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.

SxSW - Day Three

BANDS COVERED IN THIS POST: CLOUD CULT | IGGY POP (more of a sighting, really) | SALLY CREWE AND THE SUDDEN MOVES | LITTLE MAN | MARTIN DEVANEY | ANDREW BIRD | BROTHER ALI | AESOP ROCK | BORIS | TULLYCRAFT

Dear Austin: Who are you? Where are you hiding? I keep trying to imagine what this city looks like and what goes on when SxSW isn't going on. I'm beginning to feel a little dirty about this whole thing. It's like going out on that first date with someone who wears too much makeup-- you know it's all artifice, but you can't see past it because you don't know the person well enough. I want to see Austin wake up in the morning.

Unfortunately, that would probably require me getting up before 11 a.m., which is all I've mustered this week after staying out until 3 a.m. every night. Net result? I'm beat, and getting beater. So I'm going to try and maneuver this blog away from the stream of consciousness and more towards the stream of photos.

Good? Let's start:

CLOUD CULT





I don't want to spend too much time talking about Cloud Cult, because I'm going to be writing an article on them in the pretty near future, and I still want to have things to say. Suffice it to say, they're a bit different than most of the bands that have been playing at the Fader party so far. First of all: their pants are comparatively baggy and their music isn't a fashion statement. It's ragged and beautiful, but in a distinctly organic way. The bulk of their set comes from their upcoming release, The Meaning of 8, but they close with two tracks from Advice from the Happy Hippopotamus, "Wash Your Car" and the title track. That title track is just a killer jam. All right, that's all I'm saying about that.

While fielding a phone call near the fence that looks out from the Fader party to 4th St., Iggy Pop rolls by in an Escalade. That's right, Iggy Pop.

I'm still jonesing for a full Menomena set, and they're playing at Emo's and the Pitchfork Showcase, but guess what? There are one million people waiting in line, so instead of Menomena, I spend some quality time with an Italian sausage from The Best Wurst, who have stands set up along 6th St. It's more than just a hot dog from a street vendor, kids: It's got grilled onions and mustard and it kicks ass. Highly recommended for fans of meat tubes.

Another note for your edification: Emo's IV (which is a little indoor venue wedged into the corner of Red River Ave. and 6th St. Emo's and Emo's Jr. sort of wrap around it) has the best bathrooms of any venue I've seen so far. Big mirrors.

DAN IBARRA (L) and MIKE BYZEWSKI from AESTHETIC APPARATUS



Still smarting from the disappointment of missing Menomena, I retreat to the Convention Center to check out Flatstock, SxSW's poster show, and run straight into Dan and Mike from Aesthetic Apparatus. They've got a sweet location right up at the front, and, as you can see, are wearing sweet matching shirts. They're great, and they make great posters, so go buy one from their site.

Flatstock is just staggering-- tons and tons of great screenprinted posters and I'm getting sensory overload looking at everything. It's art, and I love it. One guy in particular stands out, though: Jason Munn and his company The Small Stakes. I wish I could buy every poster he has, but settle for a Broken Social Scene poster that's flatout (pun!) gorgeous. The web image doesn't do it justice. Commission this guy to do your stuff, bands.

I've got nothing to say about this pic. Just beautiful as hell. Legos in the Convention Center.



SALLY CREWE AND THE SUDDEN MOVES



A couple of years ago, Sally Crewe (who, according to the SxSW guide is from Austin, but sounds British) put out a record that Britt Daniel of Spoon produced, which is why I bought it in the first place. She's playing at the Soho Cafe upstairs, so I spin by to check it out before returning to the Eclectone Showcase a couple blocks down. Oh, also? P.F. Chang's has surprisingly good General Tsao's Chicken. I think they call it Chang's Spicy Chicken or some such nonsense, but it's about as close to real New York-style Chinese food as I've found outside of the Northeast.

Anywho. Ms. Krewe and co. put on a repsectable rock show, and you can see why Britt might have been interested in her stuff. It has the leaness of Spoon, although it lacks the melodic brilliance. Some of the stuff, though, is good. And we're out to check out Little Man.

LITTLE MAN



Never has there been a more aptly named band than Little Man. Chris Perricelli might be five feet tall, and he makes a guitar look like a bass. And a bass look like some kind of Norse battle axe, probably. He's got enough swagger and rock for a dude twice his height though. That dude would still be shorter than Yao Ming, but I digress, and Chris? I hereby swear that I'm done discussing your height. I catch "Light Years" from his new album, plus the title track, "Soulful Automatic." Without being flashy about it, he's got some serious guitar chops, and man, guitar heroism is a lost art. Perricelli and his band pull it off admirably.

MARTIN DEVANEY



My friend and yours, Martin Devaney, delivers a sweet and winsome set that leans heavily on his more country side, despite the fact that I know he's cooking up a fantastic pop-rock side project. He's got an attractive guitar, for sure.

