It's a little frustrating, like seeing an attractive member of the public walking down the street, then into the Tory conference, when a band that tick so many of the right quality boxes turn out to be a spiralling let down. You're a Portland band with releases on killer noise label Not Not Fun, have members that play in Heavy Winged and Jackie-O Motherfucker, and you play dragged out, drugged up kraut prog? Wahey! Then Beyond The 4th Door's five lengthy songs of uninspiring, limp noodling float past, and your boner goes into reverse.

There are good moments here. Three songs in, 'Galactic Derelict' shows some fire in the belly at last, twin guitars allowed to flare over meandering, ever-harder drum bashing. The ragged, instrumental interplay recalls bands like Bardo Pond or Sunburned Hand Of The Man, without ever reaching the same whacked out heights. 'Galactic Derelict' does at least (along with the cringily-named 'Time Winds Through A Glass, Clearly') feature nice syrupy doses of saxophone, all too brief expansions of the sonic palette that inject some seedy variety to the woolly fare.

The music from Beyond... was all culled from the same two hour jam session and listening to it is a little like drifting in and out of the practice room. 'Ancient Echoes' fades in on some tranquil, chiming guitar, introduces a plodding bass riff that marks time heavily, then ambles down several dead ends, dual guitar lines making to catch fire, then remaining damp. 'Cosmic Manhunt''s central guitar motif - bumpily ascending and descending like some lazy seesaw - flickers and spars with the rest of the band, but again the song's content to stand still rather than travel anywhere interesting. The tracks grow longer and eat up more of your wretched life. The aforementioned 'Time Winds...' lasts for 12 minutes - not a problem, unless you include, as here, prolonged guitar widdling that unfortunately brings to mind 'Champagne Supernova' by Oasis, Paul Weller sex face and all.

In a 12 month period that's seen Rangda's scorching avant blues debut, an obscure attack prog gem from Bristol's Anta and blissful bubbles of far out sound from Emeralds, Eternal Tapestry fall short on providing the essential transcendental weirdness. And if you can't bypass mental images of bearded men grinding out solos, possibly wearing capes, you don't have much.