Stepping back on the hyperdrive that heralded 2004’s ‘Blue Cathedral’ San Fransiscans Comets On Fire still swim waters of pure lysergic lava, lugubriously constructing new landscapes and molten mountains (and, yes, smashing them down with the side of their flares) it’s just they’ve re-configured their overall stratagem, like nascent NASA engineers plotting the landing of a lunatic lunar module using the charts and star maps found in a treasure chest in Copan from the backstage are at some cocaine conquistador concert, guiding themselves in using the flames of stars in some distant galaxy that have already burnt themselves out.

Lounging back somewhat sipping a cocktail in some astral Las Vegas works in their overall favour. They still take Hendrix’s hand and lead him beyond temptation to the power and the glory that he hinted at, knew of but merely hoped for but temper it with playful swings and pastoral roundabouts of dust-clouds and jazzy-drones for the denim-shorted stoner girls (‘Jaybird’). And sure, there’s a deliciously madcap metallic blues drone that surfs supernovas with Zen Guerilla (‘Holy Teeth’) gouged from granite and using Duane Allmans gravestone as a slide.

Their invention, intensity, and, now, quite exquisite wondrously shimmering beauty (‘Lucifer’s Memory’), preclude any perceptions of pitiful prog pitter-patterings, especially when they dredge up the greatest bits of Deep Purple’s ‘Made In Japan’ and take them space trucking for real, pausing occasionally to allow stomachs to settle as they high-five Sun Ra, which they do frequently as thought they’re tied to an interstellar bungee rope.

Was there ever a more aptly named band? Long may this particular Arkestra never be abridged.
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- Stu Gibson