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On Pop Art, Jack Kirby and the formative days of Alan Moore:

That wheezing, groaning noise? It’s the sound of a set of keys being dragged across the strings of a broken piano and processed by the mad science of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop. This sound, the sound of the TARDIS, accompanies the manifestation of a weird throne whose surface cycles between metal and stone. It is occupied by a man who is mostly hair, armour rings and eyes that look like they can see into your soul and are fairly disappointed with its number of legs.