South by Southwest: the madness continues

I completely forgot about St. Patrick’s Day until I noticed that one of the 20-odd green T-shirts I walked past on Congress actually had the word Irish printed on it. Doh! Lucky for every registrant of the festival, our badges had a small strip of green along the top. Not that anyone tried to pinch me, but I was still technically under protection.

I kicked off Day Three at the Jane magazine party at Beauty Bar, greeted by a buffet of tiny cupcakes—the tiny kind of cupcakes that you can eat 10 of before you stop yourself. Pretending that the secret ingredient was cyanide instead of Diet Dr. Pepper, I made my way into the gold and pink sparkly main room where a free manicure, free Pepper-tinis (pepper vodka with, you guessed it, Diet Dr. Pepper), and a free Armani Exchange–sponsored photo booth were available. All this girly splendor took place to the beat of an awesome ’80s-filled DJ set by She Wants Revenge. Dancing happened. It was cool. What Made Milwaukee Famous played to a packed “patio” (read: uneven blacktop with temporary chain-link fence). They busted out indie-boy Jane-centric melodic pop. Note: They’re from Austin, so don’t let the “Milwaukee” in the name fool you.

Later, just as the first layer of lacquer hit my nails, I found myself grimacing to the uninspired DJs who were up after SWR. Sadly, no one could tell me who they were, leaving me vulnerable to possible future encounters. I tried to be open, but it’s tough for any DJ to come back from a set that starts with Eminem. Suddenly, I wanted to get out of there very badly. So, mushy nails and a $5 tip later, I hit the patio for the Of Montreal set, bobbed my head for a few songs, and bolted. When the party’s over, it’s over.

Looking at my three-page list of parties, I realized that St. Louis band The Living Things was billed to play the Sony party at the Driskill Hotel—at a party that had started just 30 minutes earlier. Racing down Sixth (a near impossibility, as St. Paddy’s Day revelers are already out and wasted), I wanted to check the set list on the door and then grab some real food. Alas, the Living Things had Roseanne Cash–ed me! The last strains of their final song faded as I mounted the stairs. I listened half-heartedly to a song or two of Rainier Maria before taking off to grab a snack.

My first showcase of the night was London band White Rose Movement at Stubb’s. Sound was muffled and loud at the same time. It seemed promising—but maybe in a post-SXSW, iTunes investigation kind of way? I took off, hoping to catch the last couple songs of The Last Town Chorus from Brooklyn because I’ve heard nothing but amazing things about singer Megan Hickey’s lap steel playing and angelic voice. Unfortunately, I took a wrong turn out of Stubb’s and had to backtrack, consequently arriving at the Velvet Spade just in time to see Megan mingling with appreciative fans while the following band set up their gear.

Having a little time to kill, I just barely squeaked into the über-crowded Time Out–Tower Records showcase at the Dirty Dog Bar and a set by Chicago’s OK GO. I’ll go with frenetic and leave it at that. Not in love with the music, practically devoid of social skills at this point—and feeling like an old hag because of the long line of fresh-faced kids peering in the open windows—I figured I should motor and give someone who really loved the band a chance to check them out. (A “one in, one out” policy was in full effect.) So I trekked over to Eternal, where my soul was revived by Teddy Thompson, son of Richard and Linda Thompson and, clearly, heir to the talent. There is nothing like hearing a country-infused singer-songwriter utter the poignant lyrics, “Everybody movin’ / Everybody bump and grind / Have a good time.” Sheer poetry.

Pushing through the postshow crowd, I made my way to see Rodney Crowell at the Parish. Crowell sounded great and did a charming song that told the tale of hearing Johnny Cash on the radio for the very first time while fishing with his dad in 1956. (I did the math. Rodney’s been a fisherman for some time, it seems.) He was followed by special surprise guest Lyle Lovett. No time to spare, I bolted to see the very-first-ever U.S. performance by Electric Soft Parade, who have a select following of in-the-know fans who bought their CD a few years back. The show itself was kind of a drag, in the sense that the room (upstairs at Nuno’s) was clearly less a music venue and possibly more like a storage space. The acoustics were appalling, but the band had good bones. The band announced that they were playing a set at the convention center the following day, and I made a note to check them out where the sound surely wouldn’t make my ears feel like they were filling with blood.

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