JEREMY YLVISAKER playing with ANDREW BIRD



ANDREW BIRD



Andrew Bird's playing over at Stubb's, which is an outdoor venue tucked away behind Red River Ave., and it's a nice one. It's the place that Bloc Party played last night and The Good, The Bad & The Queen are playing tonight. Bird's got Martin Dosh and Jeremy Ylvisaker with him for this show, and it's nice to see him with a full(ish) band, despite the fact that he's almost a one-man band himself. Plus, really digging the shirt/tie/hoodie/blazer combo. I'd try and rock it if it wouldn't make me look like a stuffed turkey. Bird's slim enough to pull it off, though. His stuff is gorgeous and complex, noisy and a little exploratory while still being very melodic. Kind of baroque and fuzzily beautiful, like old furniture. Highlights from the set include "Plasticity" (ed. --That's Plasticities")and "Sisyphean Empire" (I think that was the title (ed. --That's "Scythian Empires")), plus the crowd favorite, "A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left." His new disc, Armchair Apocrypha, comes out on Tuesday. Put me down for one.

I make an attempt to get inside Beauty Bar to check out Bonde do Role, who are what you would call an "It" band at the moment, but they're at capacity. I'm three people away from getting in on the badge line when I decide it's not worth it. See my note about Greg Kot's policy below. On my way over to Emo's, I bump into Danny Seim and Justin Harris from Menomena. I learn that they're friends with Mark Baumgarten, who's currently the editor at Metro, but who lived in Portland, Ore., for a while before coming back here. That'd be Menomena's hometown. They're not coming to the Twin Cities anytime soon, but they will be playing the Pitchfork Festival in Chicago this summer. And they don't even play "Air Aid" live yet because they haven't figured out how to do it with just the three of them. My disappointment at their shortened set the night before is ameliorated some by this news-- I wouldn't have gotten to hear it even if they'd played the full show, I guess.

SLUG onstage with BROTHER ALI



I snake inside Emo's just in time to catch Slug jumping up onstage with Brother Ali, and I manage to get the above photo, which I know is less than stellar. Sorry. Of interest is the fact that Dennis Miller is standing behind me watching the show. I'm almost on the point of asking him if he's a big hip-hop fan when he leans in and talks to a young man (high school age, looks like) in front of him, who's clearly his son. Kind of sweet, really. I remember when my dad would take me to shows. He even enjoyed many of them, although sometime remind me to tell you about the time when he fell asleep during ministry. Brother Ali delivers a solid set, capped off with an audience call and response number where he exhorts the crowd to chant, "More! More! More!" I'm pretty pumped for his new one, The Undisputed Truth.

Aesop Rock hits the stage in a Yankees hat, which boo. Boo Yankees. His set seems to go well, although I end up spending most of it talking to J-Bird from Rhymesayers and Sarah Sandusky, who's come down from Frisco. She's the bestest. She and Chris Perricelli should start a band together and call it Little People. (Sorry, Chris)

ATSUO of BORIS



Boris is one of the few bands (Menomena and Loney, Dear being the other) that I double highlighted and underlined as a band I needed to see at SxSW. The Japanese group released one of my favorite records of last year, Pink, a brutal sonic assault that went from drone metal to grinding and propulsive hardcore in a heartbeat. So imagine my surprise when I find out that their guitarist, Wata, looks like this:



Wha?! Call me prejudiced, call me sexist. I just didn't expect this. Their set stays away from anything on Pink, instead unspooling as a 40-minute piece that moves from droney to epic and back again. The drummer, Atsuo, starts offstage, letting Wata and bassist/guitarist (he's got two necks on that bad boy) Takeshi gradually layer in feedback and distortion into a solid sheet of sound. It's placid and serene, actually, despite it's edgy sound. Quite beautiful, really. This is really closer to experimental music than rock and roll, but once Atsuo comes out and starts going at the gong (yup, gong), it builds into a woozy structure that's pinned down by Atsuo's drum pattern. The intensity is built so slowly it's hard to notice-- this is really music that requires patience and attention to fully appreciate. They move through different sections of music before returning to the initial guitar/bass motif. I'm completely blown away. As of right now, Loney, Dear is still tops, but Boris put on the second best show I've seen here.

Afterwards, I head over to meet Jesse and Jerry for Tullycraft. For some reason, my photos of Tullycraft didn't download when I did the transfer, so I'll have to come back and add them, but I'll just say that exuberant isn't an exuberant enough word for this band. As a stage band, they have something in common with the Barenaked Ladies. Not musically, really, but in the way that it's obvious they're just having a great time out there and want everyone else to have a great time, too. Unfortunately, they don't tour and have no plans to, so you better just go pick up their records. If they come to the Twin Cities, I'll be sure and let you know.

SxSW - Day Two

BANDS COVERED IN THIS POST: SOMEONE STILL LOVES YOU BORIS YELTSIN | BROTHER ALI | SAGE FRANCIS | SMALL SINS | JESSE SYKES & THE SWEET HEREAFTER | AQUEDUCT | MENOMENA

Corrections: Yesterday, I asked the question, “We have to do this four more times?” There were two mistakes in that sentence. We only have to do this three more times, and it should have ended with an interrobang (?!), not a question mark. Also, JoAnna James' frappucino was not potentially dosed with cod liver oil, but rather, the earthy gentleman was implying that by using 2% rather than half and half in the concoction, he may have created a ripe environment for the breeding of bacteria. Still, kind of lame.

So …

Dear Austin: It’s really all kind of about how a day unfolds, then, isn’t it? It’s like ultimate determinism down here—none of this crap about going to your job and then whiling the night away on the couch (which sounds so awesome right about now). Each day lays before you with unlimited potential, and, by the end of the day, it’s a relatively simple calculus you have to execute to determine whether you spent it well. So far, so good.

