There's a house situated amongst the knobby hills of the eastern section of the Hudson Valley in New York. It is, if one were to take flight into the bright springtime skies, a slight structure dwarfed by the looming spires that surround, slightly wavering in the upper breeze, stretching east toward the ocean, north towards the border, south towards the big city, and west towards America. In our new lives, buoyed by satellite perspectives, it is the proverbial needle in a haystack. But for years there have been somewhat secluded and secretive musical goings on in the room between the domestic area and the over-stuffed garage. Beyond the large, sun dappled bay windows, more than a generation ago a man, a pioneer in his field, his race, took his music to the north country and began to move the air inside this room, vibrating the wooden walls, opening those little portals some of us believe allow the magic to seep through, no matter how many years later.Now here we are, in those later years, and a small group of sonic voyagers have roosted in this space once again. Pigeons have arrived at this uncommon structure, The Bower, via oceanic travels around the Pacific Northwest with the Sea Donkeys... through early duo explorations with tape machines and tube sock mallet percussion and saxophones and a drum machine named Sammy in pre-shiny-curbed Brooklyn... and after an extended stay in the South Bronx, stretching to trio and quartet formats honing the infernal concept of songcraft and the shell game sleight of hand wizardry concerning listener expectations. They're more than a handful of releases into their sonic narrative and this record on the MIE label is an explosion of change.
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