Every year the
entire music industry gathers in Austin, Texas, for South
by Southwest (generally referred to as SXSW), a weeklong
music showcase (that now includes a film festival as
well). Up-and-coming bands are signed and discovered,
while seasoned veterans of the music biz show their
stuff for fans, journalists, and industry types who flock to
the event from around the world. Here's one
SXSW devotee's blog of the exhausting event:
Wednesday, March 15
On Wednesday
afternoon I took a jam-packed Austin-bound Southwest flight,
so damn excited for my eighth trip to SXSW. A totally
unscientific breakdown of fellow travelers indicates
90% palpably excited SXSW attendees and 10% bewildered
business travelers. Scanning the flight for notable
musicians, I came up with the slightly disappointing
sighting of Flogging Molly. (Sorry boys, you just
don't do it for me.) Anyway, after a bumpy
landing I dragged my queasy self to the taxi line and before
I knew it I was picking up my badge at the convention
center--and beginning the yearly ritual of
conversations that all start with "It's so
good to see you! What are you seeing?"
First stop: to
see my friends at the Astralwerks showcase at
Antone's, where I caught the first half of
Bronx-native Stephanie McKay's set. The label
promotions staff was abuzz--most had never seen her
live--gushing that her music was
"indescribable" (not usually a good sign) and
"a sort of old-school soul sound" (more
promising), so I was hopeful. Sadly, it just
didn't work for me. A hybrid of a bunch of different
soul influences, yes. But the seams were glaringly
obvious, and life's too short.
Went to Exodus to
see Amos Lee, where the room was uncomfortably packed.
Amos sounded great--true to the record, which I really
dig--but I couldn't get a sight line, as
I was relegated to the drinky-talky section of the
bar. As soon as his crowd cleared out I squeezed into the
middle for the World Party set. Taking a gander around
the room during their show, I felt positively youthful
by comparison. After comparing musical tastes with the
people around me I added some of their recommendations to my
"must seek out" list. More than one person was
raving about London band the Rakes and Swedish
singer-songwriter Jose Gonzales, and positively
everyone was talking about the Arctic Monkeys. As for
World Party, they sounded good--but truthfully,
I was never a huge fan, so I couldn't really
mock with conviction when the singer forgot the words to a
song that I couldn't even tell you the name of.
Next up: the
Plimsouls. I adore them because of a sick fixation with the
movie Valley Girl, in which, if you'll
remember, they played in the "scary"
Hollywood dive bar to which Nicolas Cage's character
brought the adventuresome valley girl of his dreams.
Bathing in nostalgia, singing every word right along
with singer Peter Case, I had the first of what I
hoped would be many Perfect Moments. Then I got a text
message to head to the Art Brut show and had to snap
to IMMEDIATELY, because there was a lull in the line,
and at SXSW there is practically never a lull in a
line at 1 a.m. I raced down the block and got right in just
a few minutes before Art Brut hit the stage and
ignited the room. Their fan base appeared to be
largely hot indie girls young enough to pull off a
retro '80s look. And these girls let out randomly
placed and terribly enthusiastic screams throughout
the show. It made me all warm inside to see all that
music love going on around me. Just in case you were
wondering how Art Brut actually performed--awesome,
energetic, songs were great and entertaining in that
story-song way. I know they've been compared to
the Fall a lot, but I kept thinking "punkier version
of the Streets."
Thursday, March 16
My day kicked off
at the Filter magazine party, where I had the
somewhat odd experience of seeing Wayne Coyne of the Flaming
Lips conduct what appeared to be a dissertation on how
he wrote and then arranged the song "Free
Radicals" from the new Lips album, At War With the
Mystics. The Q&A session boasted a special guest
appearance by Wayne's longtime companion, a
four-track recorder, which he cautioned us
"could break at any moment." I soon hustled on
to the Village Voice Media party at La Zona Rosa in
plenty of time to see Rosanne Cash, who inexplicably
went on stage first even though she had headliner billing in
all the materials promoting the party. Go figure. It was a
good show, perfectly timed for my lagging adrenaline
levels.
