Even as our country hurtled headlong into its first preemptive war without even the appearance of a threat, most things were happening as usual. People went to work if they could get it, got drunk at Mardi Gras and on St. Patrick’s Day, “went wild” over spring break, watched the movie industry contort to kiss its own arse at the Oscars, and might’ve been dimly aware of the music industry people descending upon Austin, Texas over the Ides of March to sniff each other’s butts and bemoan the sad state of it all.
South by Southwest is hard not to notice, especially when more than a thousand bands come to play, including 157 from countries other than the US of A and a healthy contingent from our particular neck of the woods: Film School, the Aislers Set, Jack West and Curvature, essence, Nedelle, the Scheme, the Cost, the Stratford 4, Red Planet, Madelia, Fabulous Disaster, Communique, Drunkhorse, From Bubblegum to Sky, Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, John Vanderslice, the Court and Spark, Divit, Auditrons of Kemetic Suns, Tribe 8, Virgil Shaw, Fields of Gaffney, Vienna Teng, Erase Errata, Pushy, Porn (The Men of), Nate Denver’s Neck, OM Trio, Tea Leaf Green, and Oxbow.
The tropical mugginess blew in Tuesday, just in time for the festival, and by Wednesday it didn’t seem to be going anywhere. You don’t think of Texas being wet, but you’re wrong. The air hung heavy, so sticky you were likely to choke on it if you breathed too deep. It wasn’t raining, but you could tell it wanted to more than anything. The sweaty weather drew out cockroaches bigger than your big toe — their carapaces punctuated your steps so much you might as well’ve been wearing tap shoes.
By Wednesday night’s kickoff, there seemed to be almost as many bands underfoot as there were roaches. In this one week alone, Austin pretty much earns its self-styled moniker of the Live Music Capital of the World. It’s hard to catch even a fraction of the action around town, and not just because there’s so dang much of it. There are free shows in parks and record stores, but the official SXSW showcases let in badge-wearing convention registrants first and people who shelled out for all-weekend wristbands next. The crowd waiting to pay the cover was usually shit out of luck, especially because some clubs turned paying customers away to make room for the badge-holders who might show up later.
“I guess this is capacity, post-Great White,” said Erik Carter of Oakland’s Mumble and Peg, looking around in a club not even half-full, with a long line outside that wasn’t getting in. Carter was attending not as a musician but as an organizer of the Wednesday night showcase featuring the Jungle Brothers and And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead — and as a guy who likes to go to shows.
“I sat outside the Yo La Tengo show, but I couldn’t get in,” said Sean McArdle, bass player for Oakland punk band the Cost. Still, from outside he said it sounded great. “We were given the option of either getting wristbands or getting paid, and we chose to get paid. But we later realized we would have made more money if we’d got the wristbands and just sold them.”
Oakland’s Actionslacks pulled out of the festival at the last minute, citing the fact that they’re breaking in a new keyboard player. “We’d rather wait a bit and debut the new lineup when it’s up to snuff,” ‘Slacks member Tim Scanlin explained. Larger acts with less to lose opted to go ahead and play anyway: Modesto’s all-powerful Grandaddy confessed in the middle of an otherwise dreamy set plagued by flubs and false starts, “It’s been a long time since we played together, and actually we’re ill-prepared for all this.”
Wednesday started off slow. The bands were there, but the crowds had yet to arrive. Bay Area queercore outfit Tribe 8 held court before a small but enthusiastic mob in the backyard at Stubb’s. “We used to be lesbians before we all got sex changes,” lead singer Lynn Breedlove said, but despite a slight change in lineup (though not gender), the band’s lewd shtick hadn’t changed much in the last decade. Breedlove still sang about objectifying her girlfriend, still strutted around with a rubber dick sticking out of her pants, and got fellated by fans, giving “in your face” a whole new meaning. The other acts that night were neither local nor worth mentioning, though I caught just enough of Oxbow’s set to see a big muscular sweaty guy in bikini briefs howling and flexing and swiveling his hips as guitars clashed and moaned.
For whatever reason, Thursday seemed to be the night for East Bay rock. Communique, an earnest new Oakland five-piece with hoarse vocals and synth, kicked off the usual Lookout Records showcase at Emo’s and made me rack my brain to figure out which ’80s song each bass line reminded me of. The Cost was up next, and had come a long way from the heavy, bellowing Oakland hardcore band of a few years back. It still did all that, but added in some more serpentine and lush punk rock with murmured, plaintive vocals and complex, sometimes downright pretty melodies. Its songs were all angles, full of twists and turns amid the tumbling clatter of drums, guitar feedback, bonebreaking bass rumble, and howling vocals. A slow, almost dainty number in waltz time soon sped up into a screaming punk barrage.
“Yeah, everybody’s tastes have changed,” the Cost’s McArdle said. This was the band’s first time at SXSW (unlike some Bay Area acts, which come back year after year).
“But she’s into bald guys, dude,” I heard one dude say to another dude as I rushed up Red River to Room 710, where Drunkhorse was presiding over a stoner rock explosion. There were a few shiny pates at Room 710, but the average hair length for either gender was at least five times longer than it was at Emo’s. The band was just as loud and aggressive but more marinated in blues and metal and beer, with Hendrix-influenced vocals, squealy guitar noodling, and sideburns they could wear as scarves. “We live in Oakland, baby,” the lead singer moaned like a mantra in a trippy haze.
“We want to make it, baby. We’re trying to make it, baby. We’re gonna make it, baby.” If that’s not the theme song of South by Southwest, I don’t know what is. “Keep rockin’ till 6 a.m.,” they sang, but in fact they kept rocking from about 10 to 10:40 p.m. South by Southwest is a tight ship. Rule one of SXSW is: You do not fuck with SXSW.
