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
uber-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.
Saturday, March 18
I awoke to rain
and lots of it. Dreams of a breakfast on charming South
Congress Avenue were dashed. Instead, I had lukewarm hotel
buffet at the Intercontinental Hotel and a block-long
sprint to catch the 30th anniversary screening of the
movie Heartworn Highways, booked to promote the
release of the soundtrack to the DVD. The film (and
soundtrack) feature never-before-released recordings by
Rodney Crowell, Townes Van Zandt, Steve Earle, and the
like. Highways boasts beautiful cinematography
and haunting music, especially the Townes Van Zandt
segments, which seemed so prophetic.
True to my word,
I arrived at the convention center to see Electric Soft
Parade. Much, much better! In fact, I could actually hear
the singer (who sounded like Morrissey) and the
keyboard-guitar combo was shimmering and powerful
instead of ouchy.
Consulting my
schedule, I realized that I'd yet again missed
Jose Gonzales and the Rakes in the past
day. With no agenda in mind, I text-messaged some
friends and met them at Antone's for a band whose
bawdy name sounded like fun. Once inside, I learned more. To
call Goblin Cock a "side project"
of Pinback member Rob Crow is being a bit generous.
Band members took the stage dressed as Druids and began
their assault. The singer had a voice modulator that put the
vocals somewhere between Darth Vader and the screamier
parts of System of a Down. I guess a cursory read of
their profile in the SXSW guide might have tipped me
off: "The live show features cloaks...."
Fate smiled on me
as I ventured to Waterloo Records just to check out
this highly esteemed record store. As the cab dropped me
across the street, I focused on the list of in-store
performers. Scanning, scanning--Jose Gonzales,
in 15 minutes! Gleeful, I spent the time browsing the
racks of the store, wishing I could carry (or afford) all
the amazing CDs I saw. Waterloo unlocked that
seldom-touched part of me that wants to binge-buy
records and hole up for a couple days and immerse. However,
there was no time for that. Jose and his guitar took the
stage. He sang and played beautifully. I had to agree
that the critics got it right--Nick Drake to the
core, with a slightly Spanish guitar. The two girls in front
of me held hands, and I glanced around to see a number of
couples drawn closer together. Jose spoke between
songs even more quietly than he sang, as though he
didn't trust his English well enough to get all loud
about it, so I missed all his commentary, even though
the room was dead silent with only the cash register
offering any competition. Afterwards, I bought the CD
and he signed it for me. This was done quietly also.
This encounter
pretty much sealed the deal for me. Anything else seen or
heard would be icing. Happily, unhurriedly (for the first
time in days) I made my way back into the throbbing
heart of Austin.
The last show I
broached: Andre Williams at the Continental Club.
I got there too late to gain admission, so I watched (with a
group of another 20 or so badge-wearers) from the
sidewalk as Andre did his thing. Andre has been called
the father of rap, and while I couldn't make out
all the lyrics, they were definitely (a) crude and (b)
crowd-pleasing. All of this happened with a buxom and
scantily clad woman gyrating on stage. It was more
burlesque than strip show, I should point out, yet
clearly, I could see how his "rap" and the
overall presentation related to the modern
interpretation.
Satisfied,
well-fed, tired, and ready to chill out and reflect, I
hailed a cab. As The Pretenders played
Stubb's, Mary Lou Lord busked on the
sidewalk in front of the Driskill Hotel, and Vice
magazine's after-hours party launched to an audience
undaunted by a $12 cab ride, I perched on a barstool
at the Intercontinental bar and recapped the shows
with a few like-minded individuals, who were also done
for the week.
Sunday March 19
Sunday
morning's flight back to Los Angeles was just as
packed as my outbound, only the passengers were much
more subdued. Volleying between the crumpled piles of
hungover festival goers were occasional audible bursts
of the names of festival highlights. Artists like Japanese
band Dorian Gray, the Sounds, Ghostface Killah, and
the Presets. Fatigue notwithstanding, listening to
everyone comparing notes ("Which Flaming Lips
secret show did you see?") it felt pretty
incredible to have been a part of one of the best live
music events in existence today.
Back in Los
Angeles and fully rested, I actually have notes on how to
get even more out of next year's SXSW. Better
event mapping, a more focused list of party RSVPs, and
a Costco-sized carton of Airborne should do the trick.