brent white
04-03-2006, 03:06 PM
Two men who look like Calvin Klein models are moshing to a Japanese jazz group called Pe’z, and I offer a cute Indian girl standing to my left $5 to kick both of the men in-between their legs. She laughs and smiles at my advances. One of the model guys is dancing with a full glass of beer. Idiot. Cute Indian girl then uses me as a human shield to prevent beer from being spilled on her. He splashes a little on one of my shoes. Too bad he’s three-times my size, I think. My offer to the girl then goes up to $50, but she refuses, smilingly. (I’m half-kidding anyway; I don’t have any money.) Between witnessing Mr. Model’s dance floor escapades and listening to one of the best shows of the festival (Pe’z that is, who are absolutely incredible), I decide my time at SXSW has reached its crescendo.
SXSW is to music fans what Mardi Gras is to those who love booze. As with any festival, the assortment of people in attendance is astoundingly wide: straight, homosexual, cross-dressers, hicks, frat boys, college girls (!), blue-collar, no collar, 20-somethings, 30-somethings, music press, and of course, musicians. Everyone mingles as if they’ve been friends for ages, and many of the friendships made turn out to be temporary. Incidentally, the egos at this festival are out of control.
I arrived in Austin, Texas on Tuesday, the day before the music side of the festival began. Tens of thousands had already descended upon the city for the 20th anniversary of SXSW, and all of the hotels were full. Fortunately, an ex-girlfriend of mine, whose name is Lindsey, lives in Austin, and she was nice enough to let me stay with her. Her new boyfriend, however, didn’t seem too pleased with the idea. (More on that later.)
After picking me up at the airport, Lindsey and I drove to Austin’s Convention Center were musicians and press people go to get their badges and wristbands. A little explanation about that: People with badges get priority into the venues, and people with wristbands receive priority over those who choose to pay a cover at the door. Because I had a wristband, and because my access was limited, I was denied entrance into many shows because of venues reaching full capacity, and because of people with badges being ahead of me, waiting for the club to clear. If you attend SXSW, having a badge is the way to go.
After a lot of running around inside the Convention Center, which was a mad house, I received my wristband and a pamphlet outlining all the scheduled performances taking place over the next five days. As Lindsey drove us to her place, located in north Austin, I perused the SXSW itinerary, making notes next to which shows I should attend: The Office, Derby, Kris Kristofferson, Wolfmother, The M’s, Goblin Cock, Cut Chemist, The Standard, Crosstide, Belle & Sabastian, The Sleeping, Division of Laura Lee, Dressy Bessy, DeVotchKa, Helmet, Facedowninshit and, among others, a band Kamran (a writer for this site) recently turned me onto: Witch. Things were looking good. It helped that the weather was nice. Chicago winters can get brutal.
Wednesday came and the music side of the festival began. Suffice to say my expectations were set very high.
The first band I saw was New London Fire. NLF, from New Jersey, sounded like a mix between a less-technical version of the Red Sparrows, but with vocals, and Flickerstick. The singer looked like a bastard version of Michael Rappaport and sang in the same key despite the music shifting keys. A large pillar sat center stage, and the singer often stood behind it in a shy manner. Around 50 people showed up to this show at the Redrum, and the band finished their set to faint cheers and scattered applause. It was 9:00 p.m. and I was already yawning. This was not the grand opening I was expecting.
However, the next show I saw was one of the highlights of my festival experience, located at a small, inconspicuous club called The Hideout, off the main streets and away from the majority of the crowds. I’d originally intended on seeing Kris Kristofferson but my friend Dan, a friend of mine and Portland-native (like me) who is also a writer for Decoy from time-to-time, called and said he’d be at the show at The Hideout. I arrived a little after the show began and took the last seat in the club. Dan was nowhere to be found. My guess was he was probably somewhere getting drunk.
