And lo, after five long years, they returned from the east bearing gifts of wisdom and nourishment for starved psychedelic souls. Their mother-temple brothers—with many tainted Japanese offerings of their own—endeavored to wear the sacred crown that rightfully belonged to these weary kings who traveled restlessly thru the spirit world and beyond searching for lost chords and majik unimagined. No carnivals in Babylon for these royal seers. Instead, like the Yeti, these ancient warriors ascended forbidden peaks in deathsome climes, forever growing stronger, biding their time for the day when they would lay waste to pretenders and fools with the one true tone. And destroy they did.
Yeesh, sorry ’bout that; must’ve been the fumes. Anyway, if Ghost’s new Hypnotic Underworld is an ever expanding lotus blossom that grafts past prog desires and the will to propagate on its petals whilst consciously demanding collective pre-history antidotes and anecdotes in exchange for post-war/post-’68 letdowns and lessons learned that have forever addled the brains of impressionable seekers, then so be it. I’m in. History is written by the victors, but the beauty of desolation and dreams of rural idylls far from the bomb blasts are written by those who died for farce.