Pitchfork

All ye indie hacks dressed in psych's clothing oughta hang up your underused echoplexes and unprocessed Blue Cheer albums, because from here on in, y'all shall be measured against Blue Cathedral, Comets on Fire's blistering full-length number three.

Hyperbole's a scam-- and most shameful in the voice of a seasoned critic-- but from the initial sawhorse pummeling of "The Bee and the Cracking Egg" to the last-gasp strains of "Blue Tomb", it's clear this intense collection commands a sense of largess, as well as some sort of mystically heightened language. With all sincerity, I can report that these sludge denizens have burnt-to-a-crisp every ounce of ashy acidic energy currently floating around the hazy rock 'n' roll atmosphere. Though Ethan Miller and Ben Flashman formed Comets on Fire less than five years ago, these hymns feel centuries old: Sometimes bludgeoning, always regal, Blue Cathedral is a calcified, hippified holy place. Begin your pilgrimage...

Expanding the multi-textured promise of Field Recordings from the Sun, here Comets throw down even more explosive hyperactivity. Still nodding to Pink Floyd, Iron Butterfly, Led Zeppelin, Hawkwind, and the less known sounds of Monoshock, the crew lights out into its own sweaty territory. With these eight tracks, the quintet's completed an impressive transformation from crunchy garage-rock stonemasons cribbing tropes to heady, mathy enfant terribles decimating Freakout City, USA.

Like Field Recordings, Blue Cathedral was recorded at Louder Studios by The Fucking Champs' Tim Green-- so there's really no explanation as to why these sounds are so stadium-sized and crystal clear. Better mics? A new dose of inspiration? More likely, it's the official addition of Six Organs of Admittance raga whiz Ben Chasny on guitar two. He'd played with the band in the past, but now that he calls himself a bona fide Comet, perhaps he's allowing himself a few more aesthetic liberties. Or maybe, just maybe, leaving Santa Cruz for San Francisco and Oakland offered differently processed water and a worthwhile change of scenery. Whatever the case, the Bay Area group's purity of intention and sound is stronger here than on any previous offering.

Musically, there are a bevy of fierce rockers, occasional saxophone distress signals, blissful chill zones: The instrumental, "Pussy Footin' the Duke" drifts into a relaxed milky way space probe with regal organ breakdowns, tender ebony-and-ivory arpeggios, and a my-guitar-gently-weeps melodic sense. As such a title would suggest, "Whiskey River" features gravelly rock vocals and frolicking echoplex that twists and darts within an overhauled Southern rock template; it dissolves into the wistful "Organ", an anomalously brief, melancholic fit of stargazing. The spiraling asteroids of "Brotherhood of the Harvest" performs triumphant astronomy-- I can see the metal guys getting teary over its discordant-to-majestic ebbs and flows. The knockout punch, "Blue Bomb" whips up the most languidly, ecstatic opus of a career built upon such outer-realm ecstasy: Lay back and whittle acid-rock and solar boogie-woogie notations on the surface of the sun as it expands.

Beyond individual tracks, Blue Cathedral is a well-curated whole: The song cycle mixes noise and rest with stops on a dime-- in the midst of a sludgy solo, a hook dismantles itself and reforms, turning repetition into mantra. Living up to their evocative name, Comets on Fire's music is loud and harsh, and despite that Miller's screamed lyrics are largely indecipherable, Blue Cathedral is surprisingly not at all difficult.

Avoiding sentimentality and the weight of an overblown intellectual message, this hedonistic outing could bring fans of all persuasions together as one tinnitus-toting family: stoners, indie rockers, metal heads, classic rock fans, open-minded gutter punks, non-ironic mullet owners, and even your older sister will join hands and find some riff or virtuosic accent to hold close to their heart and enjoy. In anticipation of that inspired moment, lift up your warm brews and repeat after me: Here's to the hard rock album of the summer and the backyard barbecues it will inspire, and to uncontested tofu pups basting alongside all-beef hot dogs, forever and ever, amen.