Immediately I was in awe at this show. Two guys, who go by Jad Fair & Lumberob, stomped on the stage like two five-year-olds having a temper tantrum, making odd noises into their microphones then looping the sounds, one on top of the other. The noise with the loop effect sounded like 10 schizophrenics having a party in an insane asylum, or a jungle full of birds making mating calls. “ATTACK!” yelled one of them while the other scatted. Mike Patton would have been proud. Walking out of the theater, I didn’t see the night getting any better.
Regardless, with the night still young, I headed over to Stubbs to catch Belle and Sabastian. As I arrived The New Pornographers were playing and the line was already (at least) 1000 people, stretching for probably 75 yards. I decided not to wait.
From there I went to the Dirty Dog Bar to watch an act from Chicago called The Office. While the band set up, I decided to start drinking. Many of the bars in Austin – the bars downtown I mean – have large metal tubs filled with ice and bottled beer, positioned strategically throughout the club. This is to avoid clutter at the bar, and provide customers with the convenience and availability of alcohol. The venues make up for this convenience though: my bottle of Budweiser cost $5. I decided this would be my only drink for the night.
The Office, from Chicago, epitomizes what some call geek-rock, sounding like a cross between Weezer, Wheatus and an upbeat, modern-day Buddy Holly. I had to laugh at the bassist who despite being very attractive made the same, bored, pissed-off looking face throughout the entire set. You would think she was hearing a lecture on quantum physics or something. The Office’s music was funky, danceable and I found it very enjoyable.
I finished my first night of the festival by heading to a club called Latitude to see a Portland, Oregon act called Crosstide, and caught the last few songs of their set. Crosstide are a solid mix between indie (Northwest indie-rock that is, which tends to be more drab and gloomy than most other indie styles, and yes there is more than one) and experimental rock. A group of drunkards temporarily stopped the band’s set by pushing each other around on the dance floor. The singer, who earlier explained the band had had a tough time driving from Portland to Austin with their car breaking down numerous times, did not seem pleased by the drunks. Nevertheless, the band finished their set (with gear they said they had to borrow from another band), and, I must say, for the first time since leaving Portland to live in Chicago, I felt like I was home. Crosstide sound like Portland (in the same way Elliott Smith sounds like Portland), if that makes sense.
Thursday arrived and the weather turned to crap; clouds and the occasional sprinkle. So much for working on my tan. I met up with Dan and we saw some solid shows. The first act we saw was called Tunng, from London, who we caught by mistake. We arrived at the club, called the Velvet Spade, to see DeVotchKa, but made the mistake of seeing the first half of Tunng’s set instead. (They were playing downstairs and DeVotchKa were up stairs.) We stayed for two or three songs and they were pretty cool, very tight and together, sounding something like organized new age tribal music. Their harmonies were solid. We headed up stairs to catch DeVotchKa, but were welcomed to a full house. Dan remained in the back of the club and I, being smaller, pushed my way to the middle of the floor. The tubbiest had Christmas lights in her instrument, and the singer, dressed in a suit and looking swank, bounced up and down to the beat of his music, which retained a certain polka feel to it. DeVotchKa are well-liked amongst many indie nerds I know – and for good reason: their music is unique and even as I write this, I’m having a difficult time describing them (just download some songs. either you’ll like them or not).
Next at the Velvet Spade were An Albatross who blew me away. The singer, an absolute fucking madman, was dressed like a Native American and repeatedly jumped from the stage to hang upside-down on the bars of a tent covering the dance floor (the show was outside). His unpredictably was entertaining and the highlight of the show. An Albatross play one-minute punk numbers that sound more like chainsaws and murder than songs with melody. By most accounts, they write utterly pointless music that manages to make its point better than most noise bands today. Everyone in the band is technically proficient, playing at breakneck speeds while running amok on stage. “One more song?” asked the singer to the soundman. He nodded is head, giving it the go. The band then played two more and went apeshit. I can not recommend this band enough.
By now it was after 1 a.m. and starting to get chilly. Dan retired while I went to catch a band who I figured weren’t even around anymore – Boy Hits Car. 60 or so people were at this show at the Red 7 club. Coincidentally, I spotted a real cute friend of Lindsey’s whom I’d met earlier in the day: an emo-loving lesbian chick with a boyish haircut and frail figure. We waved to each other and said hello.
