SxSW - Day Four

BANDS COVERED IN THIS POST: FROG EYES | THE PONYS | ASOBI SEKSU | MENOMENA

Dear Austin: I think I need some me time.

You're looking at that list of bands there, doing the math, and realizing that that's only about half as many bands as I've been averaging. Thing is, at some point, you reach saturation, and there's nothing you can do about that. But we'll get there.

Today is Saint Patrick's Day, and the collision of St. Patty's Day revelers and SxSW attendees has all the makings of a Gamera vs. Mothra matchup: the winner doesn't really matter ('cause Godzilla will hand either one of them their ass)-- the real loser is the city they do battle in. I'm somewhat amazed by the amount of green clothing going on at SxSW. People had to think ahead to bring something green to wear. Myself, I'm plum out of T-shirts, so I'm wearing the free Menomena shirt I got at their show two nights ago. Speaking of which ...

I've been shut out of one Menomena show already, and only got to see a truncated set at Buffalo Billiards, so my plan is to stake myself out in front of the stage at the Hot Freaks party for the afternoon to ensure I'm front and center when they hit the stage.

But first, I need some BBQ. The Filter party ran out of vittles before the crew could make it over there yesterday, so we get there nice and early (well, SxSW early, which means noon) and get in line for lukewarm and half-assed barbecue. This isn't what I came to Austin to eat. I make a mental note to hit up Iron Works later on for dinner. Some band's playing and they're apparently from Rockford, England, although they never say who they are. It's a bit shocking how many bands fom England are here. You can never tell until they stop singing and start talking. I'm reminded again of the phenomenon whereby the Beatles tried to sound American, but then everyone tried to sound like the Beatles, the result being that lots of American singers sound vaguely British, while British singers sounds vaguely American. Welcome to the melting pot.

I catch sight of the Naked Cowboy on Sixth near Congress. Yes, the Naked Cowboy. People are snapping pictures of him. I imagine him sitting in his naked office, planning his naked budget for the year so he can make sure to hit all the festivals. No guitar with him, though; I guess he didn't make it into a showcase.

I head east on Sixth towards the Hot Freaks party, which is at the Mohawk a couple blocks north of Emo's. I'd like to point out that I have no idea what Hot Freaks is, nor will I ever learn what it is over the course of the show. Way to brand it, guys. I'm mildly shocked at how well they clean up Sixth St. each and every morning of this thing after the previous night's revelries and revelers turn it into something resembling the trash compactor from "Star Wars." Red River Avenue, though, where I make the turn towards Mohawk? Not treated so well. Some guy on the corner is handing out free energy drinks and scattered around him, starting about 30 feet out, is a ring of crushed cans. It was free, so that gives you a license to drop it on the ground?



I arrive at the Hot Freaks party in time to catch Frog Eyes, a band I'm mostly familiar with through their association Destroyer and Sunset Rubdown. Singer Carey Mercer isn't as yelpy as Krug (from Sunset Rubdown, and, apparently, Frog Eyes as well) or as mannered as Dan Bejar (from Destroyer). He's more of a soul singer, in a lot of ways. It reminds me of Van Morrison, even, although Van Morrison by way of Captain Beefheart, perhaps. They play long, sprawling songs that meander through all kinds of strange territory. Their stuff's great; I'll have to check it out further.

Hot Freaks may be somehow linked to this new web-based mp3-sharing thingy that's being promoted here called Hoooka. It's powered by something called Indie911, which I've heard of. But whatever: here's the thing about Hoooka: that's a dumb fucking name. And their slogan ("Take a hit and pass it on") only makes it worse. And then what makes it really terrible is the couple of slutty merch girls they've hired to promote it. You know, too much makeup, their Hoooka tanktops tucked up under their bras for maximum exposure of their stomachs, which are, of course, pierced. Top with ripped-up denim skirts that are all of, oh, four inches wide and BINGO! You've turned your product into a fucking joke. I highly doubt either of these moonlighting girls-gone-wild had any clue about any of the bands playing the party.

(Sigh) I'm getting a little tetchy.

The Ponys are up next, but I'm biding my time on the upper deck of the party. I've got to save my energy for Menomena, etc. Besides, everyone who likes The Ponys already likes them, and I'm sure someone else will be talking about them.



Asobi Seksu takes the stage next. I had thought that Asobi Seksu was the woman who fronted the band, but I'm pretty sure I'm wrong. Looking at their website, I see the singer is Yuki. Huh, apparently Asobi Seksu is colloquial Japanese for "playful sex." You learn something new every day. I had thought their sound was going to hew towards J-pop or lighter stuff, but clearly they're a lot heavier than that. Their stuff is more shoegaze-y-- all swirling guitars and string pads and keening vocals that are delivered both in Japanese and English. Amazingly, guitarist James Hanna breaks his high E string on the first song and then doesn't change guitars for, like, three songs, even though he's a got a perfectly functional looking Les Paul on a stand behind him. I suppose when everything's a wash of sound, it doesn't make a huge difference if you don't have that high E. Before they play their last song, Yuki invites people onstage at the end of the song to go crazy. Oh boy.



The less said about that the better. Give most people the chance to jump onstage and do what they want, and they'll usually act like idiots. This proves to be no exception. Most people just don't really have anything to say or do.

I'm posted up right on the stage for Menomena as a result of sticking to my guns, though, so that's nice. Here are some pics:







It was kind of nice to get to see a band twice. You know, compare and contrast. It still took them a pretty long time to get set up, but this time they got to play for the full time. The bonus treats this time around? Well, "Wet and Rusting" for one, which is just great. The first half of the set seems a little shakey, but maybe it's me paying attention more to their technique. They record in a real chopped up manner, composing their songs with a program called Deeler that allows them to record small snippets and jam them together until they're awesome. Live, they're considerably more sloppy than on record, plus, there are a lot of interesting choices they make with the recordings that are nullified live. For instance, Justin Harris' vocals are often double-tracked and then panned hard left and right and mixed slightly differently, plus Danny Seim's drums are often all mixed to one side, like the Meters or Motown stuff, and this all creates a very unique sound on the album. These kind of things are less pronounced on their first disc, I Am the Fun Blame Monster. The net result, in my opinion, is that their live show comes of better than their first disc, but not as well as their second, which, by the way, is spectacular, if I haven't told you personally already.

They're still number 3 on my list of top bands at SxSW, though, behind Loney, Dear and Boris. That's out of 28, keep in mind.

And guess what? That's all the bands I'm seeing. After hitting up Iron Works for some solid barbecue, I wander around aimlessly for a while, thinking maybe I'll get another drink at the Driskill. But it's full of people. And so are the streets. And so is Emo's IV by the time I get there. SxSW is starting to feel like pancakes: all exciting at first, but by the end, you're fucking sick of 'em. I'm preparing to check out Marnie Stern (who came recommended), when I realize I can't even hear the band that's on before her. As in, it's happening, but I'm just unable to process it. I've hit the limit, and it's time to go home, start working on my cover story for next week and pack.

Dear Austin: It's been real, but I feel like a popcorn hull caught in your teeth. It's time to flick me out.