L.A. WITCH (USA)

It’s easy to forget that just a few decades ago, the only viable means for penetrating the golden glamour of Los Angeles was via the dusty trail of Route 66. And just as the arteries of the interstate latched onto the thumping heart of California, so too came the amplified sounds of a new restless generation. There was acid on the streets and revolution in the air, but there were also Hell’s Angels in the alleys and Manson’s family on the desert periphery. It was an age of innocence, beauty, and opportunity, with an underbelly of lawlessness and depravity. And it had a soundtrack.

It’s impossible to listen to L.A. Witch and not hear echoes of that time. The sound of dusty neon and the first dim-lit bars of Sunset ring out with every reverb-drenched note. The juxtaposition of Hollywood allure and Skid Row desperation throbs in every three-chord riff. And the perilous wager of temptation lies in every sultry vocal melody. Yes, L.A. is the land of sunshine, but it also harbors a certain kind of dangerous magic. And no one seems to understand that more clearly than the three women of L.A. Witch. Whether they’re conjuring the downtrodden cowpunk of The Gun Club, the seedy metropolitan balladry of Velvet Underground, or the beefed-up blues of Black Sabbath, L.A. Witch remind us of that exhilarating revelation that a city can elevate you just as quickly as it can grind you into the dirt.

THE SOLAR TEMPLE (CH)

The Solar Temple from Zürich will start heating up the evening.
A wild concoction of fuzz-laden garage, psychedelia and drone, driven by stomping drum beats, crunchy bass riffs and mind-boggling organs, announces the arrival of the six Templars. Their energetic live show will grip the audience and lurch them forward into the front seat of a THC- and beer-fueled time machine that will catapult them at light speed straight through the sonar dimensions of the 1990s and 80s, only to slow down somewhere in the 70s and finally, while the cries of the revolution reverberate in the napalm-filled air, crash directly into Boleskine House.
The ear-splitting noise of this explosion finely interweaves Crowley's occult spells and the flowery scent of free, unburdened love in its heavy, yet gentle giant of sound that springily rebounds between the dark, musty walls of the everlasting passage of time. From between the droning guitars and the stomping footsteps of THE SOLAR TEMPLE's monstrous body, its voice, with the tragic lethargy of the songs of sirens, arises from its depths to remember the sunlight and its all-consuming, destructive heat.
The Solar Temple will take you on a trip forward into the past.