March 14th, 2008
“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”-Hunter S. Thompson
“What you gonna do when the people go home/ and you wanna smoke weed but the reefer’s all gone/ And somebody had the nerve to take the herb up out the doobie ashtray/Why they do me that way?”-Devin the Dude
If the going hasn’t gotten weird by the third day of SXSW, you clearly haven’t been trying hard enough. By now, it’s make or break time, you’ve finally surveyed the lay of the land and begun to accept certain inalterable realities: the crooked spine that feels like it needs to be re-aligned vertebrae by vertebrae, calves that feel like someone has slit cement in the back of, and not nearly enough time to properly convey the bizarre phenomena of this admittedly wonderful excuse to do for nothing but go to shows, drink, and eat burritos (often all three at the same time). You’ll have to forgive me–if these posts feel rushed and ill-thought out it’s because they are.
There’s a thin line that separates artists, the media, and the fans here. After a few days, it’s little surprise to see Jim James walking down 6th in a purple suit on his way to presumably blow the minds of people at the Austin Music Hall. Or watching El-P successfully run game on a very attractive female inside of a make-shift roped-off, VIP section at the Def Jux party, surrounded by Del tha Funkeehomosapien and half of Hiero, smoking beadies. Which was where I ended up last night, after watching Islands open up the Anti Party with an absolutely mind-blowing set that I can’t even begin to talk about, lest I go off on another 1,000 word ramble.
Leaving, I took a long slow stroll down 4th. It was one of those perfect Austin nights, 80 degrees, clean air, and everyone darting in each direction as the far as the eye could see. Thousands of people staggering down the streets, one drunken flood of humanity, sprawling from show to show past me as I walked alone in the opposite direction, sipping an Iced Coffee and inhaling all this frazzled energy. Suddenly, a slightly loony but wildly likeable homeless dude sidled up to me and apropos to nothing started telling me joke after joke. I assumed he was just trying to hit me up for money, which was fine by me, considering I’m an easy mark for homeless people. Give me one sorrowful stare and I’m half-ready to dump the contents of my wallet into their cup. Plus, he was good company, so the two of us kept walking down 4th, one crazy person to another, trading life stories, he waxing slurred philosophy on the beauty of Austin. Me agreeing, nodding, laughing, slowly making our across the other side of I-35, a place that I had already been warned not to cross by friends who obviously knew better than I. But to quote a little movie I like to call, Risky Business, sometimes in life, you’ve just gotta’ say what the fuck.
DeMornay Be Thy Name
Suddenly, my new friend stops in his tracks, whips a joint out of his pocket and gives me a nod. I pull a lighter out and right in this weird window, on a still fairly crowded block, he proceeds to light up.
“Are you sure, this is a good idea, what about the cops?” I say, with visions in my head of headlines of “Local Alternative Weekly Writer Arrested for Consumption of Drugs with Vagrants.”
“Relax, ain’t no cops around.”
So we smoke. After all, I’m going to see Devin the Dude show and if you show up sober to a Devin show clearly you haven’t been paying enough attention. When I mention this fact to him, he puts out the J and hands it to me, with the sacred weed-smoker bond and tells me to keep it. I hand him $5, thank him profusely and then inquire if he knows where and how I can get more. After all, there are two days more of this thing and unlike the rest of the functioning universe, SXSW operates in a sort of arrested development, where there appears to be no consequences for anybody’s actions. Sort of like college, or the Bush Administration.
Christmas At at the Copeland House.
My new friend, Robert, snaps his figures twice. Immediately, a menacing-looking guy on a bike pops out of the shadows and darts over to us.
“How much you need.”
“All I have is 10.”
I’ll be back. He zooms off into the night, leaving me and Robert there, on the corner, looking like the two sketchiest dudes in the universe, me, long-haired and wild-eyed, he somewhat reminding me of Richard Pryor in Brewster’s Millions. I meet Robert’s girl, who waits behind him. While we wait, he starts telling me their life story, how they’ve known each other since high school, the ever-increasing high cost of living in Austin and how in spite of it all, he still thinks this is paradise. And I have a hard time arguing with that. It really is one of the greatest cities I’ve ever seen.