Hailing from Santa Monica, California, Boy Hits Car, who you might remember released a fairly decent album in 2001 then vanished into a musical oblivion, opened with “The Rebirth” off their said self-titled release, and I found myself questioning just what exactly I saw in these guys five years ago. The dynamics in this band are generic. It’s palpable in their live show. Most of their songs are centered around strong, delayed builds, but the band does a horrible job at capitalizing on the feeling that’s generated from the climaxes. In other words, their music doesn’t seem genuine. It seems contrived. Maybe they surf too much.
2 a.m. is, apparently, when the real goons of the festival come out. A middle-aged blonde woman asked me for a smoke then threw her beer at me when I refused. Cops on horses are everywhere. The streets reek of piss and vomit. At this time of night, SXSW is like a giant house party. Everyone is wasted. Not me though. I had to drive back to Lindsey’s.
When I arrived back at the house, Lindsey, her new fling, whom I will refer to as the Hippie because I can’t remember his name (or maybe I don’t want to), and her roommate were sitting around watching a flick. Feeling uncomfortable, I hid in the upstairs part of the house. Lindsey hadn’t come home Wednesday night, and I’d barely spoken to her since Tuesday afternoon. By now it was close to 3 a.m. and I was tired, but I had to stay up because my make-shift cot was downstairs and they were sitting on it. I read Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road,” and started to get a second-wind. Sensing my obvious uncomfortableness, the Hippie left for the night and Lindsey came up stairs to her room where I was reading. I refuse to elaborate on our conversation in detail. Mostly because I find it distasteful to do so, and also because it doesn’t necessarily pertain to SXSW, and I’m sure you don’t give a shit. But, I will say I told her I felt awkward staying at her place and that I was thinking of leaving early. That night, I had already called the airport and found a flight that left Saturday, but I decided to talk it over with her before I committed myself to leaving. Though respectful of my feelings and appreciative that I was being honest, Lindsey didn’t see how it could be “awkward” for me. I told her I was probably going to leave on Saturday. Like a good friend, she reminded me I here to write and see music. And she was right. When was the next time I was going to be at SXSW? It was now the wee-hours of the morning. I went to sleep after our discussion, cold, tired and listening to Iron and Wine, wishing I was some place else.
Not too ironically, the weather continued to suck on Friday. Taking Lindsey’s car, I hibernated at cute, artsy café called Austin Java and began writing. Their Texas Pagan coffee was excellent. Lindsey and I spent some time together at one of the parks in Austin, and pretended the previous night’s exchange didn’t happen. I was glad we were still friends.
I met up with Dan in the early evening, and we decided to get some authentic Texas barbeque. I told him about the Lindsey debacle and he bought me a beer. The night was off to a good start.
Dan and I met up with his friend Myron at the Flamingo Cantina to see a blast-beat, noise band called Genghis Tron. The Flamingo Cantina appeared to be a make-shift venue between two large buildings with a bar and a back patio. The guitarist, who could shred pretty well, seemed shy and played mostly to a wall to his right. The singer methodically maneuvered himself between his computer and the stage mic, screaming over lighting-fast blast-beats. Their stage presence was boarder-line pathetic, but what they lacked in physical energy they made up for musically. The ideas, dynamics and variety of sound in this band make them worth checking out.
Dan and I decided to part ways as he wanted to make sure he got into Emo Jr.’s to see Oxbow, while I wanted to see a band from New Jersey I’d heard a lot about: The Sleeping. Before splitting up we had a good laugh at Genghis Tron’s keyboardist who bore an uncannily resemblance to one of the writers here at Decoy, Ben Rice. “I knew you’d think so,” Dan said to me.