And also? Beware the ides of March.

With the night that wouldn’t end behind us, we all split up in the morning. Cell phone recharged and ready (thanks V-Cast Lounge in the Convention Center), I want—nay, need—some terrible food for lunch. Yesterday, Oren and Ryan told me about this burger joint on 6th St. past Congress called Hut’s. It’s a real ’50s relic, with a quality neon sign and it looks just a bit dilapidated on the outside. Inside, however, it’s a top-notch diner/burger joint, and they’ve got about 20 different kinds of burgers on the menu, with every conceivable topping imaginable. Plus, they’re available as buffalo burgers or veggie burgers, if you lean that way. I go for a cherry Sprite and a Sink Burger, which comes with lettuce, tomato, ham and hickory sauce. My waiter suggests a delicious substitution, since it’s his favorite burger: a pineapple slice for the tomato. I like this guy already. The burger, when it arrives accompanied by a side of peppered onion rings, is certainly the messiest burger I’ve ever had. Not a bad thing, though, and it certainly ranks up there with great non-gourmet burgers like those at the Corner Bistro in New York.

On the way back east on 6th St., the familiar strains of “Pangea” by Someone Still Loves You Boris Yelstin waft over the fence from the patio of a joint called Mother Eagan’s. The SSLYBY boys are still a shock every time I see them. Their “look” (as people in the biz say) hasn’t caught up with their killer hooks and melancholy lyrics. Seriously, people, these kids from Missouri write some of the most unassumingly beautiful power pop I’ve ever heard, and if the new songs they played are any indication, they’re only getting better. They have a kind of goofy nonchalance onstage, passing instruments around and trading off vocal duties. They’ve garnered a fair amount of attention for their debut album, Broom, and I sincerely hope they can keep it together and keep growing as a band.

While SSLYBY is playing, I notice a guy tuning up a guitar on the side of the stage. Like roughly 85% of the people there, he's wearing incredibly skinny jeans, but he's also rocking a pretty terrible tie-dye T-shirt and makes me wonder: What the hell is up with this hair band fashion thing? I understand the ironic component to it, and the fun component to it, but at some point, you're just mimicking something terrible, and you're no longer making a comment about it. You're just dressing like a fool. I'm all for fashion moving forward, and reposessing acid wash jeans and all that, but let's not mistake bad for good, eh?

Meanwhile, 89.3 The Current is throwing a shindig at Buffalo Billiards, and the whole crew’s down here, including DJs Steve Seel and Mary Lucia, Program Director Steve Nelson and Music Director Melanie Walker. I get there in time to see Brother Ali walk in with Sound Unseen Artist of Distinction Award winner Randy Hawkins and Rhymesayers' J-Bird. And that guy Slug is here. He's a sweetheart--don't let anyone tell you different.

Before Ali takes the stage, Mary chats with music writers (and hosts of their own awesome music talk show) Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot. Kot wrote an awesome book about Wilco and he and DeRogatis' show, Sound Opinions, is basically the show that I'd love to do on radio. Not just have bands on to play live and talk about the picayune details of their last album or tour, but to really do a critic's show, where music can be seriously discussed and delved into. And not just the personalities of the musicians themselves, like on the Actors' Studio, but the nuts and bolts of the craft of making music. Anybody? Call me.

DeRogatis (I believe--from the back of the bar, where I've retreated to after snapping a couple of pics, it's hard to know for sure) espouses his philosophy about showgoing at SxSW: If you come to someplace and there's a line, just move on. There's too much good stuff to waste time waiting in a line when you might be missing out on a surprise. I concur. Of course, I'm also sitting on a couch at the Convention Center writing this while literally dozens of bands, some of them no doubt awesome, play sets. Moving on.

Ali takes the stage with his DJ, BK One, and chats with Mary for a bit about his new album, The Undisputed Truth, and about some of the problems he had getting down here, and then he rips into a new track, which is simply jaw-droppingly good. I should start writing down song titles. I'm sure you can find it online at the Current's website somewhere, but anyways. He has what I would call a cast iron flow. There's no hype, no flash; it's just solid as hell-- thoughtful, measured and cohesive, but still playful when it wants to be. It's all that and a bag of chips.

After another little interview segment, where Ali discusses meeting his rap heroes (including KRS-One when he was 12 years old), he drops another new one on us, and this one's called "Uncle Sam Goddamn." I know so because he can't say the whole title on the radio. It's a stirring and topical track, quite obviously. I have little reason to doubt that his new joint will live up to its title when it drops on April 10.

I take a break from the hustle and bustle to return my computer to our van so I won't have to lug it around for the rest of the day. On the way back up to the epicenter, I walk by David Cross. Hey, David Cross. (waves back) I can't come up with a Tobias Funke joke quick enough.

