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WITH THOUSANDS OF BANDS AT THE ANNUAL
INDIE FESTIVAL IN AUSTIN. TX, WHAT STOOD OUT?
DAY I: WEDNESDAY. MAR. 14
The members of Dark Meat just came march*
ing in off the street dressed like an acid-head
high school band and took over the room. It's
impossible to escape their exhilaration, their
energy: it sucks you right in. All 65 of them are
playing their hearts out and singing their lungs
off.
The Headlights are out of Champaign, IL,
fronted by an adorable little bird girl with a re
ally muscular back and a punchy, strong voice.
She's on the keyboards and backed by couple
of energetic boys playing daring, layered rock.
Former Athenian Tristan Weight's in the band,
too. Nice to see post-Maserati gigs working out.
Sweden's The Pipettes are my dancing
dreams come true. They're three choreographed
darlings who sing conversational, '50s prom
songs about dancing, men and generally being
naughty. Their show is like watching mermaids or
something—I hardly feel it is real because they
are so wonderful.
I spend the rest of the afternoon danc
ing in my chair from the porch listening to
Architecture in Helsinki.
After an hour-long line, I end up inside
the Stax Record Showcase. So far, it is funky.
Booker T & the MGs are playing songs like
"Green Onions" that I've heard so much they are
almost non-songs. I would be dancing, but my
feet are murdering me and I have the only chair
in the entire venue.
I manage to find kind of an odd place in a
corner of the room that everyone has to pass
to get in and out of the VIP area. Isaac Hayes
shuffles by me like a giant statue dressed in red.
He is surrounded by panicked managers shoot
ing back and fourth, so unable to relax it almost
destroys any image of the icons I've created.
The sound is so clean and polished, agents are
screaming into their Blackberries, and there is
such an immediacy that it's difficult to imagine
how this music was ever created out of anything
raw or soulful. That's the tricky thing about this
festival—on occasion, you get a glimpse of the
emergency of rock and roll. It's the panicked
managers who end up making events like this
possible, but we try to only see the magic.
I am probably crazy, but I leave and miss
William Bell, Eddie Floyd and Hayes collaborate
on an Otis Redding Number.
Lambchop with the Tosca String Quartet at
the Habana Calle 6 patio: I am, once again, out
side listening to the delicate and awkward bluesy
methods of singer Kurt Wagner. NPR should be
waiting in the wings to interview these guys
and they should all be getting grc.,t money. The
string quartet is flawlessly trained, and further
more, so good that the members are willing to
experiment with their instruments for something
more than art's sake. They go from sounding like
a symphony to sounding like zippers in a hur
ricane. Paired with the beautiful clumsiness of
Lambchop, they are perfect.
Black Fiction is a six-piece man's-man band
that consists of a deejay who drums, a bassist
who looks like an out-of-shape Johnny Damon; a
bells player and a guitar player with mustard on
his shirt. They look like they would write heavy
beer-brawl songs with sweet metal licks, but
they're actually quite tender, and pretty fuck
ing awesome. They swing from twinkly samples,
mouth harmonicas and falsetto to gutsy rock and
roll. They look like they'd hang out at an Auto
Zone listening to Pantera in a bust-ass Dodge
Charger, but God love 'em, because they write
gorgeous songs.
If I were in high school I totally would have
been trying to hang out with them at that Auto
Zone, by the way.
DAY 3: FRIDAY. MAR. 16
I am at a Spin magazine dinner and I just
met the owner of Spin whose name is Nimms,
or Niles. Nickles. Niwet? Napmphty? Nippy??
Something like that. We were invited via a lovely
friend from Athens who once spent a morning
drinking and throwing ninja stars into trees on
the University of Georgia campus. Now she's an
ad rep for one of the bigger music publications
in the world. Part of me wants to go up to Niwet
and tell him he should hire me because I am hi
larious, despite my lack of spelling skills and my
inability to finish things on timt.
