Here's something you might be interested in.
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed
Big Screen — Movie commentary
Blurt — Music's inside track
Booze News — San Diego spirits
Classical Music — Immortal beauty
Classifieds — Free and easy
Cover Stories — Front-page features
Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes
Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts
Feast! — Food & drink reviews
Feature Stories — Local news & stories
Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore
From the Archives — Spotlight on the past
Golden Dreams — Talk of the town
The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it
Letters — Our inbox
Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites
Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans
Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists
Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news
News Ticker — News & politics
Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated
Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna
Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated
Poetry — The old and the new
Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers
Reading — The hunt for intellectuals
Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails
San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds
SD on the QT — Almost factual news
Sheep and Goats — Places of worship
Special Issues — The best of
Street Style — San Diego streets have style
Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves
Theater — On stage in San Diego this week
Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative
Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work
Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego
Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads
Your Week — Daily event picks
Gonzo Report: Earplugs not required while hearing (if not seeing) Acid Mothers Temple
Roundhouse redux: Lots of bodies and clean, clear sound at The Whistle Stop
Acid Mothers Temple: visually obscured, but aurally present.
“I think I dropped a couple of verses there,” jokes The Color Forty Nine singer-guitarist Phil Beaumont. “Maybe they’re on the floor.” Or maybe it’s drummer-singer John Meeks who’s talking. I can’t see either one up there on the stage at The Whistle Stop Bar in South Park, so my information is as limited as my view. I can see bassist-singer Jason Hooper’s head when the crowd sways, so I know it wasn’t him. The venue holds a maximum of 200, and the place is over half filled. The performance area is separated from the main area by a wall with Flintstone-style openings and floor access on each side. Those who arrived early are not moving from their spots up front, and others are claiming their territory elsewhere, including a couple locked in a high school style slow dance, holding each other and moving in a tight circle. The music fits the moment.
I notice that the jukebox here spotlights the bands that are playing at the club. I also notice that the bartender is wearing a sweatshirt advertising the Tower Bar. I ask her if anyone gives her shit for wearing another venue’s swag, and she tells me no. Her tone makes it clear that to do so would be a proper dick move. Looking at the notice board, I spot flyers and notices for several local venues and events. Supportive, not competitive.
This is not an earplugs-only event. I don’t need to wait for the lull between bands to carry on a conversation near the bar at the back of the club. There, I catch up with artist Mark Habegger, who shocks me by mentioning to Markel Tumlin that he worked on Dead Man, a favorite film of mine. I’ve been chatting with this guy for years, and he’s never mentioned it. After I register my initial surprise, my insatiable appetite for detail is well fed. Heading out for a smoke break, I take the opportunity to learn more about the area immediately outside the bar as I eavesdrop on two artists, one of whom is Eyebite. Eyebite clandestinely pastes macabre imagery on the backs of street signs and on electrical boxes. The art keeps getting taken down, and I suspect that he and his compatriot are plotting something, because they stop talking when I start smiling.
The Stargazer Lilies come on, and they command more attention than The Color Forty Nine did, what with their saturated feedback and the films projected behind them. The films give me something to look at — because I still can’t see the artists. It’s not bothersome, but it is consistent. The dancing couple silently registers their approval of the new act by continuing their spinning embrace. I wonder if they ever stop, if either of them ever has to use the restroom, like I do at the moment.
Nationally touring headliner Acid Mothers Temple has a merch table in front of the men’s room, and keyboardist Higashi Hiroshi is interacting with happy fans sporting raglans from the Japanese psych-band’s previous tours. I hear a young woman saying her vape is annoying her, and I must know why. Her name is Kiara Pornan, and she shows me a device that lights up in sequences. It’s bright enough to be used as a flashlight in a pinch, but it has no off button, and continues to flash long after a hit is taken. She tells me The Whistle Stop is where everyone goes from her job at Mothership, a restaurant we can almost see from the sidewalk outside the bar. Pornan excuses herself when her Taco Bell Door Dash arrives; she’s off to “eat the fuck out of this chalupa.”
Everett the doorman has warned me that Acid Mothers Temple is loud, and that earplugs are available. But the band isn’t as loud as I anticipated, so I (probably foolishly) skip the earplugs. There’s a mini laser show on the wall that matches the tone of the music, which I can only describe as a strain of Black Sabbath with Uli Jon Roth playing guitar. As cool as that sounds, it falls short of a complete description.
The sound, as it has been throughout the night, is clean and clear. I still can’t see the musicians, but I’ve accepted it and so I enjoy the show. I imagine that this is how it might have felt to crowd into the Roundhouse in England, where various psychedelic bands played early in their careers. It was a happening place, the scene as much social and supportive as it was a musical. I was too young and too American to have experienced that, but I’m here now.