Other than Antone's, Emo's is the club name I most associate with Austin, so I'm glad to be heading there for the Kork Agency's showcase, which Slug is hosting. Emo's is a sweet venue-- it's sort of semi-enclosed, with the stage and a portion of the floorspace under a roof, but with the rest of the joint outdoors. It also connects to a smaller stage, 7th St. Entry style, through a patio. First Avenue would be a lot cooler if part of it could be outside, but that'd be as dumb as having an outdoor baseball stadium for the Twins, right? Slug comes out to introduce the showcase's first act, Sage Francis, and tells a story about a time when he and Sage were on tour and decided to go out on Halloween while they were at Penn State for a show. The way Slug tells it, within five minutes of getting into a bar with a costume contest, Sage was demanding that the contest winner hand over his inflatable Budweiser couch to him. Clearly, a troublemaker. Sage's response when he hits the stage is to say that Slug was just upset because he got carded that night-- and he was 42 at the time. Har.

Sage Francis looks like about the last guy who would ever be a rapper, but he's actually incredibly good. A lot of his stuff is built around famous samples, like "Broken Wings" by Mr. Mister and "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails, but he does more than just jack the beats-- he uses the songs as jumping off points that recontextualize the originals. His lyrics strike a nimble balance between dextrous and technically impressive runs and killer punchlines and hoooks. He bites KRS-One's "I'm going back to Cali, to Cali, to Cali. Nah, I don't think so," turning it into "I'm going back ro rehab, to rehab, to rehab. Nah, I don't drink though." He ends his set with a fantastic spoken word thing that revolves around a breakup. Yeah, it was emo. But damn, Sage really has a way of sucking you into the stuff and making it relevant. There's nothing pro forma about him; it's just the realness. Did I mention he's also funny as hell? He is.

On my way back west on 6th St. to hit up Antone's and Small Sins, I walk past an impromptu demonstration in the middle of the street exhorting sinners to repent. There's a clutch of respectably-dressed people handing out flyers or pamphlets, plus a guy in the middle with a bullhorn. It's a.) kind of nice to see business casual-dressed people look like the freaks for once and b.) just kind of silly and misguided. The bulk of the people here are not just music fans or wayward children on a road to nowhere-- most everybody is either a musician who's gotten into a showcase that might further their career or a music professional who has taken their passion for music (or for being a lawyer or an agent or whatever) and turned into a career that can allow them to come bask in music and nothing but for four straight days. We're not sweating it, is my point.

The scene outside Antone's when I get there is another reminder of SxSW's superiority to that other music conference, CMJ. At CMJ, a badge don't get you shit. As Jerry from Vitriol pointed out, you were treated worse with a badge at CMJ than if you had just paid cash to get into the shows. But here at SxSW, there are separate lines for badge holders, people with wristbands, and people paying cash, and you can almost always get into the showcases with a badge. Now, I've gotten mine as a professional thing, and I'm in no way thumbing my nose at anyone who's paying cash. It's nice for me to be able to get in and all, but who it really rewards are the people who shelled out the $500 for the badge. You damn well better get something good for that kind of scratch, right? Plus, there are plenty of staff at every venue entrance ready to tell you which line is which and give you all the info you need. Take notes, CMJ.

So I snake right inside just as the Stax 50th Anniversary is wrapping up, and I manage to take this sweet shot of Booker T & the MGs with none other than Isaac Hayes:



Pretty sweet, eh?

The joint empties out before Small Sins take the stage, but it afford me a chance to get right up front, and the venue starts filling up again shortly. This is the Astralwerks Showcase, and Astralwerks has been killing it recently. Smalls Sins hail from Toronto and put out a great self-titled album last year full of restrained power pop that owed more than a bit of debt to Spoon, Jackson Browne and a whole host of other pop influences. Live, they're quite a bit more fiery than on record, and I have mixed feelings about it. Their disc had a couple great sonic tricks to it: Lead Sin Thomas D'Arcy sang with a hushed croon, but when the choruses to songs like "Stay" would kick in, this giant choir of harmonies would enter, and it was a jarring and evocative effect, especially when set against the icy restraint of the songs. With that aspect removed, Small Sins are more like any other able powerpop band. That said, they're still very able, and their new stuff was great, showcasing more effectively than their album their debt to Austin-native Spoon. After six songs, someone tells them to cut it, and they start packing up, but then some other guy jumps on stage and tells them not to listen to that first guy and to keep playing. There's been a nice quality, generally, at the shows here that weds looseness with regard to execution to keeping things on track and on time. Maybe that's a Texas thing.

It's getting on towards 10 p.m. by this point, and I'm dragging. My dogs are barking and I'm pretty sleep-deprived, not to mention the fact that the sleep I did get was not really quality. So I decide to park myself at the Barsuk Records Showcase for the night. Besides, Menomena are playing and they're the only band I really care about seeing this week. I catch the tail end of Rocky Votolato's set, and then muscle my way to the front for Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter.

After a couple of technical stumbles, Sykes and co. hit their stride and deliver ably on the the promise shown by their latest album, Like, Love, Lust & The Open Halls of the Soul. I'd seen them once before, actually, about three years ago at Bumbershoot in Seattle, but I didn't really get into them until I got this latest disc, which is a fantastic mix of brittle vocals and roadhouse rock. Sykes' voice sounds just raw on record, but she's been preserving it on the road, and hasn't had anything to drink for the past six weeks. "I can't wait to get fucked up after this," she says to the crowd between songs. I miss the horns and some of the other textures from the disc (she's just got a bassist, drummer and guitarist along for this show), but it's still a solid set. Apparently, some blogger last year wrote that the only reason Sykes' band stays with her is because of the poontang they get after the show. Sykes says, "His name was Mike. Mike, if you're here, fuck you." I'd like to make it plainly clear that no one in her band is getting any from Sykes. Damn bloggers.

