Acid Mothers Temple & the Melting Paraiso U.F.O.

New Geocentric World of Acid Mothers Temple Don't let the hokey conventional hand drawn "psychedelic" artwork deceive you; it is misleading and unjust. Japan's AMT are not bearers of flowers and beads, they are the sounds of death reincarnate - the final moment when one passes onto another plane of existence as their brain becomes forever obliterated by lightning. Almost nothing is normal about this album: there are only punishing assaults of chaotic spiralling fuzz and ancient folk mantras creeping out of a sinister Buddha from hell soaked with acid in a dirty texture recalling the isolation imposed by Pink Floyd's opus Ummagumma. There are no Strawberry Alarm Clocks, Doors or incense and peppermints. With the AMT, you are merely confronted with your worst fears and your inner-self. You will be glad you went on their trip, because after experiencing them anything will be possible. Just make sure they don't try to straighten you out with thorazine. (Squealer)