"I think, as a musician, or rather, as an artist of any kind, one of the most wonderful things is to happen upon others who you would consider a peer, or a kindred spirit, whatever name you wish to call them. It does not happen often – at all – and when it does, you can have a great time not discussing how you happened to have these songs pour from your fingers onto paper, strings and eventually magnetic tape, or hard drive or whatever your medium might be (cave painting). These things are the beautiful but unnamable; a writer can’t tell you how a song happened, not if that person is a real writer. If you can explain, then you are following some formula, or you are imitating your record collection (different from referencing your record collection). "Thomas Comerford is one of these rare writers, one of these rare voices, his songs contain a unique blend of the ethereal, the real and imagined, the spectral and the tactile, but anchored with the solid, heavy dark wood of his voice. His songs remind me of walking through the dark majesty of an empty but palatial house, maybe at twilight so that the sun only picks out some details, leaving the others open to speculation and debate – the meanings, the metaphors, the heaviness and colors of the words, and the expanse of the spaces between them. "The music? The melodies will touch on your memories – even if you don’t have them, it will steer your soul towards a future, even if you hadn’t thought about it. There is nothing to compare his music to, I’m afraid, no convenient record collection references that lazy writers seem to embrace more and more these days, for these are more than songs – yes, you have guitars, drums and voices, but each song is its own painting, from the brush of one hand and one man. "I’m telling you that nothing I say will best describe a work of this depth and excellence. Please just listen to it and enjoy it as I have!" -- Chris Connelly, August 2011