The Sleeping played at Redrum where two days prior I’d seen New London Fire. Maybe it’s the vibe the venue puts off: The Sleeping weren’t that impressive. The singer, a large dude, who despite having a stupid hair cut possessed a reasonable amount of energy, pranced around the stage like he owned it while making funny faces. He said it was the band’s first show since recording their new album for Victory Records (who according to him just signed them). Two songs into their set the guitarist’s power went out and the singer, trying to keep the crowd from walking out (I’d already fallen asleep), lead them in an answer-and-call chant of “Shit’s going down!” Who-ah!!” So corny. He then told horrible jokes. After 10 minutes of this nonsense the guitarist got his power back and they went on lackadaisically with their set. This band had the energy, but I didn’t care for their music.
I arrived at Emo Jr.’s where Oxbow was playing, and where Dan was, and immediately noticed a large man on stage in his underwear. His hands were down his pants and he was rubbing…well, you know…it. I’d never heard Oxbow before (stoner metal isn’t my thing), but I couldn’t take my eyes off their singer who swayed around the stage in slow, languid motion, a dazed and confused look in his eyes. Musically, Oxbow, from San Francisco, is a typical stoner rock outfit, but the guitarist writes decent riffs and the singer is interesting to look at. (Actually, let me make it plain: he’s a fucking weirdo.) I called it an early night Friday.
Saturday came and there was no sign of Lindsey at the house. I borrowed her car and went to Austin Java again. Besides downtown where all the shows were, it was the only place I knew how to get to. Austin’s freeways are confusing and I had a fear of getting lost. Sometimes, Lindsey’s car is not dependable. Then again, sometimes neither is she.
I reviewed the SXSW itinerary in preparation for what would be my last night of the festival, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen very many foreign acts. Dan was hanging out with his radio co-workers (a group of six people he’d came down with). I decided to head to Elysium and watch a Japanese showcase – a decision that paid off.
The first band of the night was Vasallo Crab 75 who sounded more American than Japanese. The singer, a balding middle-aged man who spoke English fluently, shook his hips like James Brown, said he admired Michael Jackson, sang in falsetto and did the splits a few times. Their songs weren’t that special and their show would have been boring if it wasn’t for the singer’s enthusiasm.
“Sank you berry much,” said the singer of the second band, The Rodeo Carburettor. Rodeo is a punk outfit from Tokyo. Their songs were simple and their lyrics were completely incomprehensible – even to the hundred or so Japanese press people who were at this show. (The singer’s mic was low in the mix.) Their drummer was a madman and dressed in skin-tight leather; a curious bulge in his pants.
With this night, Saturday, being my last night at the festival (only about 15 bands were playing on Sunday and I had no interest in seeing any of thing of them), I decided to start drinking. To my delight, the bar had 18-once cans of Pabst on sale for $2. I slammed three of them and, with my liquid, inebriated confidence level on 10, started chatting to an (aforementioned) cute Indian girl who was standing near me. She was roughly 5’3, with a dark complexion, dark eyes and glasses. We made small talk then marveled together at the next band: a Japanese jazz/fusion/ska band called Pe’z (pronounced “Pez,” like the candy).
Pe’z were the last group I saw perform at SXSW. They were also one of the best. The talent in this band was incredible. Lead by a large man wearing a Kimono and slippers, the group blasted through a set of jazz on speed. John Coltrane would have been impressed as much as The Specials would have. I learned their sound is called “Samurai Jazz” in Japan. How neat. I’ve never heard a band that blended horned-music to the degree that Pe’z does – fusion jazz/traditional jazz/ska/improvisation/swing/big beat/boop…etc. Incredible.
Enamored by their show, I went back to ask cute Indian girl what she thought. A man was standing next to her. “Honey, this is the guy that offered me money to kick the drunk guys in the balls.” I shook his hand. It was her husband.
With the festival pretty much over, the next two days of my trip in Austin were pretty uneventful. Lindsey didn’t come home for nearly two days. I mainly went to Austin Java and wrote. My time in Austin was coming to a close.