I buy an EP from the Menomena merch guy that features "Wet and Rusting" plus three new songs and two remixes. He's a genial dude wearing dark brown khakis, a blue button down and has a haircut like a Congressional page (no jokes, please). He's also reading Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. I ask how it's coming and he says, "Great." I'm unable to come up with a Colonel Kurz joke. Nice chap. Turns out he's the keboardist/guitarist for Menomena. And also now the winner of the "Guy Least Likely to be in an Amazing Rock Band, Based on the Way He Looks" award.

Aqueduct play next, but I'm firmly staked to the bench at the back of the venue, which is Buffalo Billiards, by the way. Sitting with your legs crossed when your feet are tired? The new black. It's incredible. Aqueduct are a little too silly for my taste, although they open with the theme song to "Walker, Texas Ranger," which is a nice touch.

I've waited all damn night for Menomena, who were slated to play 1 a.m., but don't actually start until 1:30. As such, and because there aren't enough pictures of drummers, I'm putting up two, starting with this one:



I can't believe they pull off their songs with just three guys, but the volume of stuff onstage is remarkable: three guitars, one bass, one baritone guitar, a bari sax, an alto sax,a keyboard, a set of bass foot pedals, a drumset and assorted percussion. Their latest, Friend and Foe, is still the best record to be release this year, in my opinion, and they're even better live than they come off on the record. What little sacrifices are made in the way of subtletly are more than made up for by their energy. Unfortunately, a couple of douchebags behind and to my right decide that Menomena would be a good band to mosh to. Idiots. Moshing is so '95, and it wasn't cool even back then. One of the cardinal rules about showgoing should be to not disturb other people's space. If you're going to a punk show, there is one set of acceptable behavior, because people know that slamdancing might go down. But at your average rock show, even if it's a particularly loud and/or energetic band, it's not cool.

Menomena split their set down the middle between their first disc (I Am the Fun Blame Monster!, which is an anagram of "Menomena's First Album"--genius) and their latest. I'm joyed by the inclusion of "Muscle 'n Flo" and "Wet and Rusting," but dismayed by the lack of "Air Aid." Maybe they'll play it when I catch them again tomorrow. Their set is cut short when they turn on the lights at 2 a.m. (a lame move--why would you even have a band start playing 1 a.m. if you're going to close at 2?), but by that point I'm the walking dead. I can't even think, I'm so beat. I'll just close with this photo, because every blog post about SxSW should have a photo of a dude with a guitar screaming.

SxSW - Day One

BANDS COVERED IN THIS POST: KENNA | FOALS | HOT CLUB DE PARIS | I CAN LICK ANY SONOFABITCH IN THE HOUSE | CALL ME LIGHTNING | TINY VIPERS | LONEY, DEAR | IAMX

Dear Austin: If you strike me down, I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine. But more on that later.

The night before Day One, we head back to the PureVolume/Virb party and, after a modicum of finagling, snag festival-long passes. Vodka and red bulls all week! Actually, the vodka and Izze is much better. That Izze Grapefruit flavor is just stupendous. Tonight, we're here early enough to get in some quality Wii time, mostly playing tennis. Man, that thing is great. I make a mental note to get one when I get back home. Right when we get there, there's a bunch of music stuff set up along the back wall including an electronic drum machine and three keyboards. A spontaneous jam session ensues, but man, electronic drums feel like absolute crap.

Eventually we settle into a couch behind the Wii station, and Jesse Stensby tells the funniest joke ever, depicted below:



I can't remember how it went.

On the way back to the car, I pause with Jesse Stensby to take this record cover photo:



Jesse Stensby, Beneath the Surface. Or perhaps, Pull My Finger.

DAY ONE

No rain today, but there's mist, and plenty of it. Walking around on 6th Street is kind of like having someone blowing spittle in your face constantly-- especially when it's misty. Ba-dum ching. Seriously though, the rockers and rollers are starting to roll in now and, as a Texas tour bus rolls past us, I think I overhear the tour guide say, "If you'll look to your left, you'll see a bunch of fucking hipsters."

The general air of local fed-upness with this whole thing is confirmed at various points throughout the day, most pointedly by the bearded dude in a coffee/cigar chop wearing a T-shirt that says, "Welcome to Austin. Remember to Leave." He may have also dosed JoAnna James frozen cappucino drink with Kaopectate. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After a delicious lunch at Iron Cactus on 6th, we meander towards the Fader party, which is known to be the jam year in and year out. On the way, I wonder: Are moustaches still ironic? Or are they now post-ironic? Is it now legit for a man to just have a moustache, not as a punchline, but as a bona fide fashion statement? Has the 'stache jumped the shark?

In case you don't know, The Fader is a music/culture magazine, and they throw a party every year here with plenty of free drinks, so it's pretty much the place you want to be. This year, they've turned a warehouse into a maze-like structure they like to call The Fort. There's a Levi's store in there, although it looks like bands are getting pants for free (damn bands), a blogger room (which is not where I am as I write this), press rooms, an Adult Swim lounge and, primarily, a big outdoor area with a covered stage where bands play all day long. Providing the beverages? Southern Comfort, which, I'd like to note, is not actually whiskey, but is technically classified as a liqueur. Personally, I think it's crap, but whatever. Most of the people there seem to disagree with me. I spot Snowden, who are playing at the PureVolume outdoor stage later in the week, wandering around the party.

