The members of Harlem’s No-Neck Blues Band shut themselves in the studio for 72 hours, pieced together feet and inches of tape Holger Czukay-style and emerged with their most enigmatic recording since 1998’s Live at Ken’s Electric Lake. What Clomeim lacks in grizzled hermeticism is reconciled by the ensemble’s embrace of psychosexual groove-riding: the sort of greasy rock murk once dealt in spades by the likes of German Oak and Far Out. Put simply, they continue to do what they do best, which is to find startling new ways to just let sound happen. Indeed, most of Clomeim‘s songs eschew the hunt-and-peck approach to improvisation, instead going effortlessly tail over head into the sonic morass. “The Coach House” winks wantonly at Sunburned Hand of the Man: A melodica hovers wonderfully over well-hung dude-rock that could’ve been an Eat a Peach outtake. But the vibe here is palpably darker, and gets full fleshing on witch-ragga “Ministry of Voices,” which pairs sax- and string-scatter with singer Michiko’s ecstatic night-hag gutter wails. The most ambitious moments are found on “La Promesse Miruco,” a hazy motorik rocker built upon unsteady foundations of tonal noodle and moan-and-groan wordlessness. With a blatant disregard for musical identity and steadfastly refusing to shy away from uncharted territory, Clomeim creates a patchwork collage out of innumerable genres — and perhaps a few new ones along the way.
This article appears in Jan 15-21, 2009.