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    Kilowatt Bar 3.9.24 –  My Dallas Teens, Down Dirty Shake, The Love Dimension

    Another Saturday night in San Francisco, and another great psych show. DJ Mr. Robinson spun all vinyl throughout the night, starting out with some chill Ravi Shankar at door time, and building throughout the night through an eclectic mix of classic psych and modern rock music. The projections were provided by White Light Prism, a mix of post-modern collage art and optical art moires throughout all the sets. Each band got their own visual pallet, making each song unique and different looking. Often  there were two smaller split screens behind the bands, juxtaposing imagery with  flashing strobes of nature visuals, classic 60s psych imagery, surf imagery, and film-grain urban landscapes…

  • A night of cosmic exploration featuring: THE SPIRAL ELECTRIC (heavy melodic psych) MORRISON GRAVES (psych rock) SILENT PICTURES (post-punk / psych) THE GREEN DOOR (western psych)
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    Kilowatt Bar 2.1.24 – Green Door, Silent Pictures, Morrison Graves, The Spiral Electric

    Photography by emi – emi-arts.com Another winter rainy night in the Mission, San Francisco. Even though it was the first of the month, and pouring down rain, the show was still a great turnout. There was no DJ, no lightshow; just four solid bands from SF, the East Bay, and Portland. Turnovers were fast, and each band played a lengthy set, getting warmed up and hitting the grooves very fast. Drug and sex movies played behind the bar on TV screens, and lots of photographers were in attendance, as this event was highly documented. New and old friends were all there, like any good SF psych show. Opening the night…

  • Pow Magazine

    Felver Libre: Chris Felver Interview 30 Years in the Making

    In December 1993, I was boarding a Southwest Airlines flight in SF bound for Cleveland. I remember seeing a striking fellow – unruly Irish hair – brightly, yet smartly sweatered, beret-topped, and expertly managing bomb-proof carry-ons. I was a single traveler, one of the herd, a throng of holiday travelers, weaving and snaking our way through the pre-911 security apparatus. I was lightly equipped, backpacker, vagus viatorem, dog-eared book in hand, cover out, in an audibly youthful display. The book, my bible, Ann Charters’ Portable Beat Reader, my guide to punk rock poetry.  With each turn, we would pass, eying each other. “What’s his deal?” I thought. Then he spoke,…