John Roberts - Glass Eights

JOHN ROBERTS - GLASS EIGHTS

Dial

“John Roberts” is not exactly a name to inspire passion in anyone. It sounds like the name of a chain-smoking, mild-swilling early Seventies footballer, who now works as a stationery salesman or driving instructor. That’s because it is. However, it’s also the name of an American producer living in Berlin (another one - the last time there were this many Americans in Berlin the only deep house in town was Der Führerbunker). Glass Eights is his debut on Dial, also known as occasional home to the always-interesting Efdemin and the often-overrated Pantha Du Prince. Unfortunately, this album is almost as nondescript as Roberts’ name.

It might be easy to file the album under “post-minimal” deep house, but it’s not that deep. Or that housey. The grooves in Glass Eights are nowhere near as raw as other Euro interpreters like Motor City Drum Ensemble or Johnny D, and the depth, such as it is, comes from jazz. Many of the tracks are built from looped samples (or maybe live recordings) of piano, double bass, and shuffling brushed drums, suffused with vinyl crackle. This sound is epitomised in opener “Lesser” and the penultimate beatless track “Went”, which lay on smoky Cinematic Orchestra vibes until you can hear them sound-tracking adverts in your head.

The album continues in this mortally inoffensive vein. “Navy Blue” welds Warp-era synths to a super-classy organic bassline and some restrained house beats. It’s a shame that then nothing happens for the remainder of the track - an accusation you could also aim at the noodling “Dedicated” and “August”, which must be contender for one of the most tasteful electro tracks ever released (you decide: is that a good thing?).

It’s perhaps not surprising that the strongest tracks are two of the most driving. Addictive drum programming on “Porcelain” builds into something fascinating and pleasantly tracky, whilst the final title track brings together the noodlier elements on the rest of the album with an economical house beat, gaining more focus as a result.

There’s nothing dislikeable about Glass Eights. On the contrary (with the exception of the frankly odd broken-beat / hip-hop experiment “Pruned”) it’s lovingly and expertly assembled from some promising ingredients. But the results are bland and feel devoid of emotion. It’s a beige hotel room in album form, the musical equivalent of drinking a cup of Earl Grey in a Saab estate. Or, in the 21st century: meh.

Sam Stagg