SXSW Report

South By Southwest
Austin, Texas
March 16 – March 19 2006

And now for the exciting conclusion! While Trevor’s hindquarters were battling Bill Miller’s barbeque, I set out on a non-drinking, bar-hopping mission to uncover the fun behind South By Southwest that had mildly eluded us our 36 hours in the bush. Besides, I wasn’t going to stay in the hotel with my ailing Associate Editor. Not with two working nostrils, I wasn’t.

Truth be told, I hadn’t slept well Saturday morning because I was dreading this roundup. Not wanting to come off as an ingrate ninny, I tricked myself into thinking SXSW was nothing more than a crude, 30s-crisis spring break where people were more interested in seeing “surprise” shows by well-established bands (Flaming Lips, Beastie Boys), believing the hype (The Subways, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah), and actually avoiding the dreadful task of discovering something new.

Of course, you can’t write that when you, yourself, have spent time seeing bands with which you were at least familiar (Scott H. Biram, Bible Of The Devil, The Silent League). Besides, the “SXSW is too corporate” diatribe is about as tired as the “MTV doesn’t show videos anymore” spiel. We’d had enough of people and bands bragging how much they’d drank and little they’d slept, especially when they’re five to 10 years older than you are. But at least they weren’t doing it alone at home.

Determined to rebut my own arguments, I landed at Club DeVille on Red River to see Swede guitarist José González, who has received more-than-casual comparisons to Nick Drake since his solid debut, Veneer (first Hidden Agenda, now Mute), came Stateside. Seated in a large room by himself while partygoers packed themselves into the adjoining salon, González was as mesmerizing as one can be at 2:15 p.m. But, he was already on my 2005 Top 10, so I snapped some photos and let someone else squeeze into my spot, making a pitstop into Red Eyed Fly down the street, where Misra Records had their own showcase.

When I arrived, Toronto’s Great Lake Swimmers — with whom I was likewise familiar — just began a set of newer songs, still shuffling, headdown, along the sidewalk. Tony Dekker’s Downy-soft voice was at odds with the stale beer smell from the Sub Pop showcase the previous evening, but again, “I have one of their records. I need to go.” And so I went, people trying to decipher my “Kop” Liverpool T-shirt as I popped in-and-out Room 710 for The Churchills, Maggie Mae’s for some free guitar strings and electric-banjo novelty Oneside.

Victory Records’ ridiculous Cadillac Escalade passed me by on a few occasions, as did women sporting the spring’s worst fashion trend (pastel leggings under short jean skirts). I peered into Buffalo Billiards’ windows to see radio station 101X interviewing Snow Patrol, and took my time figuring out where a number of the more distant venues were. Concerned I hadn’t enough cash to last our final evening in Austin, I walked through a drive-up Chase ATM lane, ending up on a sidewalk across the street from Antone’s, Austin’s blues club that gave rise to Stevie Ray Vaughan and a number of other boogie experts.

Figuring what the hell, I popped in to see who was playing (the marquee listed a number of Merge Records bands), and once inside, found myself face-to-face with my biggest SXSW criticisms and joined the other side. I happened not only to be at a free beer party in the middle of the afternoon (mad props to Shiner Brewing, by the way), but exactly as Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, a loathesome “hype” band, took the stage. “This will save me a trip to the Metro next month,” I thought. I didn’t become a convert, and I didn’t stay to abuse the bartenders’ services, but did tap my foot through the portion of the set and finally felt like I was doing it right.

Before signing off, I don’t want to omit our abbreviated Saturday night — when embarking on an 18-hour haul, one needs sleep — Saturday night proved to be mine and Trevor’s favorite. Jon Langford, whom we have taken for granted in Chicago, gathered Sally Timms and a host of friends for a stunning set at Opal Devine’s. While he’s Welsh and not Irish, his brogue charmed his already amusing banter — introducing his guitarist as “Billy Bob — The Ass Man” was one — and added a storyteller’s touch that’s not always lively on this year’s Gold Brick. Opener Jacques & The Shaky Boys proved Jacques to be the shakiest of his bunch — there’s nervous and there’s shattered — surprising considering his Rockford-based guitarist’s smashing, Jose Canseco looks are a steadying, galactical force. Before them, Two Hoots & A Holler turned in gracious, return-to-Austin rockabilly just as they sang, “George Jones and Dick Dale would be proud . . . Surf and hula honky tonk!”

It was Austin, after all. They do things differently.

— Steve Forstneger

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This SXSW update is brought to you entirely by Trevor Fisher, as I sweat out the barbeque we had for lunch while Steve heads downtown for an afternoon show. One thing I learned quickly while attending SXSW is club owners could care less if a male patron needs to rid himself of solid waste. If you are lucky enough to find an actual stall, and not just a toilet in the middle of the bathroom, you can almost always bet on no TP. Thus, don’t go to the venues until you’ve cleared the system at the hotel room.

