Somewhere within the heavily breathing, shroom-distorted space between the shop class swagger of Primus and Excepter’s fathomless sonic voodoo shambles the shrouded visage of Magi. The aural wanderers of Columboid slide through the fuzz and slop of psychedelic rockdom both determined and confounded; utterly without destination but prepared for anything, like one of Robert Crumb’s neurotic losers vibing his way through a Moebius comic all sweaty and swollen-balled, surrounded by flashing broken Christmas lights and the impenetrable smoke billowing from a thousand midnight basement shows. Percussion maintains the course through the unknown, a roiling but steady guide into tar-black corridors of bass fuzzed out beyond perversion. Nervous synth peaks around slimy corners and pierces whatever shadows try to block its path to the countless possibilities of the void. Monstrously present keys lay out a carpet of Holmes-girth tone for our guides to continue along. Red-eyed rambling voices offer up an invitation into mystifying avenues, like The Lawnmower Man whispering poetry into your drunk girlfriend’s ear. Imagine Moon Duo lost in a sandstorm. Picture Psychic TV closing down your Junior Prom. Open up your mind to these possibilities and infinite others and then just erase all of that shit anyway, because Columboid doesn’t give one. Follow the Magi or don’t; it’s all the same space-jazz to them.