Sunday, the day before I flew out, Lindsey and I made dinner, ate strawberry shortcake and got drunk off cheap wine. We watched a thunderstorm brew outside her large living room windows and reminisced like old best friends do, eating our strawberry shortcake and laughing. She mentioned she was glad that I decided not to leave early. I didn’t say it, but I was glad I hadn’t left too. Drunk, we sat down on my bed and listened to the rain from the storm hit the gutters, watched the lighting illuminate the night sky, and eventually fell asleep to the sound of thunder crashing and crackling in the dark distance.
---Brent S. White
SXSW is to music fans what Mardi Gras is to those who love booze. As with any festival, the assortment of people in attendance is astoundingly wide: straight, homosexual, cross-dressers, hicks, frat boys, college girls (!), blue-collar, no collar, 20-somethings, 30-somethings, music press, and of course, musicians. Everyone mingles as if they’ve been friends for ages, and many of the friendships made turn out to be temporary. Incidentally, the egos at this festival are out of control.
I arrived in Austin, Texas on Tuesday, the day before the music side of the festival began. Tens of thousands had already descended upon the city for the 20th anniversary of SXSW, and all of the hotels were full. Fortunately, an ex-girlfriend of mine, whose name is Lindsey, lives in Austin, and she was nice enough to let me stay with her. Her new boyfriend, however, didn’t seem too pleased with the idea. (More on that later.)
After picking me up at the airport, Lindsey and I drove to Austin’s Convention Center were musicians and press people go to get their badges and wristbands. A little explanation about that: People with badges get priority into the venues, and people with wristbands receive priority over those who choose to pay a cover at the door. Because I had a wristband, and because my access was limited, I was denied entrance into many shows because of venues reaching full capacity, and because of people with badges being ahead of me, waiting for the club to clear. If you attend SXSW, having a badge is the way to go.
After a lot of running around inside the Convention Center, which was a mad house, I received my wristband and a pamphlet outlining all the scheduled performances taking place over the next five days. As Lindsey drove us to her place, located in north Austin, I perused the SXSW itinerary, making notes next to which shows I should attend: The Office, Derby, Kris Kristofferson, Wolfmother, The M’s, Goblin Cock, Cut Chemist, The Standard, Crosstide, Belle & Sabastian, The Sleeping, Division of Laura Lee, Dressy Bessy, DeVotchKa, Helmet, Facedowninshit and, among others, a band Kamran (a writer for this site) recently turned me onto: Witch. Things were looking good. It helped that the weather was nice. Chicago winters can get brutal.
Wednesday came and the music side of the festival began. Suffice to say my expectations were set very high.
The first band I saw was New London Fire. NLF, from New Jersey, sounded like a mix between a less-technical version of the Red Sparrows, but with vocals, and Flickerstick. The singer looked like a bastard version of Michael Rappaport and sang in the same key despite the music shifting keys. A large pillar sat center stage, and the singer often stood behind it in a shy manner. Around 50 people showed up to this show at the Redrum, and the band finished their set to faint cheers and scattered applause. It was 9:00 p.m. and I was already yawning. This was not the grand opening I was expecting.
However, the next show I saw was one of the highlights of my festival experience, located at a small, inconspicuous club called The Hideout, off the main streets and away from the majority of the crowds. I’d originally intended on seeing Kris Kristofferson but my friend Dan, a friend of mine and Portland-native (like me) who is also a writer for Decoy from time-to-time, called and said he’d be at the show at The Hideout. I arrived a little after the show began and took the last seat in the club. Dan was nowhere to be found. My guess was he was probably somewhere getting drunk.
Immediately I was in awe at this show. Two guys, who go by Jad Fair & Lumberob, stomped on the stage like two five-year-olds having a temper tantrum, making odd noises into their microphones then looping the sounds, one on top of the other. The noise with the loop effect sounded like 10 schizophrenics having a party in an insane asylum, or a jungle full of birds making mating calls. “ATTACK!” yelled one of them while the other scatted. Mike Patton would have been proud. Walking out of the theater, I didn’t see the night getting any better.
