South by Southwest is a mirage. It transforms Austin, Texas,
into something utterly unreal. The Sixth Street strip is closed to
traffic and filled with people, music is pouring out of every other
doorway and window, and more shows and parties are happening at once
than you could possibly attend. Your friends from all across the
country are here, as is half your hometown music scene—people
from labels, the owners of Neumo’s, the guys from Sing Sing, Vera
Project staff, the Club Pop kids, Seattle/Olympia crust punks, familiar
faces from the Egg Room—all blissfully out of place along with
you, wandering around dazed in the 90-degree heat. It’s a music mecca,
an industry convention, and an alternative spring break all wrapped
into one. It’s a magic bubble where the impending doom of economic
depression and the industry-specific blows of plummeting CD sales and
file sharing are set aside for one more free drink. If it’s not
rock-n-roll heaven, it’s a hell of a party, and it’s also a bit of a
grind. And then, like that, it’s gone. Except for the hangover.
It’s an expensive mirage, though, and behind all the partying is
serious business. Labels, publications, and other companies invest a
lot in getting their bands and brands to Austin, hoping that the hype
generated here will set the pop cultural/musical agenda for the coming
year. Every available surface is emblazoned with some logo or other.
Your hotel key is brought to you by Island/Def Jam, your internet/press
room by RCRD LBL, your lunch by Eastpak, your afternoon showcase by
Brooklyn Vegan, your free drinks by Sparks and Lone Star, your
afterparty by Playboy or Red Bull. It’s Naomi Klein’s old
No Logo nightmare.
And, really, everyone is not-so-discreetly trying to sell you
something—the bands offer themselves with as many shows as they
can score in one long weekend (although there are notably fewer merch
tables than at regular rock shows), the publicists push their clients,
the label guy sneaks you into the packed day party while making his
pitch. The better the product, the more laid-back the pitch. The most
aggressive salesmen are the door guys at the non-SXSW-affiliated bars,
barking at passersby about their “real rock music all day long” or
their $2 beers, although the roving street teams in their matching
T-shirts come close.
You do become mildly suspicious of anyone telling you how great a
band’s show was. You wonder: Does your booking-agent friend really dig
this band or is he just looking ahead to some sold-out shows? You try
to remember whether or not that band a publicist friend told you about
is on his roster of clients. You start to feel a little like the
protagonist of the recent New Yorker short story “Raj,
Bohemian,” by Hari Kunzru, in which a leisure-class hipster’s life
falls apart as he realizes his early adopter friends are all actually
viral marketing zombies.
Indeed, some of the best if perhaps unintentional influence is
coming from your many peers. Long lines beget even longer
lines—the harder it is to get into something, the better it
looks. If you follow your friends, you just might be able to get in,
especially if your friends are connected (or sponsored). Conspicuous
consumers in the crowd, wearing designer T-shirts and jeans mixed with
American Apparel basics, rack up wristbands like certain Seattle
scenesters used to rock multiple, useless white/studded belts.
There are some people going against the tide here, though. Outside
the Fader/Levi’s day party, two older men pace around with placards
decrying Levi’s use of Chinese labor. One night, someone else slips a
painfully impassioned one-page missive about Scion’s evil marketing
agenda under our hotel door, titled “They ‘Get’ You: Scion Finds a Way
to Tap the Oh-So-Cool Counterculture.” It’s pretty boilerplate stuff,
railing against trend spotting, early adopters, and attempts at
corporate cool. The text is inexplicably accompanied by blurry color
photos of crashed Scions even though the text doesn’t mention anything
about vehicle safety. The idea that anyone age 20 to 25 doesn’t already
realize they’re being marketed to seems a little far-fetched, and part
of me hopes this is actually some super-next-level meta marketing
campaign by Scion hoping to tap into the youthful elite’s disdain for
heavy-handed sincerity. Hey, it got them a pretty long mention
here.
