Was the exact suggestion I needed to hear, to snap out of the near-hallucinogenic and undying Austin love spell on the South Lamar Pedestrian Bridge Friday night during South By Southwest. Up until that point, I had been fueled by an ecstatic and fairly arrogant mission to prove to my fellow WSJR contributors that Austin, TX is really all it's cracked up to be -- no easy task in the face of the staunch Dallas chauvinists I was running with. This group had been mostly saturated with the Red River and Sixth Street culture that one usually gets an overdose of when visiting Austin.
Using the backdrop of South By Southwest to prove Austin's worthiness is a rather unfair fight. Everywhere you go, you're surrounded by delicious food, rare records, accents of every type, micro celebrities, major celebrities, bands you like, bands you hate, bloggers, actual journalists, star fuckers, industry maggots, and of course,
David Fricke. I always love seeing that liner notes champion, and we've had a couple of awkward street run-ins over the years. It's like the scene in Ed Wood where Ed gets to meet Orson Welles. Only I don't really look up to David Fricke. Anyways, my point is that even the most cynical and crossed-armed intellectual has to find some sick pleasure in bearing witness to this spectacle. I was mostly trying to prove that you could avoid downtown altogether and still come away impressed by Austin's smaller, personality-soaked enclaves. Considering that the We Shot JR crew was never for a single moment at the corner of 6th and Red River or the corresponding corners for longer than the thirty seconds it took to meet someone, I view this trip as a triumph. I shall relay the details in several sections, including my eventual civic awakening in which I found myself suddenly proud to be from Dallas.
The VenuesThere is always a way to see many interesting and exciting things without having to set foot in a real venue at SXSW, and this year was by far the best example I've seen of this since early in the decade. The East Side in particular has tentacled out and filled up with more than enough activity to make it just as essential a destination as anything else in the city. It has long been a bastion for punk shows in warehouses, roof tops, and backyards, as well as a hotbed for pirate radio stations and political activist collectives, but during SXSW you could walk from Mrs. Bea's backyard to a house party to a coffee shop to a theater within a few hours and see a days worth of entertainment.
Another great thing about Austin is how much the whole city seems to get scammed into being almost naively generous this time of year. The fact that the extremely posh
Children's Museum on the outskirt territory of 2nd and Colorado was turned absolutely upside down hosting a show from midnight until four am is a perfect example of said generosity. Not surprisingly, the museum hosted pot smoking and cigarette smoking, along with its free alcohol and hip kid makeout sessions in the surreal backdrop of over-sized educational dioramas and health advisory playlands. Make fun of "Keep Austin Weird" all you want, but the fact that such a wholesome part of the establishment was used for such a wildly fucked up show is pudding proof that this city's leaders and infrastructure have all signed off on this experience. Let's see Dallas fork over part of the Science Place for Melodica. This was a true highlight of the festival.
Finally Punk didn't actually make the official SXSW lineup this year but instead put together a near perfect showcase at a theater on the East Side. I returned to this show probably more than any other, and there were similarly strong lineups at a house on Alamo street (and the We Shot Jr crew saw
Simian Mobile Disco at a house on Chicon).
Our own shows at
The Parlor in North Loop, and
The Opera House down south provided even further downtown relief and were perfectly laid back settings for our respective shows.
The climax came early on Friday night with thousands of people flocking to the Lamar Bridge, eclipsing the sound problems and sub-par performances that we dodged flying beer bottles and fireworks to witness. As
Brutal Knights outplayed
No Age, you could actually feel the bridge shaking beneath you, and I almost wished it would give way to meet an absurdly fitting demise: plunging into the river while watching some band setup with a couple thousand hardcore kids, dj's, photographers, journalists and psychopaths in the middle of the night.
The FoodThere is more to Austin than breakfast tacos, despite this being the only city in the world where I'll eat them everyday. I can hardly find any Mexican food I like in Dallas period, but it's never a problem in Austin. Here we have chorizo tacos that are worth shortening your life span over, vegetable tacos that don't taste vegetarian, rajas con queso and smoky roasted salsa at so many places across town that it's hard to go wrong. In Dallas, you get the Lakewood crew telling you that Mexican food begins and ends at Matt's, but I try my best not to eat at places with neon yellow cheese -- Mexican, Tex Mex, or otherwise.