Anyway, Friday was our first full day at the festival, and we tried to make the most of it. The Ale House was our first stop of the day, to celebrate St. Patrick’s day with a Guinness. While there we saw a few songs from Dallas-based Odis. A competent, if pedestrian, rock band, Odis’ lead singer has a great voice. Unfortunately, he looked, and acted like he was auditioning for “American Idol” instead of fronting a rock band at a grubby club in Austin.

Maritime, featuring Davey Von Bohlen and Dan Didier from The Promise Ring, played while we were at Lucky Lounge, but that wasn’t the real story. Upstairs, a pile of shoeboxes containing brand new Saucony kicks sat against the wall — free for the taking. This is a sore point with Steve because none of the shoes fit his feet. You know what they say about big feet, though, don’t ya Steve?

An early evening nap was needed before returning downtown (via the 15 Red River bus that takes the most indirect route as possible) where, after attempting to enter the Victory showcase with no success, we decided on seeing some hometown metal talent at Room 710. Bible Of The Devil played a 9 p.m. slot and were solid. The set suffered from a poor mix (hardly any vocals and little lead guitar), but BOTD’s enthusiasm won the crowd. We figured we could do no wrong with Debris, Inc because it features both Dave Chandler of St. Vitus and Ron Holzner of Trouble. We were wrong. More punk than the doom metal we expected, Debris didn’t provide much to write about.

Our arrival at Nuno’s was delayed when we walked west instead of east looking for the club. Odiorme was the first band we saw at the venue, and it was too bad the crowd was so small for the group’s inspired performance. Threads of Talk Talk and Pink Floyd ran through Odiorne’s set, which, despite too many cheesy synth intros, was a highlight of the night. File-13 recording artists The Silent League followed, although Steve wasn’t able to pay much attention as he was cornered by a talkative young man who claimed ties to Kanye West and an ability to spark an entire book of matches with one match strike.

Now I must return to the hotel room, watch some college basketball, play some Gameboy, and prepare for tonight, our final night of rocking here in Austin.

— Trevor Fisher
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Road To Austin
Austin, Texas
Thursday, March 16, 2006

We made it, naturally, even though we drove through Dallas. No one “drives through” Dallas; you move in, get to know the people, and then, if you’re lucky, they’ll open up enough space to let you get your car out.

Upon arriving in Austin, the most noticeable thing about the Texas capital was the mass exodus of automobiles heading in the opposite direction. Noting there were no FEMA trucks advising us against entry — of course, expecting them to be there on time would be a stretch — Trevor O.K.’d a continued path to the Best Western.

Eleven road hours behind us, we dropped off our things, and headed down to the front desk for bus instructions. Given some vague advice, long story short, couldn’t determine if we’d be stuck there so we aborted. Back in the hotel lobby, we found a number for Austin’s Yellow Cab company, and we’re told it’d be 10 to 20 minutes for our ride to appear. Thirty minutes later, we passively addressed the situation with the Best Western clerk by asking, “How big is Austin?” “About three-quarters of a million people.

“It’s not a tourist place; it’s a government town. We do things differently.”

Apparently 750,000 people have been able to get by without prompt taxi service. Long story short again, our taxi droppped us off on 6th Street, which promptly reminded me of an indie-rockin’ Beale Street: Lotsa chaos and garbage, only no Big Ass Beers sold for public consumption.

Preface a bit: Being told I could acquire my South By Southwest wristband — to access shows without cover charge — I had to pick it up Wednesday or Thursday at the Austin Convention Center. Being as we arrived at 7 p.m. Thursday and the ACC was closed, we were without proper wares for pimpage. Preface over.

Trevor writes:
After initially skipping Bourbon’s because of a steep cover charge, we fled to, among other places, the free confines of Darwin’s where we saw the Parlor Boys. Although not a bad band, they sounded like a million other The Killers clones, plus the Shiner Bock was going down a little too easy — food was needed.

After superb Italian sausages from a street cart, we headed back to Bourbon’s where Steve converted to Scott H. Biram fandom. Biram hails from Austin, and he certainly had the crowd to prove it. Stomping his amplified foot and beating the shit out of an already beaten guitar, Biram’s most entertaining aspect may have been his mangled, turbo-tongued banter between songs. It was definitely more entertaining than the comparably tame Bobby Bare, Jr. set that followed, which we watched from the porch.

This morning it is off to acquire the wristband and eat barbeque.

— Steve & Trevor
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Road To Austin
Joplin, Missouri
Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Well, Trevor and I made it as far as Joplin before reason and our aching buttocks kept us from doing otherwise.

The road to Austin is relatively uneventful, though high-speed highway driving through narrow -laned Missouri has its thrills when the white lines disappear. Along the way we’ve seen an antiques store billboard that specified, rather agitatedly, “NO CRAFTS!” Then there was Big Louie’s strip/tattoos/pizza paradise along I-44 that surely had us thinking twice about our destination.

Otherwise, it’s 9 more hours of road for us. Pray for us. Pray we don’t encounter another stockyard stench like the one 20 minutes before Joplin.

— Steve Forstneger

Category: Live Reviews, Weekly