Finally, our man shows up and tells me his woman has sold his last two bags. He tells me to meet him back here in an hour.
“I can’t. I’ve got a show to go to?”
“Which one?”
“Devin the Dude.”
“Devin the Dude. That’s my n—a.”
“You wanna’ come?”
“No doubt. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
Everyone says their goodbyes and I continue walking literally down the other side of the tracks, fully expecting to never see those guys again, but at the very least enthused about the gift that inevitably will only help aid in my understanding and appreciation of the music of Devin the Dude.
Devin the Dude: Proof the War on Drugs Should Never Be Allowed to Be Won
But lo and behold, about an hour and a half later, with Devin and the Coughee Brothaz mid-way through an incredible set, which followed a similarly great Del performance, I turned around to see the go the dude on the bike waving his arms right out in front of the entrance. I followed him up out of the party on a hill overlooking everything and performed the transaction, both watching the show from afar.
He lit up another J right at the moment as Devin screamed to the crowd, “how many of y’all smoke weed, if y’all like smoking weed, throw your blunts in the air.” And I have few rules in life, but one of them is never argue with a man who goes by the nickname, “The Dude.” We nodded our heads at each other in solidarity and the guy just looked at me blankly and said “that man is the truth.” And I had little to add to to that, so we kept on watching and smoking until finally, “Doobie Ashtray,” ended the set and there was nothing to do but bob our head to the beat and consider what a strange and wonderful place this all is. Finally, after saying our goodbyes and he biked back up out into the dark night, I walked back into the party to watch El-P absolutely kill it, with herb once again in my doobie ashtray.
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March 13th, 2008
Hey, Aren’t You Juliette Lewis?
Walking down 6th street yesterday, you had to wonder if everyone in the world somehow heard that Art Brut song, “Formed a Band” and decided that if Eddie Argos could do it, how hard could it really be? I’ve seen telephone directories thinner than the official SXSW guide they give you to registration, with about 54,322 bands scattered out in tiny print over four days, with each one playing an average of 3.2 shows. Even at the Red Roof Inn right now 15 miles out of Austin, I’m watching two dudes with long scruffy hair, goatees, porkpie hats, and skinny jeans bemoaning how their van broke down on the way here and how their keyboardist got denied entrance. As far as I can tell, they weren’t demanding a Myspace Music page to enter the city limits of Austin this week, so the band must be Canadian. Or else very very stupid.
If you aren’t in bands, you work for a newspaper, or you write a blog, or work for a music-related tech company, or in promotions or for an agency–something. Which goes back to my trade show theory. To paraphrase Back to the Future: it’s like an alternate Austin 1998 Corvette Day. But things here actually look a little more ‘88. There are a lot of mustaches running wild, beards, blazers, lame head bands, ironic MTV sunglasses, the accursed neon (confession: I own one neon jacket that I purchased in the fabled year of our lord, 1998.). Even the Ice Cream Man showed up and gave me a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle ice cream bar, something I probably haven’t done since l learned to tie my shoes (translation: roughly four weeks ago).
This is why when the Cool Kids starting rapping “88,” yesterday at the set at the Gorilla Vs. Booze day party, things started to make more sense. This was the party hosted by infamous Dallas raconteur/blogger extraordinaire, Chris Cantalini, who I can safely report looks neither like a Gorilla nor a Bear, proving that unlike the Shitty Beatles, it’s just a clever name. As for the show itself, it kind of felt like I was watching House Party, the place was packed, the roof was low, everyone was going nuts. Unfortunately, Martin Lawrence wasn’t DJ’ing and less high-top fades. The Cool Kids have that golden age-era down pat, swapping vocals every two bars, gurgling analog beats and the look is perfect vintage. Mikey Rox was wearing a pair of classic Jordans that I haven’t seen since the 3rd Grade and needless to say I don’t compliment men on their shoes very often, but sometimes you just have to say, well played. The set was impressive, these guys have improved a lot since I saw them just a few months ago, honed during their first-ever trip to Europe and Asia. On-stage, they have a whole lot of charisma and most importantly, understand how to put on a fun live show, something 95 percent of rappers never figure out.
