Released in 1971, First Utterance is one of the most disconcerting, intense, and original albums to emerge from the British underground. Comus, a band formed by art students and led by Roger Wootton, presented an album that defied categories: progressive folk? Pagan psychedelia? Dark folk? All of that and more, with an almost violent emotional charge.
From the first track, "Diana," it's clear that we're dealing with a disturbing work. Wootton's voice is almost theatrical, raspy, close to a scream. Rob Young's flute, Colin Pearson's violin, and Andy Hellaby's persistent bass rhythm create a hypnotic, tribal atmosphere, as if it were a ritual in an ancient forest. The acoustic guitar carries the structure, but it's a decomposed, almost wild folk.
What distinguishes the album isn't just its music—although its blend of pastoral passages with moments of atonal tension is fascinating—but its lyrical content. Songs like “Drip Drip” and “The Herald” address extreme themes: madness, death, and twisted sexuality. “Song to Comus,” perhaps the centerpiece, is a psychotic journey with a climax bordering on hysteria. Here, the mythological figure of Comus (the god of nocturnal debauchery) is invoked as a symbol of the irrational and the forbidden.
Although ignored at the time, the album has achieved cult status. First Utterance's influence is felt in neofolk, in bands like Current 93 and Swans, and also in certain corners of the more experimental progressive metal scene.
This is not an easy album. It is visceral, dark, and disturbing. But for the listener who dares to enter its world, First Utterance offers a unique experience: an almost shamanic expression of sound art, capable of shaking even the most seasoned listener.
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