Comus's singular, frightening sound, violently poetic lyrics, and unbelievably bad luck, kept them from taking their rightful place alongside Fairport Convention, Incredible String Band, and the rest of Britain's psychedelic folk royalty. I don't write the words psychedelic folk royalty without a certain amount of trepidation. Comus's run of misfortune through 1970 and 1971 began with what was meant to be a high-profile appearance with David Bowie, a huge fan. The release of their debut album, First Utterance, and a subsequent tour were marred by a postal strike that made it impossible to send contracts, book shows, keep sales figures, and most important, get copies of the record into retail stores. When stores did finally get the record, the response wasn't entirely positive.
Funny thing is, that's a fairly apt description.
Tales of murder, rape, insanity, and witchcraft unfold amid a swirling abyss of seething acid folk. Flutes, hand drums, acoustic guitars, and a violin clamber atop one another in a chaotic melee, creating a pagan folk not unlike that of The Wicker Man . Three years later Comus surfaced with their second album, To Keep from Crying . The record disappeared, and so soon did Comus. Although the band has been resolutely ignored by mainstream music fans, the press, and the majority of the underground, a small rabid following has kept a reverential vigil beside the corpse of Comus.