Further up the street, From Bubblegum to Sky took the stage at Le Privilege — or rather Alameda’s Mario Hernandez did, alone with his guitar and his virtual bandmates playing bass, drums, and keyboard on a video screen. It was like he was doing karaoke to his own music videos. His catchy, kitschy sound owed a lot to ’60s girl groups, including the uncommonly high-for-a-fella vocals. At its best it was sweet, dreamy pop-rock; at worst the helium-fueled vocals grated on fatigued ears. After four or five songs we wandered down to Sixth Street to catch the end of the Stratford 4’s set at the Ritz. The coed combo was playing slow and shimmery, with a lackadaisical drawl and a lush sound that even a goth could love. But all too soon the musicians laid their sundry axes on the amps to let feedback drone finish up for them.
The Aislers Set was starting up practically next door at the Roxy, making music so cute and delicate you wanted to take it home hidden under your coat and let it play in your sandbox. It was catchy and candy-coated and kinda sad but oh-so-sweet it hurt, with organ and toy xylophone and brass and everything nice. Hernandez and the members of the Stratford 4 could be seen nodding their heads amid the crowd. It was like we were all off to see the Wizard, only instead of a man behind a curtain there was a band partially hidden behind a tall iron railing on an elevated stage. “It’s usually not as obvious as this, but there’s a huge barrier between the artists and the rest of you people,” guitarist Wyatt Cusick said. “And we work really hard to preserve that. It’s probably a bit late for this, but we’d also appreciate it if you wouldn’t look directly at us.”
Friday wasn’t much of a night for bands from the bay, so it was time to splurge on the Trachtenburg Family Slide Show Players (think Rick Moranis and Mermaids-era Christina Ricci in a band, making up funny songs about dead people’s slide collections); Grandaddy (are beards and baseball caps the new black?); Brooklyn singer-songwriter Chris Lee (sexy stuff — bring panties to throw); and an excellent Estradasphere/Skeleton Key/eX-Girl bonanza. At the Grandaddy show a guy next to me was overheard whispering to his buddy, “John Vanderslice is right in front of me, dude,” pointing while hiding his hand. Who knows when the former MK Ultra frontman became such a superstar that he’s spoken of in whispers, but it’s about time.
Saturday night’s showcase at the tiny Hideout on Congress began with Nate Denver’s Neck, a guy in a black plastic parka with a cardboard scythe blade on the neck of his guitar. He pulled off a series of skull masks to reveal a black hood and started hammering away at his distortion-drenched guitar, bellowing in a satanic growl, “Jesus, show yourself! I will find you, I will kill you. Satan, run away! I will catch you, I will crush you.” And just as quick as you please, he switched to folky guitar-picking and quirky vocals about bloodletting. He spat out a half-dozen other death-folk ditties about things like the Blood Countess Elizabeth Bathory and being held hostage by a stuffed hippopotamus named Mr. Snuggletummy. Between his demonic shtick, clever lyrics, and charmingly amateurish habit of just letting his songs trail off with a shy “all right” to let everyone know it was over, he was an odd fit with … well, with anything, really.
Back at Room 710, it had to be taken on faith that Porn (The Men of) wasn’t the same band we’d seen there two nights before. But the singer/guitarist’s beard was considerably longer than the guy in Drunkhorse’s (hanging as low as his belly-length hair), and the bass-pounder entirely hidden by hair was shaped like a woman this time. And though the crowd was pretty much the same stoner-rock crew as before (except the two guys dressed as space Vikings, who were probably on next), the band was banging out slower, heavier, sludgier rock. The hypnotic effect was shaken a little when the bassist had to run backstage for a pick at the beginning of the last song; why she didn’t just use her lip ring we’ll never know. But the delay proved worth it when they started to Ragnarok ‘n’ roll like Norse gods in a bar fight.
There are good stoners and bad stoners, and if you’re looking for a sign that our society’s gone to hell in a handbasket (and have somehow missed the entire court-appointed presidency of George W. Bush), you need look no further than the popularity of jam bands. The vibe was troubling as soon as we got to the Vibe: the undergrad party girls laughing like chipmunks, the dudes earnestly discussing the distinctions between beers, the copies of High Times on the tables. And when the East Bay’s Tea Leaf Green started playing its mellow, funk-fueled grooves — the guitarist wincing through wanking guitar riffs, the bass player doing the funky chicken, the keyboard player singing “the germ of transcendence is always within us” — Emo’s outdoor third stage was beckoning.
There’d been a lot of buzz about Erase Errata, and arriving at Emo’s, everyone could kinda see why. It is the punk band the gals from Square Pegs might have formed, a little nerdy and likable for its very unlikeliness. Tiny lead singer Jenny Hoysten demonstrated that if you claim your inner rock star and just run with it, it’ll shine through and see you through, as she strutted and yelped and kind of played trumpet and came off as oh, maybe a teensy bit drunk. After scarcely twenty minutes of the forty-minute set, Hoysten asked, “Is that it? Twenty more? Thanks, dude!”
For some of us, though, it was time to cut out. Camper Van fucking Beethoven was playing that night, the long-missed indie icon from Santa Cruz, and that doesn’t happen every day. Camper Van served up a thoroughly satisfying sampler of favorites from before alternative was alternative, spoke out against the dogs of war, and even ran longer than their allotted forty minutes. You do not fuck with SXSW, but you don’t fuck with Camper Van Beethoven either.
And as ever, Austin rolled out some of that fabled Southern hospitality for the industry invasion. An ad for the Austin City Limits Festival read, “DON’T MOVE HERE. Just come back in September.” Y’all come back now, y’hear?