In the tote bag of swag given to every registered SXSW attendee,
amid the gum, flyers, CDs, playing cards, and guitar picks, is the
latest copy of Wired, promising to reveal “Why $0.00 Is the
Future of Business.” The story, by Chris Anderson, has some obvious
applications to the music business. The “free” business models he
describes include “Advertising,” in which bands bring demographically
desirable eyeballs to brands; “Cross-Subsidies,” in which the free CD
is the loss leader for the shows or merch that will make the real money
(the tour used to promote the CD, now the CD promotes the tour); and
“Zero Marginal Cost,” i.e., file sharing, in which the costs of
distributing music drops to zero so the product becomes free “with or
without a business model.” Some artists, Anderson suggests, will see
this as a loss leader, “but others have simply accepted that, for them,
music is not a moneymaking business… Which, of course, has always
been true for most musicians anyway.”
All of these models are at work at SXSW—advertising, as
previously mentioned, is everywhere; many of the most freshly hyped
bands here have built their buzz on leaked MP3s; and many more bands
have certainly accepted the fact that they’re not going to get rich
here. Anderson makes one more observation that’s especially applicable
to SXSW: In an economy of abundance, the only real scarcities are your
time and your respect. It’s impossible to see everything you want to
see at SXSW, no matter how meticulously you plan ahead. Two or three
shows you want to see will be booked simultaneously, or you won’t be
able to get into the most popular shows, or you’ll have to abandon your
itinerary to get a much-needed taco, or you’ll run out of steam and
follow some friends around regardless of where they’re going.
Before I get to the highlights of my week, let’s just get this out
of the way—the shows I was looking forward to but for one reason
or another missed: Athens, Georgia, psych collective and recent
Vice-signees Dark Meat, whose neon war paint and
confetti-combustive live show looks, from the photographs, to have been
extraordinary; Islands, the post-Unicorns indie-pop ensemble,
who were debuting new material from their forthcoming sophomore record,
Arm’s Way; rarely stateside London MC Dizzee Rascal;
No Age, who apparently killed Austin in a way they failed to at
their recent Showbox performance here; She & Him, the Zooey
Deschanel/M. Ward collaboration, who along with also-missed Vampire
Weekend, had the longest lines I saw all weekend.
Wednesday Night
At a venue called Emo’s Jr., Paper Rad duo Extreme Animals score the first great moment of my SXSW with their awesome, barely
recognizable neon-noise cover of Archers of Loaf’s “Web in Front.”
Extreme Animals consists of one mustachioed long-hair on drums and one
on circuit-bent Roland TR-707, a Casio, and feedback knobs, along with
one laptop doing some vital sequencing. Believe it, Extreme Animals can
straight kill a feedback knob solo.
Next up is Free Blood, a duo comprising John Pugh, the tall,
lanky, stage-stalking falsetto singer/guitarist of !!!, and
Madeline Davy. They both sing over a thumping prerecorded backing track
that sounds like the funkier electro moments of !!! or Out Hud; the
vocals are reverbed no-wave soul.
The first big disappointment of the night: Japanther have
mysteriously disappeared from the bill, to be replaced by fellow
Brooklynites Team Robespierre. Bummer. Team Robespierre, it
turns out, are a kind-of-okay replacement. In fact, if I’d seen them
under any circumstances other than expecting to see Japanther, I’d
probably have nothing but good things to say. Their show combines a
little Japanther, a little Matt and Kim, a little youth-crew hardcore,
and a little Atom and His Package. There are dual keyboardists and dual
vocalists. There is some dancing into the crowd. Team Robespierre
summon up the best/only mosh pit of the night, with kids crowd-surfing
on a crowd not quite big enough to support it. Some dude loses the lens
of his glasses.
The second disappointment: Norwegian disco producers Diskjokke,
Kim Hiorthøy, and Lindstrøm, all of whom I was ready
to cut a rug to, play in the worst place possible—a long, narrow
saloon, with the stage awkwardly cornered between the door and the bar,
a too-quiet PA, and a too-thick-to-dance crowd standing still watching
the performers.
