Ah, the urban wilderness that's LA! The wild smog in the wild air settles everywhere you prefer a fine coating of pancake makeup applied to a nude model. You stroll through this thick atmosphere and feel the desperation and light glory assault your senses. Crumbled and stained sidewalks and curbs seem [*fr1] real beneath your feet. Whole blocks of dirty and ratty tents full of people driven 0.5 mad or all the manner mad by medication and no food and illness and inner demons. Mexican transvestites preen past the gauzy green glow of the neon lights in the window of the botanica. As the daylight fades a replacement town rises from these ruins. This is the city of other senses. This can be the city of smell. The city of human urine and automobile exhaust and warmth bleeding out of old stone walls. This is town of touch. The cracked and callused hand of a homeless man as he shakes you hand awaiting his moment to start out the hustle for change. This is the town of sound. The sound of Ranchera and Mexican dance music blatting at full volume. The sound of desperate shouts and garbled screams returning from unknown directions. This city keeps you on your toes. It had been into this town that myself and a few pal ventured last Saturday night to check out the spectacle, the phenomena, and also the outright surreal indecency of the Acid Mothers Temple's "New Japanese Music Competition".
To decision this a "festival" needs that one's ability to visualize or conceptualize is deeply rooted in an exceedingly Marx Brothers aesthetic. Perhaps it even needs one thing beyond The Marx Brothers. A bit of 3 Stooges mixed together with Monty Python and the Firesign Theatre all soaked in Ayhuasca and shot up your nose by an Amazonian shaman. Which may approach it. Currently that you've got rearranged your perspective you are ready to decision this event a FESTIVAL! It consisted of many permutations of 3 of the ever expanding Acid Mother's Temple lineup. In this case that would come with, Kawabata Makoto, Yoshida Tatsuya and Tsuyama Atsushi. Each assembly of those same three people would rise up and play for between ten-twenty minutes, then they would dash off backstage to take a quick smoke break and run back on to "become" the next group.
Musically there was a whole gamut to run. There was a healthy dose of lovely and broken Gregorian drone chanting. This was surrounded by contact microphone noise sessions of pant zippers and scissors. There have been longish riffs on numerous "famous" and not so "famous" songs by Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin and Miles Davis. These were delivered in an exceedingly wacky, hand-made Captain Beefheart tone that, to me, was a bit off putting. Whereas the sentiments of slap-dash deconstructionism are commendable, when standing within the sweat and cigarette drenched club for a few hours, the joke wore thin. It began occasionally to feel sort of a take a look at of will. The atmosphere in The Smell contributed to the current by acting like an unhealthy sauna. It had been the reverse of every positive feeling one might have in an exceedingly space. The thickness of the air stuffed with human sweat and unhealthy breath and cigarette smoke and imprecise industrial smells and of course, urine was inescapable.
Better were the sets of Ruins solo and the nice grand finale of Acid Mothers Temple pile driving it home. The Ruins set was a master work of intense drumming. While playing along with a sampler and guest bassist Yoshida somehow channeled the sound of several drummers taking part in furiously all at once. The beauty and devastation of the songs, filled with manic energy and wild swerves of tempo was inspiring. Best of all but was the large cathartic, freak-power carry off of Acid Mothers Temple . It's onerous to describe the massive push of sound pressure created by AMT live. They appear to literally strangle the music out of thin air and then ride this throbbing monster for all it's worth. The spontaneous and chance crammed collides with pure daring and intent to create hypnotic magick. AMT is one in every of the best live acts going and it'd behoove you to drive, fly, crawl on bloody stumps, skip, or roll to wherever they are enjoying and dig it.
This wild trip to LA did not finish with the last collapsing chords of AMT though. From there our San Diego foursome (the impossibly tall and handsome Philsy, his beautiful pixie-booted wife Yuko and "The 2 High College Ladies" Eric and I) and another friends (wise acre, music magician, actor and every one purpose freak Brucey and sweetheart of the rodeo and dog-bar lover extraordinaire Helveta) scampered off to one of those LA ex-Rummy/Barfly, now taken over by hipsters, bars called, "Footsies". On what happened here maybe the less said the higher! Let's just say that tequila and Tabasco is a lovely way to go and that watching giant gothic woman dig cell phones out of their cleavage to point out you pictures of themselves hung-over in an exceedingly taxi is not. Very what this night was about was connection and freedom. It's a blessing to be with nice friends laughing and riffing on time present and past. It's a blessing to urge out of your head once in awhile. It's a blessing to work out the selection of human experience. And finally it's a blessing to listen to the pure caterwaul and galvanized free-kind lunacy of Acid Mothers Temple irrespective of what the line up, smell or price to mind and body.
Author Resource:-
Dorish Hill has been writing articles online for nearly 2 years now. Not only does this author specialize in Music Reviews, you can also check out his latest website about:
Bathroom Shower Curtains Which reviews and lists the best
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