Regardless, with the night still young, I headed over to Stubbs to catch Belle and Sabastian. As I arrived The New Pornographers were playing and the line was already (at least) 1000 people, stretching for probably 75 yards. I decided not to wait.
From there I went to the Dirty Dog Bar to watch an act from Chicago called The Office. While the band set up, I decided to start drinking. Many of the bars in Austin – the bars downtown I mean – have large metal tubs filled with ice and bottled beer, positioned strategically throughout the club. This is to avoid clutter at the bar, and provide customers with the convenience and availability of alcohol. The venues make up for this convenience though: my bottle of Budweiser cost $5. I decided this would be my only drink for the night.
The Office, from Chicago, epitomizes what some call geek-rock, sounding like a cross between Weezer, Wheatus and an upbeat, modern-day Buddy Holly. I had to laugh at the bassist who despite being very attractive made the same, bored, pissed-off looking face throughout the entire set. You would think she was hearing a lecture on quantum physics or something. The Office’s music was funky, danceable and I found it very enjoyable.
I finished my first night of the festival by heading to a club called Latitude to see a Portland, Oregon act called Crosstide, and caught the last few songs of their set. Crosstide are a solid mix between indie (Northwest indie-rock that is, which tends to be more drab and gloomy than most other indie styles, and yes there is more than one) and experimental rock. A group of drunkards temporarily stopped the band’s set by pushing each other around on the dance floor. The singer, who earlier explained the band had had a tough time driving from Portland to Austin with their car breaking down numerous times, did not seem pleased by the drunks. Nevertheless, the band finished their set (with gear they said they had to borrow from another band), and, I must say, for the first time since leaving Portland to live in Chicago, I felt like I was home. Crosstide sound like Portland (in the same way Elliott Smith sounds like Portland), if that makes sense.
Thursday arrived and the weather turned to crap; clouds and the occasional sprinkle. So much for working on my tan. I met up with Dan and we saw some solid shows. The first act we saw was called Tunng, from London, who we caught by mistake. We arrived at the club, called the Velvet Spade, to see DeVotchKa, but made the mistake of seeing the first half of Tunng’s set instead. (They were playing downstairs and DeVotchKa were up stairs.) We stayed for two or three songs and they were pretty cool, very tight and together, sounding something like organized new age tribal music. Their harmonies were solid. We headed up stairs to catch DeVotchKa, but were welcomed to a full house. Dan remained in the back of the club and I, being smaller, pushed my way to the middle of the floor. The tubbiest had Christmas lights in her instrument, and the singer, dressed in a suit and looking swank, bounced up and down to the beat of his music, which retained a certain polka feel to it. DeVotchKa are well-liked amongst many indie nerds I know – and for good reason: their music is unique and even as I write this, I’m having a difficult time describing them (just download some songs. either you’ll like them or not).
Next at the Velvet Spade were An Albatross who blew me away. The singer, an absolute fucking madman, was dressed like a Native American and repeatedly jumped from the stage to hang upside-down on the bars of a tent covering the dance floor (the show was outside). His unpredictably was entertaining and the highlight of the show. An Albatross play one-minute punk numbers that sound more like chainsaws and murder than songs with melody. By most accounts, they write utterly pointless music that manages to make its point better than most noise bands today. Everyone in the band is technically proficient, playing at breakneck speeds while running amok on stage. “One more song?” asked the singer to the soundman. He nodded is head, giving it the go. The band then played two more and went apeshit. I can not recommend this band enough.
By now it was after 1 a.m. and starting to get chilly. Dan retired while I went to catch a band who I figured weren’t even around anymore – Boy Hits Car. 60 or so people were at this show at the Red 7 club. Coincidentally, I spotted a real cute friend of Lindsey’s whom I’d met earlier in the day: an emo-loving lesbian chick with a boyish haircut and frail figure. We waved to each other and said hello.
