The Dome, London
3 July 2015
Okay, so here’s a thing. I don’t really remember ever seeing Acid Mothers Temple. I’ve seen them on various occasions, and I don’t really remember any of them. Now, I don’t make a conscious effort to indulge any more before an Acid Mothers Temple gig than I do before a show by anyone else, but somehow after the fact they always elude me, sliding apart into vague fragments like a dream does on waking.something in the music itself that has the ability to tweak my brain just so. Either that or I keep getting abducted by aliens at their gigs. Which wouldn’t be too much of a surprise, really.
Trying to grab the memories is like clenching your fist on water; you can’t get a grip, it slides from your grasp and you inevitably end up looking like you’ve pissed your pants. Which I haven’t, I hasten to add. I’d definitely have remembered that.Makoto Kawabata is shredding his fingers to the bone playing intricate, soaring guitar lines that shift and transform constantly, as hard to grasp as my memories but much more impressive to listen to. A vague but niggling sense of slightly-off-topic discomfort that they chose to call their collaboration with Daevid Allen Acid Mothers Gong rather than Acid Mothers Teapot. Paper plates being flung by Pika into the crowd like frisbees, causing as close as it’s possible to get to a stampede among a bunch of tripped-out stoners trying to claim them. And then it all went disco, and it’s the fact that I clearly remember this more than anything else that leads me to believe I may in fact have dreamt the whole thing. Then leaving the stage after what seems like about ten minutes but was actually a full-length set. Then me getting lost on the way home.
Acid Mothers Temple at The Dome, everyone. If you can remember it, you weren’t there.
-Words: Justin Farrington-
-Pictures: Dave Pettit-