The Cool Kids: The 1988 Los Angeles Gangbanger Look Is In This Spring
When the party ended, I headed back to the 6th St. cluster fuck, where a creeping layer of darkness was settling all across the mustaches of the upper lip of every band in Austin (aren’t you people aware that sporting a mustache makes you 42 percent more evil?) and decided to make a beeline for the Domino showcase at Antone’s to try not to get stuck in one of those endless lines that seem to snake around every corner in town. If you want to get into a cool party, you have to wait and maybe not get in at all if the place fills up too rapidly. As lines are one of the things I hate most in this world (along with opossums, Dick Cheney and Albanians), I decided the best thing to do was get there early and not take any chance on missing The Kills.
Unfortunately, that meant having to sit through the lackluster first three acts. Simian Mobile Disco, came first and for a Mobile Disco, I have to say that they were surprisingly stationary. In fact, I didn’t even know S.M.D. was playing until halfway through their set, because it was just two DJ’s playing crappy Euro-Dance and barely moving. Albeit, I probably was in a terrible position to judge their effectiveness as I am neither 19 years old, British, or a habitual user of ecstasy. The next great hope was These New Puritans, who instead of dressing like Puritans (Cotton Mather, holla!), tried to doo a genre fusion of late-to-the-game dance punk/ beat hip-hop, with a British front man wearing a suit of Roman Armor and a salad bowl hair cut. Clearly, I had no hope of taking them seriously, as all I could do was think about making jokes about Julius Caesar and wondering their thoughts on “the Gauls.”
Third up came Lightspeed Champion, the new sensitive Saddle Creek act from the guy that looks like Kele from Bloc Party that used to be the lead singer of Test Icicles. Wearing a fur hat that looked more Siberia in Winter than Austin in the spring, Ex-Icicles sang a bunch of acoustic ballads, augmented them with some sappy melodramatic strings and really only was worth talking about because he had a female drummer wearing a Wolverine mask which somehow manages to be both the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen and pretty fucking awesome. The last leading up to the Kills was Glasgow act, Sons and Daughters who delivered an absolutely blistering set of dancey guitar rock that suggested Franz Ferdinand with less histrionics and overt pop nods. I’d only vaguely heard of them before tonight, but will certainly pay more attention from now on. Their lead guitarist is flat-out great, their drummer is incredible, an Octopus like whirl of arms. And now I’m being apparently told that if I don’t take this next cab, there won’t another one for nearly two hours so this post will have to be continued later.
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March 12th, 2008
If you do a Google Image search for “Austin” this is one of the first things that pops up. Two girls at the 1998 Austin Corvette Day. Granted, this probably has nothing at all to do with SXSW–yet judging by my first impressions of this place, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if by the end of the week, I end up seeing two highly siliconed and bleached women purring atop a sleek sports car. It’s shaping up to be that kind of trip.
SXSW is essentially a trade show. Except instead of blonde spokesmodels insinuating that they will be yours provided you spend $60,000 for a car that will make you look douchier than Steve Sanders, SXSW (and the major corporate behemoths paying for it), attempt to ply you with nothing but free booze, free food and free music. As Dilated Peoples once aptly put it, “You Got to Work the Angles.”
Last night, Austin seemed swept up by a sort of wiry, nervous energy as though the place was about to burst. I half-expected someone to stop me on the street, hand me a Shiner and offer a toast with their best Jeff Spiccoli refrain of, “Hey bud, let’s party.”
That didn’t happen. Sadly. Instead, thanks to the machinations of LA Weekly editor Randall Roberts, I found myself surrounded by a gaggle of film geeks, standing at the head of a lengthy line to get into the Independent Film Channel’s “Crossroads Party.” Though I like the independent movies as much as the next man (oh, how that Juno has spunk) , hob-nobbing with the “indie cinema” crowd wasn’t why I was at the Parish bar. No, I was there for the party’s entertainment: Yo La Tengo and the best band in the world right now, My Morning Jacket.
