Placid Angles: Meeting John Beltran
John is at Dekmantel for a live performance of his seminal album 10 Days of Blue. He meets me the morning after.
Friday, August 5, 2022
John and I are crossing over a canal into Willemspark, a cosy area of Amsterdam lined with terraced housing and tall trees on either side of the road that lean across to each other, their branches intertwining and forming a green dome over our heads. He’s walking with a slight limp, and I with a heavy mind.
“Whereabouts in Ireland are you from?” John asks.
“Dublin,” I say. “I'm having that hometown conflict where I love it, but I hate it. I've been away for the last three years and I want to go home, but it's one of these things where I'm tossing and turning between the grand paradox: With freedom comes instability, and with stability comes restraint.”
“Sure,” John says, with empathetic assurance.
“I'm dealing with that.”
“You're at that point of your life. How old are you?”
“25 now.”
“Yeah, you just keep doing what you like, right?”
“But even for my generation,” I say, “it's almost like we've entered mass psychosis because with the amount of choice at our disposal, about where we want to go in our lives. It's created this lack of decisiveness.”
“Yeah, sure, sure.”
“Whereas maybe before, with older generations, it feels like there was more defined roles.”
“You know,” John says with a sigh, “I don't remember looking back. Maybe I did. But it seems like you guys do look back for answers. I don't know if that's where it's at.”
“Ok, really?”
“I don't think we all did it all that right, all the time. What do you love to do? That's it, man. That's it. And then you fucking kill it.”
“The American Dream is no longer just American. It's pandemic.”
“That's too bad,” John laments. “That's too bad.”
“It's also the fact that it seems attainable.”
“I hate to hear that. You know, even though I'm American, I'm anti-American culture. Going home is not a bad thing, dude. Ireland's great. I would also say with the American Dream concept, just don't worry about that bullshit.”
“Yeah.”
“It's ruining the world.”
“Yeah.”
“But you're young. You're in a good place. You don't have to kill yourself trying to chase shit.”
We cross the road into Vondelpark, forgetting to look left and nearly getting trampled by a cyclist because of it.
“I know you've a great affinity with your hometown of Lansing,” I say.
“Yeah,” John says. “You know, it's not the place I'd pick to live if my family wasn't there.”
“Ok, yeah.”
“I'm 53. A lot of my friends have gone, you know? So, it's just my fiancé and I, our little circle, and then my parents and her mother. So, I look forward to a day to getting back out there in the world.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, but I have an 11-year-old son.”
“He's settled in school and stuff?”
“Yeah, you gotta get him through, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “When you were my age, was there that sense of escapism in getting out of your hometown?”
“Yeah,” John admits.
“And did you have that realisation that it's never external, always internal? You just had to figure out shit for yourself, before going back home?”
“The Find Myself stuff, not so much, because I think Puerto Ricans are very similar to the Irish. We're islanders and family is so important. I was around family and that's the ultimate. Yeah, I dreamt of other places and ultimately, my career took me there. You can still do that. Be on the ground, but be based in a place that you feel totally comfortable in.”
“No, fair.”
“It's a place to launch. And then when you're not focused on all the bullshit, you can just breathe and exhale, and hang out with your Dad.”
I smile.
“Right?”
“No, yeah, fair. Definitely.”
“There's nothing better than that. The wise have figured that one out, or they've bumped into the wisdom that that's where it's at, because when you lose these people in your life, man, you can't get it back.”
We continue to weave in and out of an incessant trail of cyclists coming from both directions on this winding path around the park’s lake. In an area of the park with looming trees hanging overhead, the sky barely perceptible, John stops at a bench.
"Let me just tie my shoe real quick,” says John, hoisting his foot on the bench and bending down to reach his lace. “Aw, man,” he groans, “I got a bad sciatic. You know what that is?”
“No,” I say. “Explain.”
“It's a nerve that goes down your back. It's a pinched nerve from some tennis. Shit.” He reveals a slight grimace of discomfort.
“How often are you playing tennis?”
“Well,” John says, “with this injury, more often than I should. But a couple times a week. I have a couple of tennis buddies. We go at it pretty hard.”