Hailing from Santa Monica, California, Boy Hits Car, who you might remember released a fairly decent album in 2001 then vanished into a musical oblivion, opened with “The Rebirth” off their said self-titled release, and I found myself questioning just what exactly I saw in these guys five years ago. The dynamics in this band are generic. It’s palpable in their live show. Most of their songs are centered around strong, delayed builds, but the band does a horrible job at capitalizing on the feeling that’s generated from the climaxes. In other words, their music doesn’t seem genuine. It seems contrived. Maybe they surf too much.
2 a.m. is, apparently, when the real goons of the festival come out. A middle-aged blonde woman asked me for a smoke then threw her beer at me when I refused. Cops on horses are everywhere. The streets reek of piss and vomit. At this time of night, SXSW is like a giant house party. Everyone is wasted. Not me though. I had to drive back to Lindsey’s.
When I arrived back at the house, Lindsey, her new fling, whom I will refer to as the Hippie because I can’t remember his name (or maybe I don’t want to), and her roommate were sitting around watching a flick. Feeling uncomfortable, I hid in the upstairs part of the house. Lindsey hadn’t come home Wednesday night, and I’d barely spoken to her since Tuesday afternoon. By now it was close to 3 a.m. and I was tired, but I had to stay up because my make-shift cot was downstairs and they were sitting on it. I read Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road,” and started to get a second-wind. Sensing my obvious uncomfortableness, the Hippie left for the night and Lindsey came up stairs to her room where I was reading. I refuse to elaborate on our conversation in detail. Mostly because I find it distasteful to do so, and also because it doesn’t necessarily pertain to SXSW, and I’m sure you don’t give a shit. But, I will say I told her I felt awkward staying at her place and that I was thinking of leaving early. That night, I had already called the airport and found a flight that left Saturday, but I decided to talk it over with her before I committed myself to leaving. Though respectful of my feelings and appreciative that I was being honest, Lindsey didn’t see how it could be “awkward” for me. I told her I was probably going to leave on Saturday. Like a good friend, she reminded me I here to write and see music. And she was right. When was the next time I was going to be at SXSW? It was now the wee-hours of the morning. I went to sleep after our discussion, cold, tired and listening to Iron and Wine, wishing I was some place else.
Not too ironically, the weather continued to suck on Friday. Taking Lindsey’s car, I hibernated at cute, artsy café called Austin Java and began writing. Their Texas Pagan coffee was excellent. Lindsey and I spent some time together at one of the parks in Austin, and pretended the previous night’s exchange didn’t happen. I was glad we were still friends.
I met up with Dan in the early evening, and we decided to get some authentic Texas barbeque. I told him about the Lindsey debacle and he bought me a beer. The night was off to a good start.
Dan and I met up with his friend Myron at the Flamingo Cantina to see a blast-beat, noise band called Genghis Tron. The Flamingo Cantina appeared to be a make-shift venue between two large buildings with a bar and a back patio. The guitarist, who could shred pretty well, seemed shy and played mostly to a wall to his right. The singer methodically maneuvered himself between his computer and the stage mic, screaming over lighting-fast blast-beats. Their stage presence was boarder-line pathetic, but what they lacked in physical energy they made up for musically. The ideas, dynamics and variety of sound in this band make them worth checking out.
Dan and I decided to part ways as he wanted to make sure he got into Emo Jr.’s to see Oxbow, while I wanted to see a band from New Jersey I’d heard a lot about: The Sleeping. Before splitting up we had a good laugh at Genghis Tron’s keyboardist who bore an uncannily resemblance to one of the writers here at Decoy, Ben Rice. “I knew you’d think so,” Dan said to me.
The Sleeping played at Redrum where two days prior I’d seen New London Fire. Maybe it’s the vibe the venue puts off: The Sleeping weren’t that impressive. The singer, a large dude, who despite having a stupid hair cut possessed a reasonable amount of energy, pranced around the stage like he owned it while making funny faces. He said it was the band’s first show since recording their new album for Victory Records (who according to him just signed them). Two songs into their set the guitarist’s power went out and the singer, trying to keep the crowd from walking out (I’d already fallen asleep), lead them in an answer-and-call chant of “Shit’s going down!” Who-ah!!” So corny. He then told horrible jokes. After 10 minutes of this nonsense the guitarist got his power back and they went on lackadaisically with their set. This band had the energy, but I didn’t care for their music.
