The Necks have cut a wide swath through a narrow conception and kept it not only interesting but exciting over an extended time. Early jazz and rock flirtations became their own formulation, and after a period of gorgeous stasis, they began slowly moving in new directions again. Chris Abrahams started employing organ and other keyboards; drummer Tony Buck picked up electric guitar; and bassist Lloyd Swanton added bass guitar. Shorter tracks and film soundtracks ensued.
They’ve released a couple of dozen albums over the last thirty-five years—and you need either one of them or all of them. While copping Buddhist lines is a critic’s cliché, it’s hard to characterize the way their sameness is always in flux: the Necks are never in the same river twice, and the weather is never the same. It’s hot and humid or windy and overcast, but you know the river when you see it. Bleed is a particularly beautiful and eerie record (presented in two parts to accommodate the vinyl pressing). It starts with a slow piano figure that feels about half accidental. Chimes and brushed cymbals bring atmospherics, then some other sounds float in, more difficult to identify. It creeps along, building gradually, recedes into a piano/bass duo, and, by a half-hour in, gentle noises have overtaken it all. But a play-by-play misses the point, as does speculating about the title. It’s a record to disappear into, letting forty-two minutes feel like forever.
Kurt Gottschalk is an author, journalist, and broadcaster based in New York City. His work appears in publications in North America and Europe, including Bachtrack, The New York City Jazz Record, The Red Hook Star-Revue, Stereophile, and The Wire and he can be heard on WKCR-FM and WFMU-FM.