Holy grail pagan-prog rarity from Bowie’s Beckenham protégés.

You could expect a £700 price tag if ever a copy of Comus’ 1971 sole LP on Pye’s progressive offshoot Dawn turned up (begging the question: how many future prog collectibles passed through my impoverished teenage hands before they were swapped or sold?). In the decades since its release, a devoted cult has built around First Utterance, including Sweden’s Opeth, Current 93 and now in metal circles.

WEIRDER THAN ANY FOLK, DARKER THAN MOST PROG.

The band’s first major fan was David Bowie, who let the nascent Comus - formed by art students Roger Wootton and Glenn Goring - cut their musical teeth with weekly shows at his Beckenham Arts Lab before he invited them to open his 1969 concert at London’s Purcell Rooms. With Bowie’s encouragement, Comus developed a theatrical act that was stunningly bonkers live but, according to them, hampered by a befuddled producer in the studio.

On the surface sounding like a pagan collision between Principal Edwards Magic Theatre and Curved Air, or the Incredible String Band on bad acid, First Utterance may be built on violins, flute, bongos and Arcadian chorales, but it crackles with ominous tension as Wootton and co-singer Bobbie Watson multitrack surreal lyrics concerning violence (Drip Drip), rape (Diana) and mental strife (The Prisoner).

It was obviously lodged deep in this reviewer’s soul as, although it’s been 47 years, hearing it now brings every dark nuance springing to life, with Diana a suitably atmospheric opener, singers incanting like witches at a coven as Colin Pearson’s violin and Andy Hellaby’s bass pulse threateningly.

The Herald is the set’s astral jewel. It’s a 12-minute epic and after Watson’s ethereal intro over Rob Young’s flute, it bursts into a dazzling stretch elevated by Goring’s rippling guitar. Although Wootton can overdo the sinister dramatics, he sounds less like an enraged munchkin when he reins it in, invoking Hammill-esque turmoil when duetting with Watson on Drip Drip, before it turns into a pagan bongo hoedown. By Song To Comus and The Prisoner, the vibe has morphed into a disturbing medieval protest ritual.

Weirder than any folk and darker than most prog, the album stalled against record company problems, splintering the group until later reunions. Following 2005’s Comus box set, Esoteric’s expanded presentation (with Malcolm Dome sleevenotes) remasters the LP, along with Diana maxi-single songs and haunting outtake All The Colours Of Darkness, which beautifully highlights Watson’s appealing fragility.

There was much pain and rage glowering in Comus’s dark, unsettling magic. Now it’s sounding oddly relevant again.