I arrived at Emo Jr.’s where Oxbow was playing, and where Dan was, and immediately noticed a large man on stage in his underwear. His hands were down his pants and he was rubbing…well, you know…it. I’d never heard Oxbow before (stoner metal isn’t my thing), but I couldn’t take my eyes off their singer who swayed around the stage in slow, languid motion, a dazed and confused look in his eyes. Musically, Oxbow, from San Francisco, is a typical stoner rock outfit, but the guitarist writes decent riffs and the singer is interesting to look at. (Actually, let me make it plain: he’s a fucking weirdo.) I called it an early night Friday.
Saturday came and there was no sign of Lindsey at the house. I borrowed her car and went to Austin Java again. Besides downtown where all the shows were, it was the only place I knew how to get to. Austin’s freeways are confusing and I had a fear of getting lost. Sometimes, Lindsey’s car is not dependable. Then again, sometimes neither is she.
I reviewed the SXSW itinerary in preparation for what would be my last night of the festival, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen very many foreign acts. Dan was hanging out with his radio co-workers (a group of six people he’d came down with). I decided to head to Elysium and watch a Japanese showcase – a decision that paid off.
The first band of the night was Vasallo Crab 75 who sounded more American than Japanese. The singer, a balding middle-aged man who spoke English fluently, shook his hips like James Brown, said he admired Michael Jackson, sang in falsetto and did the splits a few times. Their songs weren’t that special and their show would have been boring if it wasn’t for the singer’s enthusiasm.
“Sank you berry much,” said the singer of the second band, The Rodeo Carburettor. Rodeo is a punk outfit from Tokyo. Their songs were simple and their lyrics were completely incomprehensible – even to the hundred or so Japanese press people who were at this show. (The singer’s mic was low in the mix.) Their drummer was a madman and dressed in skin-tight leather; a curious bulge in his pants.
With this night, Saturday, being my last night at the festival (only about 15 bands were playing on Sunday and I had no interest in seeing any of thing of them), I decided to start drinking. To my delight, the bar had 18-once cans of Pabst on sale for $2. I slammed three of them and, with my liquid, inebriated confidence level on 10, started chatting to an (aforementioned) cute Indian girl who was standing near me. She was roughly 5’3, with a dark complexion, dark eyes and glasses. We made small talk then marveled together at the next band: a Japanese jazz/fusion/ska band called Pe’z (pronounced “Pez,” like the candy).
Pe’z were the last group I saw perform at SXSW. They were also one of the best. The talent in this band was incredible. Lead by a large man wearing a Kimono and slippers, the group blasted through a set of jazz on speed. John Coltrane would have been impressed as much as The Specials would have. I learned their sound is called “Samurai Jazz” in Japan. How neat. I’ve never heard a band that blended horned-music to the degree that Pe’z does – fusion jazz/traditional jazz/ska/improvisation/swing/big beat/boop…etc. Incredible.
Enamored by their show, I went back to ask cute Indian girl what she thought. A man was standing next to her. “Honey, this is the guy that offered me money to kick the drunk guys in the balls.” I shook his hand. It was her husband.
With the festival pretty much over, the next two days of my trip in Austin were pretty uneventful. Lindsey didn’t come home for nearly two days. I mainly went to Austin Java and wrote. My time in Austin was coming to a close.
Sunday, the day before I flew out, Lindsey and I made dinner, ate strawberry shortcake and got drunk off cheap wine. We watched a thunderstorm brew outside her large living room windows and reminisced like old best friends do, eating our strawberry shortcake and laughing. She mentioned she was glad that I decided not to leave early. I didn’t say it, but I was glad I hadn’t left too. Drunk, we sat down on my bed and listened to the rain from the storm hit the gutters, watched the lighting illuminate the night sky, and eventually fell asleep to the sound of thunder crashing and crackling in the dark distance.
---Brent S. White