For the past 13 years, the Harlem-based No-Neck Blues Band have ignored any logical illusion or obvious contradiction in exacting their own true monumental sound: an avant-garde of cemeteries, of almost complete blindness. Though their attempt to blur the edges between the prize of obviousness and the reality of ignorance has found them labeled remote by a few, you can read the past as you wish. It can either go down as an assault of backbreaking lifetimes or a mere flutter of sunstrokes. In due course, they have proven themselves to be continuous, rife with meandrous fog and vision, the purveyors of a snaky cohesion. Improvisation, over time, yields access to substratum vistas of altogether unseen colouration. This is characteristic of a place in which our music occurs. It may be heard simultaneously here on earth, it may be heard now in the future in surround-sound, DVD audio, via light pipe, etc. But due to its place of origin, it reaches us here without translation, solely as echoes sounding from an immaterial world. Not unlike the radio dish tuned into Space, hoping to catch some intergalactic communique, we've assumed responsibility for broadcasting the atmosphere surrounding the other intelligences combined among us.