Around about 3:45 p.m., Kenna hits the stage with a band of awkward white guys. I was a big fan of Kenna's first album, New Sacred Cow, but it's been nearly four years since that came out, and he obliquely alludes to the delay before explaining to us that his new album, Make Sure They See My Face, has nothing to do with that one. His stuff is hard to peg, really, a fact that's been noted before in the press. He's a black man with a hell of a set of pipes, but he's not really doing either R&B or rock and roll, and he's not really doing a combo either. It's largely epic, generally funky, and definitely futuristic. He plays nothing from his old album, which is a little disappointing, but at least one of the new tunes is an absolute banger. Despite the outward bombast, his stuff is largely built around tiny pieces that are more than the sum of their parts, so I'm looking forward to hearing the new disc in full when it drops in June.

After some considerable techinical difficulty, England's Foals take the stage. Their singer may be the shortest frontman ever, plus he's playing an old Ampeg guitar, the kind with a metal neck. Once they get everything sussed, they explode into furious and spiky post-punk, blending the velocity of Wire's first record with some of the more experimental aspects of their second. The songs are built upon almost incidental sounding riffs that sometimes stray a little further towards technical proficiency (and away from melody) than they really should, but the truly admirable part of the sound is a stuttering, bookish funkiness. They seem like the kind of band that might really open up on record, where texture can take primacy over energy and melody.

Hot Club De Paris take the stage with some swaggering, '70s-style bar rock-- and not a lot more. I guess it's cool because they're British, and this thought in turn makes me wonder if Kenna would quite so interesting if he weren't black. Context counts for a lot in this game. A bar band from Indiana's just a bar band, but a bar band from Liverpool is apparently worthy of playing the Fader party. Three of the guys have voluminous beards and long, shaggy hair but one of the guitarists has close-cropped hair and is wearing a blazer, while the others sport jeans and t-shirt. It looks like he's playing at the Fine Line while the other guys play the Turf. I'm not impressed. (A helpful soul pointed out below that I was actually watching David Vandervelde. Sorry, Hot Club,for besmirching your fine reputation and music, which I've been assured is not bar rock)

Towards the end of the day portion of the Fader party, I start running into lots of Minnesota people: Oren Goldberg and Ryan from the Turf Club, musicians James Apollo and Matt Palin, Modern Radio honcho Tom Loftus, Minneapolis transplant and current San Francisco firecracker Sarah Sandusky and even Chris Riemenschneider from the Strib. I doubt he'll return the favor, but I'm going to give you a link to his blog. And I don't mean to imply anything about his character there. I'm not saying, I'm just saying. I hook up with Josh Peterson, JoAnna James and Martin Devaney, and JoAnna, Josh and I strike out on our own to explore Austin for a while. This where the guy implies that he may have given JoAnna something more than just coffee. I don't blame you Austin, but really, JoAnna's a sweetheart. Be nice.

Later in the evening, I check out I Can Lick Any Sonofabitch in the House (henceforth, SOB) at the 710 Room. Now, I had heard from singer Mike Damron himself that they had broken up, so I was curious to see what was going to happen. Damron had long been wanting to do more solo stuff and things that leaned more on the country side than the rock side. You can read the whole story at their site. Bottom line? SOB tonight is a shell of its former self, composed of Mike and several ringers. They ably navigate through SOB's signature Steve Earle-meets-AC/DC sound, but something's missing. It's just not SOB anymore, but I suppose Damron knows this. Hopefully he'll swing through the Turf Club again soon as a solo artist, since the highlight of the set was his solo rendition of the SOB classic, "Westboro Baptist Church," a venomous screed against Fred Phelps and born again evangelists in general. As Damron told me, he's not a poet-- he's the big middle finger on the left. The song is completely without subtlety, but it doesn't need it.



Loftus told me to check out Call Me Lightning, who hail from Milwaukee, WI (not NY, as the sign outside Red Eyed Fly reads), and are on Frenchkiss Records. They could handily be categorized as a Frenchkiss band, sharing as they do a penchant for propulsive and shouty post-rock that never gets too angular to be impactful, much like labelmates Les Savvy Fav and The Plastic Constellations. Plus, they're a power trio, and there's just something about power trios. It's an elemental musical combination, sharing something with genre pics like westerns and kung fu flicks. A guitar, bass and drums are tools, and you use them a certain way in a power trio. They mostly stay our of each other's way, frequency-wise, so they're never fighting for space in the mix. They can all just be themselves. I look around a realize that I need to buy some slip-ons or some Vans or something. No way can I get my legs into the kind of jeans I see everyone wearing. Josh (who's joined me) and I decide to weather the storm and wait for baggy jeans to come back in style.

