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First, a bit of explanation. Got the backstory straight? I guarantee you, on multiple listenings you would never ever ever have figured out any of the mythology regarding Ouija boards, the demon Goliath, or anything else resembling a cohesive narrative. Which, to be honest, is never the point of a Mars Volta record. The point is to give beanpole bandleaders Cedric and Omar a reason to blast the wankiest prog rock since Satriani and Vai in the 80s. And honestly, they don’t care if you like it, understand it, or even know who they are. They’re going to do their thing regardless, and you’re either on board or you’re not – there’s no in between. In some ways, I respect the uncompromising values and relentless artistic vision. But for the most part I find it hard to make my way through a single song. I enjoyed Frances The Mute, their second full-length, despite sounding nearly indistinguishable from anything they’ve done before or since – mostly because they offered a sonic reprieve in the way of synth wash intros. But their latest 80-minute tsunami of notes, for all it’s ideas and riffs and concepts, is the same giant wave they’ve been riding since the end times and dissolution of their previous group, At The Drive-In (whose songs were just as abstract but were kind enough to excuse themselves after a few short minutes). So where does this leave us? Well, I would love to see them live for the sheer spectacle and religious experience that makes their die-hards salivate. But honestly, without ever hearing another album by The Mars Volta, I’ll still feel like I’ve heard them all.