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Festival? We Don't Need No Stinking Festival - Music Review

Ah, the urban wilderness that is LA! The wildcommendable, after standing in the sweat and
smog in the wild air settles all over youcigarette drenched club for a few hours, the
like a fine coating of pancake makeup appliedjoke wore thin. It began at times to feel
to a nude model. You stroll through thislike a test of will. The atmosphere in The
thick atmosphere and feel the desperation andSmell contributed to this by acting like an
faded glory assault your senses. Crumbled andunhealthy sauna. It was the reverse of every
stained sidewalks and curbs seem half realpositive feeling one could have in a space.
beneath your feet. Whole blocks of dirty andThe thickness of the air filled with human
ratty tents stuffed with people driven halfsweat and bad breath and cigarette smoke and
mad or all the way mad by drugs and no foodvague industrial smells and of course, urine
and illness and inner demons. Mexicanwas inescapable.Better were the sets of Ruins
transvestites preen past the gauzy green glowsolo and the great grand finale of Acid
of the neon lights in the window of theMothers Temple pile driving it home. The
botanica. As the sunlight fades a new cityRuins set was a master work of intense
rises from these ruins. This is the city ofdrumming. While playing along with a sampler
other senses. This is the city of smell. Theand guest bassist Yoshida somehow channeled
city of human urine and car exhaust and heatthe sound of several drummers playing
bleeding out of old stone walls. This is thefuriously all at once. The beauty and
city of touch. The cracked and callused handdevastation of the songs, filled with manic
of a homeless man as he shakes you handenergy and wild swerves of tempo was
waiting for his moment to start the hustleinspiring. Best of all however was the
for change. This is the city of sound. Themassive cathartic, freak-power lift off of
sound of Ranchera and Mexican dance musicAcid Mothers Temple . It's hard to describe
blatting at full volume. The sound ofthe massive push of sound pressure created by
desperate shouts and garbled screams comingAMT live. They seem to literally strangle the
from unknown directions. This city keeps youmusic out of thin air and then ride this
on your toes. It was into this city thatthrobbing monster for all it is worth. The
myself and a few pal ventured last Saturdayspontaneous and chance filled collides with
night to check out the spectacle, thepure daring and intent to create hypnotic
phenomena, and the outright surreal indecencymagick. AMT is one of the best live acts
of the Acid Mothers Temple's "New Japanesegoing and it would behoove you to drive, fly,
Music Festival".To call this a "festival"crawl on bloody stumps, skip, or roll to
requires that one's ability to visualize orwherever they are playing and dig it.This
conceptualize is deeply rooted in a Marxwild trip to LA didn't end with the last
Brothers aesthetic. Perhaps it even requirescollapsing chords of AMT though. From there
something beyond The Marx Brothers. A bit ofour San Diego foursome (the impossibly tall
3 Stooges mixed together with Monty Pythonand handsome Philsy, his lovely pixie-booted
and the Firesign Theatre all soaked inwife Yuko and "The Two High School Girls"
Ayhuasca and shot up your nose by anEric and I) and some other pals (wise acre,
Amazonian shaman. That might approach it. Nowmusic magician, actor and all purpose freak
that you've rearranged your perspectiveBrucey and sweetheart of the rodeo and
you're ready to call this event a FESTIVAL!dog-bar lover extraordinaire Helveta)
It consisted of several permutations of 3 ofscampered off to one of those LA ex-Rummy
the ever expanding Acid Mother's TempleBarfly, now taken over by hipsters, bars
lineup. In this case that would include,called, "Footsies". As to what happened here
Kawabata Makoto, Yoshida Tatsuya and Tsuyamaperhaps the less said the better! Let's just
Atsushi. Each assembly of these same threesay that tequila and Tabasco is a lovely way
people would get up and play for betweento go and that watching large gothic girl dig
10-20 minutes, then they would dash offcell phones out of their cleavage to show you
backstage to take a quick smoke break and runpictures of themselves hung-over in a taxi is
back on to "become" the next group.Musicallynot. Really what this night was about was
there was an entire gamut to run. There was aconnection and freedom. It's a blessing to be
healthy dose of beautiful and damagedwith great friends laughing and riffing on
Gregorian drone chanting. This was surroundedtime present and past. It's a blessing to get
by contact microphone noise sessions of pantout of your head once in awhile. It's a
zippers and scissors. There were longishblessing to see the variety of human
riffs on various "famous" and not so "famous"experience. And finally it's a blessing to
songs by Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin and Mileshear the pure caterwaul and inspired
Davis. These were delivered in a wacky,free-form lunacy of Acid Mothers Temple no
hand-made Captain Beefheart tone that, to me,matter what the line up, smell or cost to
was a bit off putting. While the sentimentsmind and body.
of slap-dash deconstructionism are



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