Comus – First Utterance

First Utterance, released in 1971, is one of the most unsettling albums ever filed under the broad heading of folk. At a time when British folk rock was finding mainstream success through the likes of Fairport Convention and Steeleye Span, Comus took the same instrumentation and pushed it into far darker territory. The result is an album that feels closer to nightmare than reverie, a record that has lost none of its power to disturb.

From the opening track “Diana” it is clear this is not pastoral folk. Acoustic guitars slash aggressively rather than strum, rhythms stagger, and Roger Wootton’s voice howls and pleads with a feral intensity. The lyrics are equally jarring, filled with violence, madness and obsession. Songs such as “Drip Drip” stretch past ten minutes, building through repetition into something close to ritual, voices and instruments circling each other until they reach breaking point.

Yet for all its darkness, the record is executed with remarkable precision. The musicianship is strong, the arrangements carefully structured even when they sound chaotic. This is not folk falling apart but folk being deliberately twisted, reassembled into something new. The band draw on progressive rock as much as tradition, using extended forms and dissonance to push against the boundaries of the genre.

The album was not a commercial success, and Comus remained an obscure name for decades. But among collectors and musicians it became legendary. You can hear its echoes in later experimental folk, in artists willing to explore the unsettling side of acoustic music, and even in strands of post punk that embraced confrontation and dissonance.

Listening today, First Utterance still feels dangerous. Few records capture the sense of unease it generates, and fewer still manage to make that unease compelling rather than alienating. It is not for everyone, nor was it ever meant to be. But for those drawn to the shadow side of folk, it remains one of the most essential records of its time.