Austin: Where the Beer Flows Like Wine
Inside, the place was a zoo, a hot, humid pit of people decked out in most cool/un-cool black glasses and their most lustrous beards. Since I have neither of those things, I felt a little out of place. Luckily, there was an open Absolut-sponsored bar, which naturally helped to ease me into my surroundings. Waiting in line for a drink, I happened to make conversation with a spectacles-sporting girl. Somehow, the band Ghostland Observatory came up and she starting telling me how the entire city of Austin is none-too-happy with Pitchfork’s lacerating review last week where they labeled them as “Daft Punk for Frat Boys.” Sarcastically, I asked, “so what you’re trying to tell me is that I shouldn’t yell out ‘Spoon sucks’ just to piss off the people here.” She gave me a semi-smile and replied, “that might not be the best idea considering Britt’s right over there.”
Sure enough, I turned around and to the right of the stage, where watching Yo La Tengo erupt into a feedback-drenched white squall of noise, was Spoon’s front-man rocking out. It was weird. As for Ya La Tengo, the set started slow but picked up intensity rapidly. They don’t have much charisma on-stage, which makes sense considering they used to be music critics, and like most music critics they have a salient awkwardness to them, moving in stiff disjointed rhythms, more cerebral than visceral. I mean really, there’s only so wild you can get when your first name is Ira. Still, the band put on a good show. Score 1 for music critics.
But enough about that. There’s only so much time I have right now (I really should be at the Gorilla Vs. Booze party right now, rather than at the Red Roof Inn typing up this report. And yes, in case you were wondering, The Red Roof Inn is even classier than it sounds.) So let’s talk My Morning Jacket and how once again they completely re-wrote my previous definition of what great live music sounds like. With Jim James still rocking the Grizzly Adams beard, but looking noticeably thinner (Atkins diet?), the Louisville five-piece kicked off their marathon 2-hour set with “Evil Urges,” the title track from their much-awaited new record. The song itself is a weird and warped psychedelic jam, with some outer-space keyboards floating into tight guitar pyrotechnics and Jim James’ ethereal voice threatening to the blow the roof off the stage. Within seconds, the band had the crowd locked in.
Gideon: Not Actually About the Gideon Bible
But it’s not until the set’s fourth song, “Gideon” when the set really takes off, with MMJ launching into a devastating, crashing rain of flying V guitars, James’ seraphic voice floating high above the fray and everyone turning to each other and wondering if this is actually happening. The next cut, a new track called “Highly Suspicious” channels Prince crossed with Neil Young and somehow James pulls it off. By now, Britt Daniel is long gone, which is too bad because I would’ve been curious to have asked him who he thinks does better purple one impression, him or JJ?
“What a Wonderful Man” boomed through the tiny club like pure lightning and thunder type wrath, all yellow energy and blue air and sound and fury that leaves you struck with the thought that watching this band is the closest thing we have right now to understand what it must’ve been like to have seen a Zeppelin, A Dead, A Pink Floyd in their prime. Whatever rock critic foolishly claimed that there are no rock stars in the 21st Century has obviously never seen My Morning Jacket in concert. Jim James is a whirling dervish, jumping on top of the speakers, flailing with his flying V, even playing some weird electronic device that looked like the Power Glove on “Touch Me Part 2″ (which appeared to be the highlight of the new album.)
Watching these guys, a palpable joy slaps you across the face and all you can do is stare in awe with a big dumb grin. As for the new material, it sounded great, a bridge between the rural hay-seed vibe of the At Dawn era and the crunchy psych of Z. And by the end of the set, you can’t but have all those pretentious, ridiculous notions of the idea of music as something bigger, as something atavistic and primal that hits you at a gut level. Few bands bands making music right now can inspire such a feeling, the transcendent notion that whenever you’re at a My Morning Jacket show, everything else seems strangely meaningless, that in all the world at that second, there is no better place to be. Well, other than maybe the 1998 Austin Corvette Day.
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