Building from
there, the party featured performances by Capitol Records
artists--Annie Stela (not remarkable) and Morningwood
(fantastic grunge disco outfit from New York). Here, I
was sidetracked by a rumor that Elijah Wood was at the
party. I was told that he was wearing a black T-shirt.
Useless information, because who wasn't? Elijah is my
favorite, because he loves music so much it surprises
me that he actually finds the time to be an actor.
Last year I traded him one of my packets of Emergen-C
for a clove cigarette. (I know, I know...and it
wasn't even at a Morrissey show.) I managed to
turn the entire Sound Team set into the soundtrack to
my unfruitful search for Mr. Wood. The show ended with the
Magic Numbers. Later I learned that this London band boasts
two pairs of actual siblings...not like those
fakers Jack and Meg White, thankyouverymuch. In
fact, the male-female band mix seems to be a growing
trend this year.
Next I stopped by
the Red Bull House, a joint venture with Buzznet.
(Buzznet rules--if you like to do stuff like post your
own photo blog, that is.) It is refreshingly
air-conditioned, and there are about a million cans of
Red Bull available for visitors, who can then mill about
and find restful refuge on one of the multiple rooms'
sofas, with flat panel TVs displaying digital photos
of SXSW debauchery (or good clean fun) taken with a
handful of camera phones on loan to various people. The
house was billed as an ongoing "Chill Out"
spot. I heard from one source that nearly 1,000 people
had RSVP'd for their after-hours parties.
Because nothing says "chill out" like a can of
Red Bull at 3 a.m.
Ambling down 4th
Street, I caught the last bit of Elefant at the
Filter party (which must've been an eight-hour
affair). They sounded amazing--something about
the courtyard made the acoustics near perfect. Here
I'm reminded that their new record, The Black
Magic Show, hits streets next month. Color me
Sold.
By this time I
felt like something mellow, so I trekked a few blocks to
the Sony BMG showcase at the Driskill Hotel and managed to
see a few songs by Susan Cagle. It's
straight-ahead singer-songwriter stuff in the rock-pop
vein--not a hint of country or folk to be found. Think
Michelle Branch. Interestingly enough, Susan's
band is made up of her family members, all of whom she
helped to learn their instruments. In the lobby there
was a nice coffee service with real china. A refreshing
break from my earlier drink of choice--tap water
in an opaque plastic cup, which is impossible to
balance while clapping.
Then it's
back to La Zona Rosa for Anthony Hamilton's
performance. His show was early and completely
unaffiliated with the acts that followed him, the
alt-country sounds of the New West records showcase. I
arrived at this show feeling, frankly, like crap. My
legs hurt, my feet throbbed, and a sleep-deprivation
headache hinted that it might show up at any minute. I
was hungry. Cranky. But I was there, and that counts for
something, right? Anyway, Hamilton's band went into
their intro, and there was crowd-pumping orchestrated
by a band member. When we reached the proper level of
readiness, Anthony emerged onto the stage. The first
song was OK. Well sung, but he didn't seem that into
it. I actually left the floor for a minute to return a
phone call. I mention this only because minutes later
someone must've flipped the switch, because he was
ON, ON, ON. Anthony Hamilton's voice, six-piece band,
and three backup singers owned that room from
the minute they committed to it. I can barely explain
what happened next, but the pace was incredible. Song
after song he reached a place that made me think, Now, I
know he can't top that, and then he
DID. The pinnacle lasted for three songs, during which
I alternately felt like I had front row at a hoppin'
gospel service or was hearing a reincarnated Curtis
Mayfield circa Superfly. When he made his way
into the crowd, gripping the mic and giving it his all
less than a foot away from me...well, let's just
say this was the best SXSW performance I'd ever
seen. Afterward, perhaps as a nod to Hamilton's
Charlotte, N.C., roots, I craved some Southern food and
had dinner at this incredible spot called Moonshine, where
they actually served a drink made from grain alcohol.
God Bless the U.S.A.
It's now
Friday morning, and as I'm typing this from the
Hideout coffeehouse I look up, and I swear to GOD,
Elijah Wood walks by twice. With this sign I know that
all is right in the world, and I am ready to tackle
two more days of no sleep, bad diet choices, and all the
music and parties I can swing.