The infamous Signor Jota, known or unknown for his monolithic lifework alongside Frl. Tost as Novy Svet and essential contributions to Mushroom’s Patience, Unitad Sasao, The Tiny Men, Severin Bestombes, Indra 1996, Gnostic Gnomes and a myriad of other musical lifeforms now all stardust – this elusive, serpentine Magi of the post-post-industrial underground is shedding his skin once more on Nessuno, a record of confrontational and permeative isolationist bliss.
As with every re-configuration in his artistic vita, Jota drops a few scrambled jigsaw pieces in front of our eyes that remind us of everything and nothing at the same time. Kicking off with a sampled quotation from John Lennon’s “Watching the wheels” (“people say I’m crazy, doing what I’m doing…”), Nessuno transports us into a ritual space right behind Jota’s mind’s eye. And there’s lots of stuff going on here for the forty minutes to follow: the cavernous, residual pulse and hum of abandoned temples, trembling and staggering synth chords that seem to be plucked by invisible hands like will-o’-the-wisps across a nocturnal scene, fragments of acoustic guitar strings that appear more like a reminder of a song that once might have been than an actual instrumentation, the feel of open cables and cold energy, stabs of radio hiss on its ongoing, futile quest for an indefinite frequency.
There is a whole world of puro rumore / puro amore being hinted at when Jota’s smoky signature croon strikes through the damaged, hobbling trip hop of Canzone della vita, an early highlight of the record, a few minutes into Side A. Other times, his words, all sung in Italian, bounce on and off the interior walls of the songs like the voice of a speaker who has long since left the room. There is the downward spiraling febrile delirium of Freddo uno and the unholy incantation of self-indictment on 6 || 6. When the fog and hiss of personal history and inner conflict has dissipated on the noise-addled ballad SacrifiZio Vittime, Jota halts to take a startling and rapt look at the inscription of scars torn open once more. For a short glimpse we’re tempted to believe that Jota has gone a skin too far this time, and now he sits naked to the core amidst the beautiful rubble of life. But nah… think twice!
There will always be a plethora of mirrors lurking in every corner of the room, re-modeling the artistic persona of Jota Solo into a labyrinth that ramifies deeper than a Borges-ian nightmare.
Enter the starlit odyssey dopo mezzanotte that is Il Mare, a melancholic instrumental piece, to touch at the darkly glistening ground of Nessuno’s journey. We can sense the dangerously haunting melodies of sirens shot through with windswept noises, but in the midst of it all there is also peace and contentment here. And then again, closing track Giorni due breaks off midway a demented braindance, waving goodbye in contorted poses whilst the credits roll on, leaving us nonplussed once more to where all of this has just sprung from
and where it is heading now. If you’re asking yourself for references, Novy Svets more electronic adventures like Todas las ultimas cosas (2008) and Mono (2015) might pop up as first-choice. In the rare case that you’re novice to the whole microcosm, think Richard D. James having a field day with the ghost of Franco Battiato. Or maybe don’t, if that’s too outré.
Either way, Jota’s new record is testament to the fact that he is still way ahead of the game, or more precisely, laying down the rules of a game all his own. However, it’s not this technical aspect, innovation of the hand, but innovation of the soul that lingers with us when the last grooves run out. Like it did so often before. Part of our future, part of our past.

Margot Benetti, Totensonntag 2023