Thursday
Vancouver, BC’s chamber pop/R&B trio No Kids play at the
Emo’s IV Tent. It’s kind of the perfect place to see them—Austin
is slightly overcast this morning, making it feel a little more like
the Northwest, and the tent is as sparsely attended and roomy as No
Kids’ songs. It isn’t an acoustic set—they have live drums,
electric piano, and another keyboard—but without their album’s
little production flourishes, the songs sound stripped-down and bare;
“Listen For It,” for instance, lacks the awesome T-Pain style autotune,
but singer Nick Krgovich nails its vocal run well enough without.
Krgovich is the very definition of a nerd—not in some phony
Rivers-Cuomo-look-I’m-wearing-glasses way, but like straight-up
Asperger’s syndrome (so hot right now). He’s a hell of a musician,
though.
Best set of the afternoon belongs to Why?, playing in the
same tent after the weather has warmed up and the crowd has swelled in
size. They play songs from their stellar new album Alopecia,
as well as from Elephant Eyelash. Lots of skin-tingling good
moments: the “Billy the Kid” refrain of “Song of the Sad Assassin,” the
double-time rap of “The Fall of Mr. Fifths,” the shouted refrain of
“your face never forgets a cry” from “Waterfalls.” But by far the best
is the closing rendition of “Gemini (Birthday Song).” It’s just a
stunning song, deep and resonant, minutely personal yet universal,
anthemic and subtle.
There’s Saul Williams—with bright-blue streaks under
his eyes and a green jacket with neon feathers sticking out of the
breast pocket, kind of an aboriginal dandy look—playing with a
three-piece backing band. There’s a long tribute to Lou Reed,
featuring performances from My Morning Jacket, Mark Kozelek,
Thurston Moore, and others, culminating with Moby and Reed
performing “Walk on the Wild Side.” Weird. Reed: “I love punk rock, and
I was the first one.”
Fucked Up play at a bar called Vice. I expected them to be
more of a brutal hardcore band, but it’s more like one brutal hardcore
screamer (and total bear) fronting a kind of straightforward punk-rock
band. They’re a six piece that sound like a three piece. But, then, if
they were a three-piece, their giant singer wouldn’t be able to charge
through the crowd and climb the walls. Throughout the show, the singer
keeps pounding himself in the forehead with his mic, but at one point,
the mic comes unplugged, he flashes a goofy smile while fixing it, and
it totally cracks the band’s tough facade.
I catch a couple Throw Me the Statue songs over at Mohawk’s,
notably “Take It or Leave It” and the rousing “About to Walk,” and they
sound great, playing in a small back room.
Next up, around the corner at Beauty Bar, is Shout Out Out Out
Out, a band I’ve been dying to see ever since they killed Club Pop
last year. SOOOO’s electro-funk draws not-unfair comparisons to !!!
(maybe the repetitive name has something to do with it, too), but SOOOO
are way more electro than !!!, with two drummers, two keyboardists, and
live bass. And their vocoded lyrics are slightly socialist compared to
!!!’s “no fucking rules” attitude—one of SOOOO’s songs is about
the tension between competition and collectivity; another is about
consumerism and credit-card debt. Anyway, super stoked for the show.
Bummer then that at least one dude from SOOOO, the guy in the red shirt
with the fake mustache, is SOOOOOOOO fucking wasted that he can barely
stand up, let alone play keys.
Next stop: the Playboy Party. To see Justice (and
for the articles). But it’s not really my scene, and I leave before
Justice comes on to go catch a house party across town. The “house” is
actually more of a complex, with a pool in the center, some kind of
tree house/crow’s nest, an outdoor DJ booth, and at least three big
yards. Diplo is DJing. A few brave people are jumping in the
pool, fully clothed. James Ford of Simian Mobile Disco is here,
as is Cadence Weapon, Shout Out Out Out Out, dude from Extreme
Animals, and no doubt tons of other people I should recognize. The one
problem is that it is kind of a BYOB affair, and we are empty-handed
and it’s after hours. A guy from Division Day is nice enough to
give me my one last beer of the night, and for that I vow to give their
album, Beartrap Island, a more thorough listen.
