Blurrr, the sixth studio album by multi-media artist Joanne Robertson, dances on the fragile surface that Robertson’s voice and open-tuned guitar create. It stands as the best of her discography, with the onerism that has defined her sound now directed and channelled into a record that captures the haze, but also the movement, the ebb and flow of solitude and dreams.
Sparcity defines the sound of Blurrr. Much of the album is an isolated Robertson, accompanied only by her guitar playing. This sense of isolation permeates the album; the improvised guitar melodies lend a sense of intimacy, authentically and continually opening itself up to the listener. It ebbs and flows, winding through Robertson’s voice, building into soft crescendos such as on the opening track ‘Ghost,’ or providing body to the soft, ethereal grace of Robertson’s falsetto. The guitar’s isolation creates a space in Blurrr that is not emptiness, but a void that stretches out onto the listener, inviting you into her loneliness. The instrumentation, despite its minimalism, feels vast, ocean-like in its persistently soft movement, rocking the listener as if in and out of consciousness. This is where the album succeeds, where many of its stylistic counterparts may fail. Blurrr never crosses that line; it walks the tight rope between the subconscious and conscious, holding you in that state of lucidity throughout its 43-minute duration.
Robertson’s vocals are, of course, the standout of the album. Robertson frequently elicits comparisons to Cocteau Twins singer Elizabeth Fraser, but on Blurrr, she steps out of that hazy ambiguity, her lyrics instead muffled in the background, before either crying out and cutting through the mix, such as on ‘Friendly,’ or uplifted to ethereal highs, such as on album standout ‘Gown,’ featuring cellist Oliver Coates. Coates enters the album halfway through, on ‘Always Were’, and instantly raises the album out of the darkness, steadily accumulating. The sustained notes create a cinematic feel, a grandeur felt like a saving light; in parallel, Robertson’s voice ascends to an ethereal falsetto. It breaks through the shroud of loneliness and lets in a glow.
Whilst loneliness may define much of Joanne Robertson’s Blurrr, it would be a disservice to her art to dismiss it as merely a lament. Blurrr eternally opens itself up to the listener, melodies that would be listless and blurred brought into stark emotional clarity. In ‘Last Hay’, the track’s closer, Robertson opens the song with a sigh. Catharsis.
“Blurred Lights” by Dharmit Shah is licensed under CC BY 2.0.