After this, I make my way, alone, to what is easily the highlight of the night, Loney, Dear's set at Emo's IV. Unfortunately, I don't have photo credentials (yet-- I got 'em now), so I couldn't take any pictures. Loney, Dear (who hail from Sweden) put out a great record on SubPop called Loney, Noir not s long ago. It's a collection of gentle tunes and some great pop moments that recall, oddly enough, the BeeGees, mostly due to the falsetto vocals. However, rather than being grounded in disco, Loney, Dear is a distinctly acoustic and folk-tinged act. All of that left me completely unprepared for the majesty of their live show. Live, the songs expand and grow around the fantastic melodies, and it's easy to be swept away into it, which is just what happens to me. About two and a half weeks ago, my mother passed away and, after a week spent with family and friends in Chicago, I've returned to work and to this trip ready to get back to life. Most of the time, it works great. But during "The City The Airport," which is nothing if not an upbeat pop song, I find myself crying, just a bit, and I can't help but think about the way a crystal wine glass will shatter at the sound of a human voice singing its resonant frequency. I find it hard to privilege individual and subjective experience of music above all else-- I'm more than aware that what I'm bringing to Loney, Dear's performance is above and beyond what most people will go in looking for. But they must be doing something right. I recommend you catch them when you can, and, if you're in Minneapolis, that time is this Friday, when they open for Of Montreal at First Avenue.

The rest of the night unspooled in what I assume to be a typical way, stopping in to various bars, including checking out the new project from Sneaker Pimps' Chris Corner. They're called Iamx and they filled the Elysium with so much fog I couldn't take a decent picture. It basically sounded like apocalyptic dance music, and you'd probably dig it, if that's what you're into.

Around about 2 a.m., we all reconvened back at the van, where rides were dispensed to a couple of pals (Brian and Eric Stromstad) and we headed home for a well-deserved nightof rest. Unfortunately, it was not to be. The key to the apartment had been lost, and now we were standing outside at 3 in the morning, with no help in site. Plans were made to scale the building and go in through the balcony, but this proved impractical. Calls to the owner of the apartment went unanswered, and why shouldn't they? It's 3 in the morning. Stromstad, who works for the Varsity Theater, is good enough to let us crash his hotel room, and Stensby and Steller split a bed while Kimball, Perkins and I hit the floor. No toothbrush, no jammies-- just a comforter on the floor of a hotel and a towel and my sweater for a pillow. Five hours later we rise and get coffee, then finally manage to get in touch with Russ, who lets us back into the apartment. We're idiots. Firmly. Showers get showered, phones get charged, and we head back out, short on quality sleep. Very short.

We have to do this four more times?

SXSW - Day T minus 1

Dear Austin: You're looking good. Yesterday, Kimball and I ended up driving into town in search of coffee. We had intended to just hit up the first Starbucks we saw, but we ended up on Congress heading downtown. There's a little strip of stores outside of downtown that smack of recent development. It's a little like (but not exactly like) Hennepin leading south into Uptown. Jo's: great coffee (the kind where it still stays kind of a dark and muddy rich brown when you put half and half in it) and I had a delicious sandwich with roast beef, provolone cheese and hot peppers. Another beautiful thing about Austin? There's patio dining just about everywhere and I heartily approve.

Kimball gave me the ten cent tour of downtown Austin, which looks like it's waiting for something. I have this sense that a certain percentage of the population here battens down the hatches for the second half of this week, hiding out with the complete "Friends" on DVD and potted meat while the storm that is South by Southwest passes. I started to get antsy about not knowing where I was or what was going on, so we headed to a bookstore to search out a Lonely Planet guide.

I had to settle for a Moon Handbook to Texas, in the hopes that perhaps I'll make it back down here again to somewhere other than Austin. When I plopped the book down in front of the cashier, she asked, "Planning a trip to Texas?" I couldn't help but note a bit of ice in her tone. Fucking tourists, she's probably thinking. Damn hipsters. I'd be thinking the same thing, honestly. One of the striking things about CMJ is how little impact it has on New York. New York just doesn't give a damn. It's like some kind of giant blob creature-- pour all the .45 slugs and crossbow bolts and MIRVs you want into it, it's not stopping. Austin seems to take this all a lot more personally. I have mixed feelings about descending like this on a town-- I experienced New Orleans on the cusp of Mardi Gras and also around Christmas, and I much preferred it sans Gras. I'll have to come back and hit this place up some other time.



After a bunch of lunch, work, Simpsons on DVD and reading, we head downtown. (I'm going to straight up admit right now that I'm having a hard time keeping my tenses straight. From now on, I'm going with the present-- it's just much easier.) Nothing much is cracking other than an open bar at Sidebar, but we're rolling in half an hour shy of midnight, which is when Sidebar's shindig ends, so instead we meet up with the folks from Pirate Publicity for karaoke at Beerland. It's always a bit odd to meet people you've only dealt with via e-mail. It's not so much that they aren't like you expected-- you just never expected anything to begin with. You begin to think you might kind of know these people, despite the fact that all you ever talk about is what bands are coming to town or what you're runnning in the paper that week. Which, by the way, sorry Brooke, but I still haven't sent you that tear sheet on the Annuals.

Karaoke apocalypse ensues. First of all, I don't care if you can't sing and you do karaoke. Honestly? That's part of the appeal, but this is just transcendentally bad. "Welcome to the Jungle," etc. Things take a turn for the better with Brooke and co.'s killer rendition of "Tempted" by Squeeze, and then it shifts into overdrive with Stensby's heartfelt rendition of "Losing My Religion" by R.E.M. He even gets felt up by a couple of comely lasses.

