Comets On Fire

If the slightly undersold venue’s spaces between bodies suggest an absence of loyalty to Comets On Fire’s cause since last they visited these shores, back in May last year and before their (now broken) hiatus, any potential shortcomings of an appreciation nature are sky-rocketed the fuck out of Kilburn by a level of adoration usually reserved for long-lost family, not a band that’s simply dropped out of orbit for a year. Long before the Californian five-piece take the stage the atmosphere crackles with expectation, the heat burning at joints and sweat collecting in pits growing with every second, every tick and tock that takes us nearer to the return of one of the world’s most phenomenal live attractions.

They’re not used to venues of this scale, Ethan Miller’s five-piece; last time they filled the Scala in this very city, yet tonight they fall short of stuffing-tight a venue a fraction of the size. But the whys and hows matter little – what is of importance is the obliteration of such considerations by a set that fizzes through a fug of rumbling low tones, swathes of amplifier worship punctured by Miller’s unhinged shriek. He manipulates his six-string of choice in a purely masturbatory fashion, gesticulating wildly and sending machine heads into a dizzy spin; beside him, Ben Chasny’s contributions on second guitar comprise a sober-faced foil to the singer’s outlandish histrionics, and Noel von Harmonson controls his box of electronic trickery masterfully, lending alien moans to a brew already most heady. But it’s Ben Flashman, bassist, who most lock onto – his steadiness guides these songs, and it’s his movements our movements follow into the void.

What they play seems secondary to them simply showing up and playing, but nevertheless favourites are to be found: ‘Sour Smoke’ makes for a neat distraction from Comets’ more-ferocious arrangements, drummer Utrillo Kushner stepping out from behind his kit to man a keyboard to the left of the stage. It’s a pause for breath, really, between battalions of bombast. ‘Antlers Of The Midnight Sun’ is one such offering, a synapse-smoking onslaught that relents not once for its duration, every second pushing into the red, way past eleven. It’s during these moments that one gets lost on Comets’ music – where form and structure blurs, and underpinning bass elements become lights guiding the listener to the end of this hypnotic tunnel of love. All around hands are shaped into horns and thrust towards the ceiling, swiftly followed by a fist clenched and a face beaming fuck yes.

As throats dry in the heat – getting served at the bar proves a mission more than once – and Chris Corsano steps onto the stage to add his own twists to the tumultuous melee, the swirling whirlpool of ever-shifting sonics that’s engulfed the room, it’s suddenly written large on the back of your eyeballs that maybe, just maybe, this won’t be repeated again. After all, the band was, to all extents and purposes, split up, with Miller concentrating on Howlin’ Rain and Chasny on Six Organs Of Admittance. No future dates are listed on MySpace. This could be the final final chapter.

Let’s hope not. After all, DiS leaves still able to hear itself think, which is never right for the fallout of a Comets On Fire show.