I can’t. There, everything returns to how it was, everything is confused again, but this confusion is me, I as I am, not as I wish to be, and I'm no longer afraid of it. Speaking the truth, what I don’t know, what I seek, what I haven't found yet. Only then do I feel alive and I can look into your faithful eyes without shame. It's a celebration, life, let’s live it together. I can't tell you anything else, Luisa, neither to you nor to others. Accept me for who I am if you can, it's the only way to try to find each other."

Guido Anselmi, "8 ½"