Joanne Robertson – Blurrr

Being best known as the ghostly melodic heart of Dean Blunt’s tales of wounded masculinity has often overshadowed Joanne Robertson’s brilliant, similarly idiosyncratic solo work. On Blurrr, her strongest and most focused work to date, she continues to build a gorgeous world of solitary melancholia. Sonically, it’s largely as sparse and haunted as Robertson’s previous work; simply recorded acoustic songs that seem gently smudged, words difficult to make out, all elements drifting into something that seems to ache through the fog. There’s something of early Cat Power about how unadorned and downcast it all is, but, perhaps owing to the simplicity of its recording, its atmosphere feels more domestic, less constructed, as if it’s something private overheard from the flat upstairs.

Bolstering her usually sparse sound this time are contributions from experimental cellist Oliver Coates, whose treacly textures become a perfect accompanying haze for Robertson’s voice to float through. The atmospheres of the solo songs are so delicate, so church-like in their solitude that, on paper, orchestral flourishes feel like they could puncture the atmosphere rather than contribute to them. It’s no surprise though to people familiar with Coates’ work that his input is sublime, expertly judged, particularly on Gown where he churns down into desperation and reaches for salvation simultaneously.

Listen to: Gown, Exit Vendor, Why Me