Everyone knows bad Italian food is a running joke in Dallas. Not so in Austin, where we enjoyed Rigatoni Amatriciana with pancetta and house made sausage, white bean puree with truffle oil, mushrooms stuffed with goat cheese, organic spinach fresh from a restaurant's own private garden, lamb sandwiches with aioli, ricotta brulee, dark chocolate cannoli, espresso gelato. I'm actually getting sick just thinking about what will pass for lunch for me in the Metroplex today.
Of course, all this isn't even covering the Mediterranean, Ethiopian, Japanese or even "New Americana," but Austin really is one of my favorite places to eat, second only to San Francisco and possibly tied with regional cuisine powerhouse, Boston.
The MusicMan, there was some sweet 'Pod on the way down to Austin. SR and I were 'Pod battling while I checked out every one's 'Pods to make sure they were up to snuff. They absolutely were. Sally Glass even had more noise rock and early industrial than I expected. By the way, I fucking hate iPod culture, but I'm dealing as best as I can.
I came out swinging with "Soulful Strut" by Young Holt Unlimited about 9:45 am, one of the only tracks in the world that makes me truly happy. SR answered back with some Abe Vigoda
, and I eventually started my "gaylist" of known gay anthems from "More, More, More" by Andrea True Connection to a 12" version of Book Of Love's "I Touch Roses."
We also heard some Family Fodder, Lizzy Mercier Descloux, Switch, Crash Course In Science, Boogie Down Productions, Andreas Doraus, Serge, Dr. Dre, The Ex, Elizabeth Cotten, Deadcode, Gil Scott Heron, Tom Tom Club, and even tossed out some opinions on Vampire Weekend, I cannot tell a lie. Never mind that I recently saw them described as something to the effect of a "white Bobby Mcferrin fronting a legally retarded rhythm section." Ouch.
As far as actual shows go, we witnessed some profoundly great moments once our two showcases were over and we got to venture out into the shit. As you might have noticed, we have a general policy of not commenting on our shows, but I will say that they went better than expected.
The
Todd P acoustic show which was to feature everyone from
Dan Deacon to
An Albatross was somewhat of a bust musically, but it was something to behold a crowd that large keeping generally quiet on the UT campus, shivering in the shadow of that infamous library tower on a frigid night.
The
Business Deal Records show at Quack's on East 38 1/2 st. was when South By Southwest really started for me. Having arrived to hear neo girl group
The Carrots, it was a surprise to see the rest of a strong lineup that only got better as the evening went on. I was also surprised to see
Mika Miko play, totally unaware that it shouldn't have come as a surprise at all. They played every venue in Austin fourteen times for the next three days and I saw them three times on accident. They were great each time.
We also saw two of
Portland's best bands,
Magic Johnson and
The New Bloods, and it's nice to know that even in an incredibly self-aware place like Portland, the best bands are always the ones operating below the surface of lesser talents. Magic Johnson are a drums and guitar duo that knock out fast yet skewed punk songs with passionate yelling and speed up/slow down pounding.
New Bloods is a trio divided up into bass, drums, and violin, with all three members singing simultaneously. The bass-lines were beautifully understated, building a few notes at a time, with vast space between each one. The drums would sputter backwards, filling in gaps on off-rhythms and avoiding the 4/4 until it was time to propel the violin into cutting leads across the whole gorgeous mess. The singers' voices plucked and pulled expressive tension from the music before blending it back in rather fittingly. On two occasions I saw The New Bloods reel in a roomful of people until they were all hopping around nervously to their disarming songs.
The Carrots come close to tribute act territory, mining early sixties girl group gold yet maintaining a healthy modern distance by running it through some vague filter that's hard to pin down. The large group harmonizes and joyously tears through different takes on the genre while throwing in the surprise cover or two. I'll pretend that one of them wasn't by
Crazytown. Yes,
that's who I'm talking about.
It was a privilege to catch
Death Sentence Panda twice, and an absolute shock that the group doesn't employ guitars at all in their sound, not even a bass. Listening to their records, you would absolutely believe that have at least one guitar amongst the trio's eclectic arsenal. Instead there is a clarinet, processed by what I'm assuming is a preamp, and made to sound by turns guttural, throbbing, crunchy and many other adjectives you wouldn't associate with the instrument. The flute and xylophones are more obvious and they suitably contrast the terrifying clarinet, as ridiculous as that sounds. I'm sure Death Sentence Panda won over some ex-band nerds simply by making the clarinet seem so dangerous.
