PRJ017 - The Black Neck Band of the Common Loon S/T
- In memory of Googie Withers
- Oilslick fetish rub (for the terminally sleazy)
- Cherynoble or ghost?
- Quarter spliced for supper
- Drunk on horsehead pier
- X=X=not X
- Broken cabinet laments
Released: September 2009
Reviews for S/T
The Wire, December 2009
'Those who know the work of Hamilton Yarns will recognise the fractured, drunken, dreamlike swirl that they create on their intricate albums of rich and mysterious narratitve. Here, Yarns member Blue Pin plays an assorment of instruments against drummer Andy Pyne's percussion. "In memory of Googie Withers" has a chanting, intoning vocal over an accordion. A piano is played and attacked in equal measure on "Oilslick Fetish Rub (For the terminally sleazy)". The stumbling "Drunk on Horsehead Pier" features asthmatic wheezing brass. Each and every track is a wild yet focussed duet and a bruised poem of desperation'
Foxy Digitalis, December 2009
'The Black Neck Band of the Common Loon is the recording project of UK sound-adventurers Blue Pin (Leopard Leg, Hamilton Yards) and Andy Pyne (Medicine and Duty, Puffinboy, Shrag, Passiondale). This seven-track CDR shows the two moving freely around a healthy, and at times horrifying, forest full of instruments and sounds, transitioning between various percussive racket-makers, piano, viola, flute, harmonium, recorder, violin, bugle, and shamanic voice-chants. The two whip up heady blasts of chaotic and reflective sounds that navigate a liminal space between sunlight-woods ritual meditation grooves and full-out growling blood-hungry nighttime rages.
The aleatoric clicks and splatters of percussive-joy swell into a magnificent tribal drum line, maintaining a celebratory mood for the duration of the album. The slippery, wall-slamming key waltz of “Oilslick Fettish Rub (For The Terminally Sleazy)” glistens alongside droplets of wind chimes and foundational rim-hits. The rumbling drum clangs and spiritual horn on “Drunk On Horsehead Pier” are gleefully Aylerian and primitive, setting the group apart from the Finnish free-folk terrain their aesthetic most plausibly falls within. The most exciting moments are those when Blue Pin and Pyne push the instruments to their limits, freaking out and creating a hail of thought-stimulating ruckus, and such moments occur frequently.
Listeners who are heavy into the sounds created by projects like Sylvester Anfang and Wooden Veil will definitely want to get their hands on this album. 7/10 -- Elliott Sharp (8 December, 2009)'
Losing Today, October 2009
'Mentioned that we’d received this a missive or three ago and damn fine it is to. Not content with splitting his time between solo work, collaborative outings with Ron Caines and Medicine and Duty the latter of whom recently released a killer 7 inch set entitled ‘the imperial black fracture’ which in truth every home should own - or at 250 of them should as it’s a ultra limited pressing - its seems that Andy Pyne can’t stay still in the same place for any given moment his muse seemingly leading him by the nose anxious in its want for exploring the strangely surreal and abstract. If you happen to be one of the fortunate select few who’ve marvelled at the voracious appetite displayed by Medicine and Duty in defying categorization and thus throwing themselves headlong into a dizzying brew of genre splicing groove which appears to serve as a pic n’ mix selection of the finest musical fashions to have reared from the underground these last four decades - then this debut may well tip you over the edge and blow the top of your skull clean off. There’s no handy press release indicating or indeed heralding what lies within the grooves of this seven track sub twenty seven obtuse opus which incidentally is criminally limited to just 100 copies, the only information garnered found printed on a paper band wrapped around the sleeve declaring it to be the collaborative work of Blue Pin (of Leopard Leg and Hamilton Yarns fame) and Andy Pyne - oh yea and the short but intriguing promise of ‘drums and drone, harmonium and delirium, death bed shakes and fanfares for the doomed‘. Appetite suitably whetted we prized the CD from the sleeve and prepared ourselves for whatever flew out of the speakers. Twenty seven minutes later our senses just barely intact from the happenings within, we can declare hand on heart and without question or hesitance that this is by far the most wired, weird, fried and freaked stew to have headed out of the Foolproof Projects HQ period. Absolutely all over the shop - and I mean that in a good way - in turns exploring no wave and art rock idioms with a more than heavy nod in the general direction of Henry Cow, This Heat and to a lesser though slyly definable extent Public Image Limited. The duo named loosely we suspect after the No Neck Blues Band engage in a curious freeform lunacy that’s at once ad hoc, dislocated and without boundaries or limitations, a strangely unsettling though crooked fermentation of archaic folk rituals, Dadaist signatures, jack-knifing jazz tonalities, congested tribal rhythms and ju ju voodoo charms sourced or so it seems from lost mystical and mythical Tibetan tribes (note if you will the opening ambit ‘in memory of Googie Withers‘). it’s the kind of thing that should appeal first and foremost to admirers of the early works of both Volcano the Bear and Sunburned Hand of the Man - none more so is this the case than on the parting shamanic wonkiness of the puzzlingly surrealist titled ’broken cabinet laments’ something for all you Goons aficionados I shouldn’t wonder as you freebase to the sounds of Inside Ov a Butchers Shop being piped through your head phones, the sounds steeped in a primitive age old legacy are dispatched with an earthy cacophonic minimalism, here you’ll find the groaning fog bound and eerie death rattling funereal shanty drone ’x=x=not x’ (which we should say you expect Mr Cutler to pipe in any second on with one of his Scotch living room monologues) rubbing shoulders alongside ‘Quarter spliced for supper’ which after a hefty spot of rhythmic noodle worthy playfulness soon deceptively unfurls to reveal a tinker-ish almost calypso like charm albeit a tad bent out of shape and distressed in detail. Elsewhere you can almost feel the choking claustrophobic heat rising from the hypnotic Eastern Bazaar mantra that is ‘Cherynoble or ghost?’ while the fractured and mind fragmenting Beefheartian title inspired ’oilslick fetish rub (for the terminally sleazy)’ is once re-assembled in the right order and loosened of its Stockhausen meets Frith and Cutler bolts an oddly funky little blighter. Any questions then. Peculiarly perfect.'