I chuckle. “Ok.”
“Yeah,” John says. “One guy who's 70 years old kicks my ass. He's ranked in some old-man touring thing and I can't beat him. But I can hit with him. It's so weird. I cannot get over the mental side. I'll get up on him and I fold.”
“You just crumble?”
“He's gonna have to be 80 for me to beat him, and that's just embarrassing.”
“What's to say that the mental aspect of it won't persist and he'll be an immovable object?”
“Oh, shit. I'll stop playing him if I can't beat him at 80.”
I laugh.
“I'm close, man,” John insists.
“Well, we all need something to strive towards.”
“Yeah, there you go. Beating this older guy.”
“It's funny how that's the duality in which you operate,” I suggest, “between the sports and the music. I would say perfectionism is almost the antithesis of creativity. It's better to be unique than to be perfect.”
“Yeah.”
“Then how do you channel that through your creative process?”
“Well,” John says, “these athletes compete on the battlefield. I would say that we have our own version of that, especially in the early days of my scene. You've gotta make a name for yourself and you better have funk, soul, and everything when you're going up against someone like Carl Craig, because you are going up against him in a way. You might be friends with him, but you better bring it if you're hanging with him.”
“You don't wanna be left behind.”
“No, man. Take this how you want, but I always felt that I was better. I was like, My vision is still not complete. If I live long enough, I'm hoping to achieve it.”
“Yeah.”
“But I always loved what they did. They inspired me. But I always had bigger aspirations than just being considered a Detroit guy, you know? Nothing wrong with it, but I still have bigger aspirations.”
“Do you think certain circles might consider your music to be a bit too mawkish?” I ask.
“I got my aggressions out in sport, not in music. Music, for me, has always been about love, whether it be for a partner, love for whatever, and when I had my child, that love —” John pauses. “I've made a resurgence over the last 10 years or so, because a kid will bring all the love out of ya.”
“Was it that instant feeling that dads refer to?”
“Yeah,” John says. “My friend once said, Man, after I had kids, I realised what a douchebag I was. I've never had that thought about myself, but I get what he was saying.”
We exit the park and find a bar directly in front of us. After checking for oncoming traffic and crossing the road, we sit down in the beer garden on a wooden picnic bench. The barman comes out to us and recommends that John get a pint of Chouffe, to which he duly obliges.
The barman returns and puts down John’s pint on the table.
John inspects the pint. “Chouffe, huh?” He takes a sip. “Oh, yeah, that's IPA-ish.”
“You not into that?”
“I like it all, but I don't need all the after taste. That's the problem, isn't it?”
“Yeah, especially if you feel it the next morning. It's such a distinctive taste in your mouth.”
John wipes his mouth. “Oh my God. The dry residue.”
I laugh. “Do you find it easy to articulate yourself? It's almost as if your music says everything without saying anything at all.”
“You know, I once had a girlfriend say, You have beautiful music, but you're a jerk. She loved the music, but her and I just didn't get along. Obviously my fiancé will tell you something entirely different about me. I'm also older and I'm wiser and I'm softer in a lot of ways. In my opinion, I was just young and stupid.”
“Of course.”
“But, yes, music is the way that I express myself, and generally not by talking. I don't talk about First Blue Sky with my friends, my tennis buddies, my son. Anybody. It's just out there. I gave it to you. It's gone.”
“There's a group of friends I have and we're obsessed with that album.”
John laughs. “Ok. I'm finding that younger people are feeling Placid Angles more than any of my other stuff. Sadly — in a great way too — my music fits a community that needs a little love, right?”
I laugh through the exposure.
“I've never wanted the responsibility,” John says. “I was pretty apprehensive about being a figure in any sort of industry. I just never felt comfortable with it. But, man, I do feel comfortable with the idea of helping people through music.”
“Do you think there is a story to be told with First Blue Sky?” I ask. “Is there a story there, that you know, track by track, what's happening?”
“I think Placid Angles is the one project, more than any, that is telling a story.”
“Yeah.”
”You're in the middle of it now.”