In 1996, Makoto Kawabata hooked up with various weirdos, commoners and everyday folk around his native Osaka, Japan to cook up a revolution. One that involved LSD, Krautrock, tie-dye t-shirts and synthesizers. Much hasn’t changed, though Kawabata’s collective known as Acid Mothers Temple remain as enigmatic and mysterious as when they were first formed. Yet, they became human tonight, real people who joked, laughed, smoked, talked about how they liked Texas beef and spoke of transcendence with the psychedelic syllables of sound. AMT: Koizumi Hajime, the drummer whose hands were glued to the sticks as he pounded out beats to perfection, bassist Tsuyama Atsushi (fannypack strapped to his side) traveled through frets blindly and made his bass look like a toy. Synthesizer scholar and guitarist Higashi Hiroshi tag-teamed with Makoto Kawabata to construct thick walls of melody, noise and rhythm.

Don’t ask me what “songs” they played. I have no clue. They were little histories, small manifestos, not-so-quiet protests. Nearly two hours of rock’s history was exemplified by Japan’s weirdest (and most heartwarming) as they raced through classic punk rhythms (think the Damned) to Sonic Youth-like midtempo bangers and 13th Floor Elevator homages, Tangerine Dream sketches and trance-inducing beautiful washes of melody that were timeless (literally, they lasted a while). People were speechless, watching Kawabata’s thick mop-top wash across his face as his fingers slithered across his guitar, freaking out while playing it one-handed, raising it to the blackened sun outside. He was talking to UFO’s or one-eyed stars or pink moons (word to Nick Drake) or purple hazed people. He was playing his heart out.

I looked around. Folks, once jaded at the mediocre state of rock music in this country, with tight-jeaned (corporate) indie-kids playing to cross-armed crowds, were amazed at how much passion, skill and talent was before them. It was incomprehensible. They didn’t dress pretty. They didn’t look too pretty. They didn’t talk much. They played their hearts out. Played to reach new places.

Plus, they were nice.

Transcendence, folks. It’s out there.

Fannypacks and all.