Acid Mothers Temple & The Melting Paraiso U.F.O.
La nòvia

THE REVIEW

To hell with Christianity and its doctrine. To hell with its impassive forehead, its closed eyelids, its stern face powdered with lead. To hell for all possible reasons. For the strict separation between Heaven and Earth, for its weak and decomposed myths, for its childish and cowardly prohibitions.

Stuff yourself up to your neck in the delirium of Creation and products of that Breath that from the primordial Chaos shaped and established the Energies, humans need something else.

They need traditions for which Heaven is no longer a myth, but simply another plane of reality that incessantly communicates with Earth; they need rites that stretch the strings of the body to the extreme limit of a violent spirituality; they need Knowledge and the vehicles to obtain it, celebrants with an implacable will and temples with obscene architecture.

Many, very many, incalculable are the rituals celebrated by the drugged-up priesthood of Kawabata in the Temple of Acid Mothers and even if some tend towards a sterile idolatry of effigies now emptied of meaning, one must acknowledge that when they get the right mix of LSD and assorted hallucinogens, well... The result has something of the wild, orgiastic, genesis, divining energy of a pagan ceremony.

"La Nòvia" is a single forty-minute piece. A corrosive, stunning, distorted, and sizzling ride of (hyper)acid-(ultra)psych-rock that relentlessly seeks otherworldly glimpses through dense and stratified lava flows.

Kawabata officiates in his own way: electric spasms of a Dionysian guitar playing that spirals and clots on the rhythm like molten gold crusting the colonnades of Persian temples; urgent progressions, Middle Eastern loops, and dissonant smears saturate the air with acrid, carnal, and spermatic spirits like the concentrated incense aspersions and accompanying ritual orgies of the Sun god cult in ancient Emesa.

And then that systematic riff that digs, scrapes, and turns all the depth of the sound to the smallest detail. A smeared, slowed down, vomited, varied, extreme riff; an almost Western epic riff to which every electronic hysteria, tabla advance, alienated voice, or flute line responds with the occult precision of the vulture’s entrails interrogated by the Holy Sacrificers.

There is a kind of celestial carnality and a kind of physical abstraction: an immolation of one's own body for metaphysical ends like the eunuchs who threw their freshly amputated penis into the Ritual Brazier and a spasmodic search to give a complete form to shattered, tormenting, and obsessive ideas like the convulsive babble of Oracles intoxicated by opium and the cult.

"La Nòvia" is a pagan rite that, by crushing Matter, seeks to come into contact with the gods, a murky and muddy record like the menstrual blood that the Vestal Virgins of Phoenicia drank according to the Lunar rite.

As urgent as the first half of "Phallus Dei" and overflowing like "Yeti" in its entirety (I mean the title-tracks), it is the best Düüls album not composed by Düüls.

And when you reach the acoustic glissando of the last minutes, you finally feel emptied. Emptied of the unnecessary, the dirt, the disease. Emptied like an abscess squeezed of its pus.