The Liverpool Festival of Psychedelia was fantastic. Moon Duo were, as I’d hoped, utterly brilliant. The set climaxed with a storming rendition of ‘Stumbling 42nd Street’. Mugstar were even better than the last time I saw them and the only other band I’d wanted to see were Eat Lights Become Lights, who were on around 02:00 on Saturday morning and way past the senile delinquents’ bedtime.
Of the bands I’d never heard of before, Lorelle and the Obsolete, Singapore Sling and Fuzz were all great leads. I’ve laid hands on LPs by all three bands and the Fuzz album is probably up there in my albums of the year – as is Lorrelle meets the Obsolete’s.
The first people we met – on friday night – were a flock of Fifers, down for a weekend of pushing themselves to the limit. Nice bunch they were, too.
To be honest, most of the weekend’s – even now – an impressionistic blur. Fuzz, opening with ‘This time, I got a reason’ (that riff postively REEKS of hawkwind’s ‘upside down’, doesn’t it?)
Each room had two bars. Queuing for ten minutes for a pint of white wine for c; queuing for a further ten minutes for a pint of whatever-was-going on the scouse independant brewers’ stall (I can’t even remember their name, but that PZYK red ale was to die for. As were most of the others I had over the weekend.
Telling someone I met about Popol vuh. Being told, in turn about the Brian Jonestown Massacre. Being one of the oldest people there. Missing Hookworms. Drinking savage coffee to punctuate the beer.
Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.