Friday
The iheartcomix/Mad Decent party (sponsored in part by Scion), is a
blast, minus a couple strategic snags. The party takes place on top of
a parking garage attached to some high-rise and features three stages
and two DJ stations, but the occasional high winds are messing with the
turntables, blowing the record needles during Flosstradamus‘s
still relentless set of party anthems. There are free drinks, but for
some stupid reason they stop serving between 6:00 and 9:00 p.m., by
which time they’ve also run out of water. They do have tiny, branded
squirt guns, though, and one guy is walking around with a squirt gun in
his mouth, killing himself for some water.
Santogold plays a much-anticipated set, but is hindered by
technical difficulties. Santi White comes out in a neon pink-and-green
clashing jumpsuit and big wrapped shades, flanked by two stone-faced
dancers in white blouses and sunglasses (whichever critic first
compared these girls to Public Enemy’s S1W deserves a medal). So,
obviously, Santogold is drawing a lot of M.I.A.
comparisons—there’s the aforementioned outfit, the fact that
Santogold’s electro pop is made with some of the same producers, and
having Diplo as your live DJ definitely isn’t going to help matters.
The most striking difference, besides White’s more trained singing
voice, is that whereas M.I.A. samples from a grab bag of global urban
music, Santogold mashes mostly Jamaican influences, notably rock steady
and ska, into ’08 club music (the bright, 8-bit crunk of “Creator” is
an exception).
Diplo, for whatever reason (maybe he’s still reeling from
that pool party), kind of bombs at backing up Santogold. After the
first song, there is a long, drawn-out silence, while Diplo works out
some apparent technical issue. White’s backup dancers stay totally
still and expressionless like total pros, while Santogold asks if
anyone knows any jokes. A friend wonders if she’s lip-synching, and,
after finally doing her next song, White admits, “I don’t know if I
should tell you this, but that was the CD version of the track,” so she
had been singing over her own recorded vocals. Later, her voice is
thinner but still impressively elastic. One song starts playing
backward part-way through, and another one just cuts off completely
maybe a minute in, causing White to snap, “I don’t even need to say
anything. I’m looking for a new DJ.” Then, amicably, “Just kidding. You
all know Diplo’s the shit.” It’s a forgiving, forgetful party.
Another long line, and it’s up to a rooftop pool and patio, where
they are serving wine. The sun is setting, all pink and orange behind
the DJ booth, girls are dangling their legs in the pool, a trance riff
is playing on the sound system—it’s like walking up the stairs
from SXSW and winding up in at WMC in Miami. Definitely the
best-looking crowd of the weekend so far (music critics aside).
Back down on the parking-garage floor, after dark, Cut Copy absolutely light the party up. Their new songs have a serious New Order
vibe—soft, mopey singing over shimmering synth arpeggios, dreamy
pop shoegaze guitars, and electronic kick thump. They have neon,
kaleidoscopic videos playing behind them. Like New Order, the lyrics
are frequently secondary to the songs’ pulse. “This is a pretty cool
party, here’s some more party music,” says their singer before
introducing another simultaneously joyous and melancholic song. Later,
during an instrumental lull: “It’s time for everyone to go nuts, not
just the people in front, but all through the place.” When the beat
kicks back in, the crowd obediently goes apeshit.
Half an hour later at the Sub Pop showcase, Pissed Jeans are
playing out on a patio stage and fucking killing it. The gravel pit the
stage is set up in front of isn’t great footing for moshing, but a few
dudes give it a shot. The lead singer of Pissed Jeans is a great
frontman, part Iggy Pop, part David Yow, part Will Ferrell (Ferrell hat
tip: Brandon Ivers), alternately shuddering, sneering, leering, and
cringing, his thrusting and writhing at once sexual and
self-deprecating. Plus, he’s funny: “You guys need more pebbles?
There’s more pebbles back there.” The band is heavy—drums
pounding hard, rumbling, and rolling; bass vibrating below audible
frequencies; guitar droning feedback. They swerved from ranting drones
to bursts of thrash to sludgy headbanging snarl, easily executing each.