On the other hand, I think the schmoozy-
ness of the entire SXSW festival is probably the
weirdest thing for anyone, especially Nickles, and
he probably can't do the
writer-hiring anyway even
though he owns the damn
thing. It brings up the old
question: Can God make a
corn dog so big that even
God can't eat it?
It's a little shocking
to start to understand
that some of the biggest,
most iconic magazines,
or bands, or labels are
just made up of a bunch
of quirky kids and a non
chalant billionaire who all
love music.
Nion. His name is Nion.
Here is where I am. It
is time to see some shows.
Kiiiiiii, let me run
away with you. Two little
Japanese woman are on
stage wearing all manner
of crazy neon apparel,
playing what I think is
"Oh Christmas Tree" on
keytar and singing punchy
punk melodies under each
other's harmonies. They
are fantastic. After the
show, I ask one of them
who they are, and I feel
like a teenager in love.
She answers me by saying
"thank you" in Japanese
(thanks to Rosetta Stone
CDs and a Styx song, I
understand!) and then
the conversation gets ex
tremely confusing because
I am both professing my
love for them and trying to get information. Out
to another venue's patio...
The Comas' scngs are what would happen
if shoegazing slow rock did a bunch of coke.
The bassist looks like a 19-year-old Patti Smith.
They're beard-core with a dramatic, harmonic
girL Apparently, they started out as a Chapel Hill
joke band, but evolved into a pretty good alt-
country band with little pieces of musical texture
building up together dynamically.
DAY 2: THURSDAY. MAR. 15
I'm extremely drunk and I shouldn't have
eaten all those shrimp nachos. I just returned
to the Team Clermont party at the Flamingo
Cantina after a huge lunch. I win a free pair of
promotional Sucony sneakers because there is no
one else there with a freakishly small size 5V?
foot. Score!
The Modern Skirts are playing at the Athens
in Austin party and we're eating free barbe
cue and drinking good beer. The members are,
as usual, pretty flawless. They're getting more
comfortable with themselves as a band, and play
naturally and unpretentiously. I hope they don't
get too comfortable, though, and keep pushing
the edges of their sound.
The Empties are next, and they could be a
wedding band in a '50s movie with their melo
dies. They're strong song
writers, but I don't get a
sense of what drives them
at all, or what calls them
to express themselves
musically. I want them to
take risks. If there is noth
ing I could hate, there is
nothing I can love.
But who am I? Time to
head somewhere else.
Ra Ra Riot are ra
ra rad. When I walk
up, I think I hear The
Clash song "Lost In The
Supermarket," but it's just
a similar melody. This act
is a little like a dancier,
less tortured Arcade Fire
without the enigmatic
frontman. I think there
are a million of them on
stage. It might be a little
derivative, but they're do
ing it well.
I have no idea who
is playing at this Pirate!
Promotions party, but I
just got in a serious water
gun fight in the middle of
the day with the promo
tional team Pirate! I love
that they aren't having an
anxiety attack because no
one is networking at their
party, because they seem
to be having a tremendous
time. Keep that dream
alive.
Iam now at the Fitter
party listening to Badly
Drawn Boy suck the joy out of the room with
his whimsical acoustic set. There are too many
acoustic songwriters who have done this better
and more sincerely, but play on, player. I'm a
cold woman after this many free drinks.
I'm watching Canada's Rock Plaza Central,
and this band has my heart and my attention for
ever. These guys look like a high-school faculty
band with their ill-fitting jeans and unassuming
dance moves, but they sound like Phosphorescent
or Neutral Milk Hotel or something else that
has stapled itself in my mind as sound full of
genius. There is no hint of fantasy or sadness,
though, and all of it is refreshing. Their drummer
is a loose cannon—his high-hat broke and he is
completely unfazed. He's like the crazy uncle who
just does whatever he wants at the wedding, but
really he's everyone's favorite. He yells from the
drum kit, he plays until the song is long over, he
stops the song to kiss his bandmates or just give
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