Unlike much current experimental nonsense, Comets ain’t bourgeois frit-to-have-a-tune ramalama, and is therefore thankfully much more appealing with the music of psychedelia and, for some, the maximum beginnings of experimental metal. For some perhaps, almost jazz in places but not for me. “Pussyfoot the Duke” sure is Faust playing Zappa’s Lumpy Gravy, but what’s better than Zappa refracted through the bong? Too long we have awaited this newly recorded LP, and I have had to entrust my spirit to this sect’s endless string of live bootlegs (malignant and devilish). If there’s a problem for me it’s not enough of the Miller larynx. ­I NEEED that voice, that Ray Charles of the Underworld, that sweet assassination of the 13th Floor Elevators. For this mainly instrumental LP to always attract the attention, I have no doubt of its place in the modern world. For me, Ethan Miller and Ben Flashman and Noel Harmonson and Utrillo Belcher and Ben Chasny is an sect malignant [sic]. Allied sorcery and nourisher of dread. For many years of the future, this band of brothers will also be a brand hallucinating which occupied in mine head the larger place. Inclusive here being the magical synthesizer wars of drums and guitar, also piano and organ newly arrived to stew up the sound further. These magic battles of sound and vibration also occupy in my head the larger place. This is Comets on Fire. So rejoice with me lovers of the music. Here is great tipsy principal coming from the far west, thousands of miles of sea and landmass from where I reside. Perhaps it’s the great monoliths of the Avebury Ring picking up the rage of Messrs. Miller, Harmonson, Flashman, Chasny, and Belcher. During the war, Arthur C. Clarke was stationed here at Yatesbury only one mile from where I write this down. If 2001: A Space Odyssey was conceived in this environment, what better place for picking up the refusenik stompathons of Comets on Fire? For me, this is a band Wonderful, is the highest, is anything, is an Sect which some follow for ever and ever. Sirens and warning robot female voice say: “Alert, Ben Flashman, your bass is too loud.” Flashman says get out the way. Stand aside it’s the fucking real U.S. army and there is five of us. A five man army always works if you got the right five. Ask Hernando Cortes, ask Moctezuma and kick Neil Young’s hippy ass (Comets on Fire are greedy and makes me chuckle coz they sure is sore losers and hate the hippy that free man, that free). Five man army can destroy all in its path. Especially on the night raid and here is Special Agent Ben Chasny on the tippytoe sneaking into battle acoustic love and delicate as the Japanese geisha girl. Beyond the rages of lead guitar and male strummed bass mentality, we cannot expect their genius to incorporate organ and chords! But they do such things! Is this the same band? Yes and yes again. Of course, we must all wish with delight that Blue Cathedral will be a big hit. So I say explore it, pick up at least 1 copy. Get out again. Willingly heal this Knave New World of the urban killing fields. No more war! No more war! Get Comets on Fire peak experience rock! I’m thankful for your attention. No more stupid George W. Get back under the bottle says Comets on Fire. No blues only explosions. No more war. No more war. Get Comets on Fire peak experience rock! I’m thankful for your attention. —Mr. Julian Cope, April 2004