HEALTH proved that they are every bit as capable of maintaining their crowd-commanding presence in the uphill battle of the outdoor stage, as expected.
Crime Novels is the best one man act in the country, six minutes of confrontational performance art mixed with prerecorded spastic keyboard attack, real-time tribal tom pounding, and some touching audience "interaction."
Old Time Relijun was simply pretty good and though I expected a little more after hearing so much about them, they deserve better than to be labeled a "great
James Chance ripoff," or similar summaries that I heard many of their vocal supporters pitch.
Knyfe Hyts features members of
Ex Models, and they ran a decent ruse by getting all of the fans of their quirky jerky past to dance to repetitive Kraut rhythms, which often bordered on extended classic rock jams. Their Children's Museum set was much better out of the two times I caught them, with some very tough passages that echoed beautifully off of those pristine walls.
Indian Jewelry starting their set around three in the morning was apt for their crushing psyche storm, while
Best Fwends proved that they are the undisputed masters of what might be remembered as "The Annoying Age," by performing ten acapella songs back to back while sitting on chairs. As some in the crowd were already irked by their lack of instruments, this vocals-only stretch took it a step further, and I have to give it to them. I heard a kid next to me say sleepily to his pals, "Let's go dude. They don't got instruments. This ain't even a band." They then proceeded to cover the Toadie's local classic "I Come From The Water," along to a sped-up instrumental track pumped out of an iPod, and it was a real crowd pleaser. It was actually the first time I've ever been pleased to hear that song. Genius move.
Taking a sharp turn from the diet of skronky, screechy, squealing, bleeping, performance art that I get pigeon-holed for supporting, I also went out of my way to see
Yael Naim, who you most likely know as the voice behind the new
Macintosh Airbook ads. When I first heard her music last year, I was really intrigued by her voice and songwriting, as well as her Hebrew lyrics and ability to write an instantly unforgettable melody. Though I'd only been a fan for a short while before all this Mac madness, I remember that fateful day when I was cleaning house with a television on in the other room and I heard "New Soul" piping in from across the house. I was sure that maybe the receiver settings were screwed up and my stereo came on over the television. When I rushed to the living room and saw that big Apple logo, I gasped, "They got her! It's over! She's going to turn into
Feist and start wearing colored saran wrap and be totally played out and tired in about twelve minutes." So far, it seems Naim is too classy for that. She flew through a thirty minute set, gliding with ease through the expected Myspace profile set list. Her performance was the only thing I attempted to see that required a badge, but you could watch and listen just as well on the street through a gap in the tent that she played under, along with drummer and collaborator
David Donatien. I can't believe that a performance in broad daylight at a
park in the middle of the city requires a badge. I wanted to tell the lady checking everyone out, "Look, I don't want to sip Southern Comfort and talk shop to my own reflection in some asshole's mirrored sunglasses, I just want to watch this performance." I'm sure she could tell that's what I was thinking and much more charming badgeless festival goers were allowed in. Oh, well. This was a minor complaint during the festival, which owes much of its enjoyability to a city that I've almost no complaints about. Keep Austin Perfect?
The AwakeningI know I've spent a lot of this festival report lavishing praise on our fair capital, but I had a true epiphany on that bridge that defies the Austin-wannabe tone of this piece. When a fight broke out between some male and female Dallasites, the crowd shifted, some backed out, and some stormed in, avoiding or intervening in the action. That's when someone yelled over the intoxicated social din, "Go back to Dallas!" And that's not the first time I've heard that sentence uttered by Austinites, who are, of course, usually from San Antonio or Buda or worse. At first, I was insulted.
Hey. They're talking about me. They're talking about my friends, associates, and It List stars who were all up there on that bridge. Schwa. Ghosthustler. Trifle Tower. Koji Kondo. Sally Glass. And even...The Lek Brothers. And that's when I came to and accepted what I am and what we all are. Proud card-carrying members of the Metroplex, here to track dirty Trinity mud all over your carpet, Austin. Eating and drinking your free shit, crashing into your cars, passing out on your floors, smooching your boyfriends and girlfriends, and making you beg us to leave as we hold an arm behind your back for one week out of the year every spring. And everyone knows South By Southwest wouldn't be the same without us.