“I’m Sick” and “Don’t Need Smoke to Make Myself Disappear” are
particularly brutal. After them is Grand Archives in the main
room, their newer, more rootsy songs sounding more at home here than in
Seattle.
Old Time Relijun, playing across the street, are an ecstatic,
mad freak-out, free-jazz skronk mixing with swamp boogie mixing with
mutant disco grooves mixing with shamanic throat singing. Stand-up bass
and dual saxophone (two reeds, one mouth) and Arrington de Dionyso
looking a little less impish than usual but still summoning some
apocalyptic fire and brimstone. I see the drunkest, douchiest dude of
the weekend so far, shouting and shoving people incoherently, sporting
a shiny baseball cap. I see another guy fall ass-backward, passing out,
head thunking hard on the ground.
Then I ride to some massive, expensive-looking, but ultimately bunk
afterparties with a couple of photographers who are taking flash photos
in the front seat while driving buzzed. I don’t want to die driving to
see fucking Squirrel Nut Zippers (or whatever that band was) at some
energy-drink sales pitch, but fuck it, if that’s how I go out, so be
it. Spring break.
Saturday
Saturday starts at the free, non-SXSW-affiliated Mess with Texas
fest, in a large park some blocks up from Sixth Street, with the
Night Marchers, the new project from John Reis of Rocket from
the Crypt and Hot Snakes, taking the stage. “We’re Johnny Club Med and
the Cabana Boys,” says gracefully aging greaser Reis. “We’re happy to
be here entertaining you for the next 23 minutes.” The banter is
bullshit, with Reis referring to his band by several fake names
throughout the set, but the rock was very real—hard-driving,
raw-throated garage in the tradition of all Reis’s bands.
Outside the Fader Fort, someone says of Brooklyn trio
Telepathe, “I think this band drove out anyone who gives a shit
about music, which means they should be letting more people in soon.”
Indeed, Telepathe aren’t much of a band—three lanky ladies
singing echoing mumblecore over listless electro beats and delay, like
well-draped mannequins singing chopped and screwed karaoke.
Hype band of the second BLK JKS, a South African band who had
all of one song available online before scoring a Fader cover
and a prime slot at their Austin party, doesn’t live up to push. If it
weren’t for their foreign origins and good style—if, say, they
were white nerds—nobody would forgive their noodling, aimless jam
rock. It’s like a reverse image of Vampire Weekend.
Santogold plays a well-executed set, handily correcting yesterday’s
misstep.
Headlining at the Fader Fort are Spank Rock followed by 2
Live Crew. Given Spank Rock’s recent 2 Live send-up, Bangers &
Cash, it seems likely that the two might share the stage for a few
songs, but nothing of the sort goes down. Although both groups make
raunchy party rap, Spank Rock’s modern version benefits from a sense of
playfulness, possibly irony, that 2 Live Crew’s set lacks. Both groups
get girls up onstage, but Spank Rock’s is Amanda Blank, rapping along
with the guys, spitting as filthy as any of them, whereas 2 Live Crew’s
are mere props, punch lines. Also, Spank Rock’s set is much more of a
party, with MC Naeem Juwan backed up by Devlin and Darko on the decks,
Pase Rock on hype, and a live drummer on bongos and cymbal.
The rest of the night is more or less a blur: Flosstradamus and
Kid Sister rapping with A-Trak; Digitalism destroying it
at the DFA party, flanked by the bottle-service nightclub’s
go-go dancers; John from Iron Lung, Judd from Sex Vid, and Richmond,
Virginia, crusties Municipal Waste trying to sneak into the
Vice afterparty, a party in some historically fancy old hotel
room.
Sunday Morning
On Sunday morning, the spell is broken. The alcohol has metabolized
(mostly) and the drugs have worn off. There’s a pile of garbage in our
hotel room. The streets are relatively bare, although a couple last
shows will go down tonight. The sky is overcast and the air has cooled
down. It almost feels like Seattle—until I get home and it’s 40
degrees and raining. Then, Austin feels like it was just a dream.