As I’m leaving, I notice that the couple is still slow dancing. I’m no longer curious about bathroom breaks or anything else that would force them to relinquish each other. I choose to believe they stayed like that long after the music ended.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Earplugs not required while hearing (if not seeing) Acid Mothers Temple
Roundhouse redux: Lots of bodies and clean, clear sound at The Whistle Stop
Gonzo Report: Earplugs not required while hearing (if not seeing) Acid Mothers Temple
Roundhouse redux: Lots of bodies and clean, clear sound at The Whistle Stop
Acid Mothers Temple: visually obscured, but aurally present.
“I think I dropped a couple of verses there,” jokes The Color Forty Nine singer-guitarist Phil Beaumont. “Maybe they’re on the floor.” Or maybe it’s drummer-singer John Meeks who’s talking. I can’t see either one up there on the stage at The Whistle Stop Bar in South Park, so my information is as limited as my view. I can see bassist-singer Jason Hooper’s head when the crowd sways, so I know it wasn’t him. The venue holds a maximum of 200, and the place is over half filled. The performance area is separated from the main area by a wall with Flintstone-style openings and floor access on each side. Those who arrived early are not moving from their spots up front, and others are claiming their territory elsewhere, including a couple locked in a high school style slow dance, holding each other and moving in a tight circle. The music fits the moment.
I notice that the jukebox here spotlights the bands that are playing at the club. I also notice that the bartender is wearing a sweatshirt advertising the Tower Bar. I ask her if anyone gives her shit for wearing another venue’s swag, and she tells me no. Her tone makes it clear that to do so would be a proper dick move. Looking at the notice board, I spot flyers and notices for several local venues and events. Supportive, not competitive.
This is not an earplugs-only event. I don’t need to wait for the lull between bands to carry on a conversation near the bar at the back of the club. There, I catch up with artist Mark Habegger, who shocks me by mentioning to Markel Tumlin that he worked on Dead Man, a favorite film of mine. I’ve been chatting with this guy for years, and he’s never mentioned it. After I register my initial surprise, my insatiable appetite for detail is well fed. Heading out for a smoke break, I take the opportunity to learn more about the area immediately outside the bar as I eavesdrop on two artists, one of whom is Eyebite. Eyebite clandestinely pastes macabre imagery on the backs of street signs and on electrical boxes. The art keeps getting taken down, and I suspect that he and his compatriot are plotting something, because they stop talking when I start smiling.
The Stargazer Lilies come on, and they command more attention than The Color Forty Nine did, what with their saturated feedback and the films projected behind them. The films give me something to look at — because I still can’t see the artists. It’s not bothersome, but it is consistent. The dancing couple silently registers their approval of the new act by continuing their spinning embrace. I wonder if they ever stop, if either of them ever has to use the restroom, like I do at the moment.
Nationally touring headliner Acid Mothers Temple has a merch table in front of the men’s room, and keyboardist Higashi Hiroshi is interacting with happy fans sporting raglans from the Japanese psych-band’s previous tours. I hear a young woman saying her vape is annoying her, and I must know why. Her name is Kiara Pornan, and she shows me a device that lights up in sequences. It’s bright enough to be used as a flashlight in a pinch, but it has no off button, and continues to flash long after a hit is taken. She tells me The Whistle Stop is where everyone goes from her job at Mothership, a restaurant we can almost see from the sidewalk outside the bar. Pornan excuses herself when her Taco Bell Door Dash arrives; she’s off to “eat the fuck out of this chalupa.”
Everett the doorman has warned me that Acid Mothers Temple is loud, and that earplugs are available. But the band isn’t as loud as I anticipated, so I (probably foolishly) skip the earplugs. There’s a mini laser show on the wall that matches the tone of the music, which I can only describe as a strain of Black Sabbath with Uli Jon Roth playing guitar. As cool as that sounds, it falls short of a complete description.
The sound, as it has been throughout the night, is clean and clear. I still can’t see the musicians, but I’ve accepted it and so I enjoy the show. I imagine that this is how it might have felt to crowd into the Roundhouse in England, where various psychedelic bands played early in their careers. It was a happening place, the scene as much social and supportive as it was a musical. I was too young and too American to have experienced that, but I’m here now.
As I’m leaving, I notice that the couple is still slow dancing. I’m no longer curious about bathroom breaks or anything else that would force them to relinquish each other. I choose to believe they stayed like that long after the music ended.
Comments