The Solar Temple
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.