Brighton
2 November 2018
A story of intrigue, a tale of great mystery. A band of psychedelic travellers. A man so consumed by unctuous emissions that it was described as cagoule-like.
But first, our gallant support acts. Dog Of Man have turned the knob marked “mildly incongruous accordion” all the way to twelve. Heavy rock and roll vibes, choruses, decently clattery spiders’ fit drums and, surprisingly, an answer to the question of how to rock while playing a keyboard. Turns out the answer was “amplify an accordion to fuck and be able to play it”. Tidy.
Next up,
The Hare And Hoofe are nailing their theses somewhere in the region of 1970s garage-ish, psychedlic-ish rackets with a smidge of English eccentric story-telling. Some bouncy numbers, some neat parallel guitar happenings and smidge of
Cardiacs-ish play. Splendid.
Acid Mothers Temple are pretty much one of those bands that don’t really need much in the way of describing. Not to say they were
passé, not for a second, but if you’ve seen them any time in the last however long, you know what to expect. Such was the psychedelic intensity, mercurial writer / promoter / jazz chap
Daniel Spicer said of the evening: “Last night, while I was watching Acid Mothers Temple, someone in front of me farted. It went right up my nose. The stench of it filled me up so completely that I felt as though the fart were wearing me like a tight-fitting cagoule. It was almost psychedelic in its intensity. I fled and found myself at the front where the band proceeded to gather me up into a place of total enjoyment.”
Which is to say that Acid Mothers Temple were just so psychedelic that even folks’ bowels were getting groovy.
The band were joined on stage by
Geoff Leigh, he of
Warrior Squares (catch them if you get a chance, well worth your time) and
Henry Cow. So we’re treated to some
lushly meandering flute and hornry amongst the Acid Mothers’ psychedelic waft. Nice to have another melodic element among the spacey swoops and squall.
Perhaps the most surprising thing about AMT, or their best “trick” as it were, is that they’re eminently capable of seeming like they’re
drifting about in their own riff-shaped universe, but suddenly pulling out changes that make you realise they’re all acutely aware of what they’re doing. Probably my favourite, and acting as an interlude before stalwart “Pink Lady Lemonade”, is the wee folky tune which somehow turns from a little stompy polka number into some sort of collapsing earth cataclysm.
It’s a band of dynamics,
a band of colossal heaviness and a band whose hairy abandon can psych up one’s very bowels. Big up.
-Words: Kev Nickells-
-Pictures: Agata Urbaniak-
A story of intrigue, a tale of great mystery. A band of psychedelic travellers. A man so consumed by unctuous emissions that it was described as cagoule-like.