There's actually more to SXSW than just the music: it's also a film and interactive festival, and that part's happening right now. So basically, what you have in town are film geeks, computer geeks and people who do everything with music but play it. It's like a high school where some strange disease has killed off all the popular kids. It's like "Revenge of the Nerds." Take that, you jocks.

The night ends with a trip over to a party sponsored by Virb and PureVolume called Tejas2007. Virb is a kind of MySpace-type joint, but even more musically-oriented, apparently. PureVolume is also some kind of music promotion thing. Regardless, we show up at the front, where there's a staggering line to get in, and then, magically, the Pirate people pull a "Goodfellas" and go around to the back where we're ushered in. And it was all filmed in one shot.

There's a Wii going with some folks playing the bowling game from Wii Sports, and there's free vodka and Red Bulls and also vodka and Izze and some kind of frozen drinks. It's hotter than a muhfugger, but we dance anyways. The DJ's spinning mashups of The Knife and other indie darlings and I wonder to myself what this space would be used for when it's not a dance club for the music industry. It's probably an empty storefront, but tonight, it's like the AV club and the tech crew for the musical and all the kids from band hanging together, reveling in their self-made world. And it's good, because if I had a comfy bed to go home to right now, I probably would, but because all I'm looking forward to is a loveseat and a sleeping bag, I'm down for whatever.

SXSW - Day T minus 2

"You're like, 'Yeah,' and then it's like 'Fuck Yeah!' And then you're just, 'Whoa.'"

Good morning, Austin. We're here! I've journeyed, via minivan, from Minneapolis with an intrepid crew consisting of Matt Perkins, Jerry Steller and Jesse Stensby from Vitriol Radio and Lindsay Kimball from 89.3 The Current and her own bad self.

And boy, let me just give you some highlights: A BMW tried to kill us in Minnesota. Then Kansas tried to kill us in an Econo Lodge. Then Denny's killed us south of Waco. And then cat pee tried to kill us in Austin. Lemme 'splain ...

All the driving almost all of the way down to our first night's stop in Wichita was uneventful, except for the nutjob in the Beemer who nearly flipped his car right in front of us on 35 just south of the Twin Cities. We almost called 911, but then he mercifully veered off onto an exit ramp. I'm sorry for whoever had to deal with him after that.

A great thing about a roadtrip with a group of radio promoters is there's just no lack of good music going on in the car. Oh, the things we listened to. I can't even remember it all, but suffice it to say, there were no showtunes and no a capella music. Dinner was at the Drake Diner in Des Moines, Iowa. Good times.

And then Kansas. Man, if I were Dorothy, I'd count myself lucky to be whisked away by a tornado to Oz and never look back. We'll just have to rely on a tornado named minivan to whisk us away to Oz-tin, I guess. We stopped in Wichita for the night. Man, their roads don't make a lick of sense-- it took us at least 20 minutes to get to the Econo Lodge from the highway and we could see it the whole time.

The room: tiny. The bathroom: less than savory. Oh, and despite promises proffered by the desk guy, there's not wireless internet to be found. Not even using the username Econo and the password Lodge, which is what dude at the front desk told us. While Kimball, Stensby and Perkins soak in the Wichita nightlife at Old Chicago, Jerry and I made a game attempt to get the air mattress down in between the two double beds and then, suddenly, we're down one air mattress. Who puts nails into the sides of their beds? Fortunately, we've got a backup for tonight, but tomorrow, the specter of the search for a new one will haunt our day.

Next day: See ya, Wichita. I will give it this: I can think of two songs with Wichita in the title right off the top of my head: "Wichita Lineman" by Glen Campbell and "True Dreams of Wichita" by Soul Coughing. I can't say that about Kansas City. Bert is waiting in his Mustang out in the parking lot to bid us farewell.



We pass through Oklahoma without incident, and no sign of Curly McLain. After blowing our big chance at bottomless salad and breadsticks at Olive Garden, we settle for Denny's. And man, I don't even know where to start with this one, kids. Don't go to Denny's. Just don't. I think we were there for a grand total of an hour and a half, during which time no less than three parties walked out without being served. Basically, there was a staff of at least 12 on hand, but our waitress was the only one doing anything productive. She was working her ass off, while a giant, Amazonian woman who was clearly high took care of the other tables. The cook was new, apparently, and was seen on the phone at least once, probably asking a friend what "over easy" means.

And then there was the prize couple sitting behind us. When we sat down, the young lady was demanding at the top of her voice that her boyfriend, "try some slaw! Try some slaw!" And she kept yelling at him, "Stop it!" And also, "If you make that socket sound one more time, I'm going to kill you." And, "I think your head and neck must be shrinking, because the collar on your shirt is way bigger now." I'm not even kidding. This poor waitress. She was kicking ass all over the place and getting no help. Dear Denny's: I'm never speaking to you again.

I'm going to skip over the thunderstorm, the search for a replacement air mattress and all that. I mean, really, SXSW hasn't even started yet. We're all just hanging out around an apartment that smelled of cat pee until we took to it with cleaners late last night, happy to have the internet and doing work. There'll be another post tomorrow, probably about Austin in general, and maybe I'll actually start talking about music.