Austin city, no limits

>> A day-by-day diary from SXSW 2007

SURF’S UP: Honky

by JOHNSON CUMMINS

The annual SXSW (South By Southwest) music and film festival in Austin, Texas is easily the Big Kahuna of North American music conferences, but its ever-growing success can be attributed to the incredible programming of live acts outweighing the handshaking biz side. With their recently wrapped-up 30th edition boasting a record number of attendees, SXSW looks like it will only grow exponentially—in spite of the rapid descent of the industry.

Here, day by day and play by play, is a record of my SXSW visit between March 15 and 18.

Day One: Honey, I won’t make it home for dinner

I won’t bore you with too many mundane details about my first-day dud. My connecting flight at Washington, D.C.’s Dulles airport left without me and I was thrown on standby. Despite my travel mate squeezing onto a flight (complete with a tearjerking goodbye to rival Casablanca), I have now been in this airport for 20 hours, as they have been unable to place me on a flight to Austin. I finally get some winks when I come up with a mantra to drown out the extraneous noise, and it lulls me into the land of nod. It goes something like, “Fuck you, United Airlines, fuck you, United Airlines, fuck you, United Airlines…”

Here’s a little list of some of the shows I missed: the Melvins, the Paybacks, Daughters, Big Business, Fucked Up, Sam the Sham, Dead Meadow, Jay Reatard, These Arms Are Snakes.

Highlight: N/A

HEADING SOUTH: Cummins with Brian Posehn, Nine Pound Hammer’s Blain Cartwright with Peaches, Qui’s David Yow

Day Two: Feets, don’t fail me now

Twenty-eight hours later, I finally make it to the musical Mecca. The first thing you notice when you get to the registration area is the utter desperation of musicians trying to “make it.” Bands circle the registration area like hawks, trying to hand you their new demo. Potential songwriters set up shop at every available corner, while labels and independent promoters pass out literally stacks of CDs and elaborate packages that will almost all end up in the next available trash can.

With schedule in hand, I make it out to the fest’s main artery, 6th Street. This year, though, ends up being more lopsided than ever, as the number of fans of live music has reached a new high, resulting in line-ups for the bigger names that can last for hours, while the baby bands play to almost no one in remote areas.

With the sun just barely dangling in the sky, I check out my first band, Ohio’s This Moment in Black History, as they lay down some serious Black Flag punk rawk with snatches of electronic noise. I then make it down to the best record store in the world, Waterloo, and get in line to see the Stooges in person, only to be told that there’s no fucking possible way I could squeeze into the 300-capacity store. Bonsound’s Gourmet Délice gets in, though, and I now officially hate him forever.

Most big-name shows require hours of diligent lining up at this point, so I forgo Buzzcocks and Steve Earle, and catch Rwake utterly destroying at another in-store show. A couple of blocks down, I catch Robyn Hitchcock with REM’s Peter Buck. This Syd Barrett analog starts the show off with, “Hello, I’m Robyn Hitchcock from the ’60s,” and proceeds to blow everybody’s mind.

Having missed all the free grub during the day, I meet some friends at Casino El Camino and have one of the greatest hamburgers of all time, before going to the Cartoon Network party for Aqua Teen Hunger Force to catch Nine Pound Hammer. This is an invite-only show but I manage to talk my way into the star-studded event. David Cross, metalhead/comedian Brian Posehn and other assorted cool peeps are all on hand as Nine Pound Hammer deliver some blistering country-punk.

Next, I catch ex-Nerves drummer Paul Collins, who recorded the ultimate power-pop record, The Beat, in ’79, but lately has added a bit more twang to his sound. I’m just thankful I get to see the legend.

I line up for 20 minutes for the Cynics and don’t get in, and retire to the NXNE suite for free beer. There I chat it up with what seems to be like a living, breathing version of Chart Magazine. Kind of lame, but you can’t complain about free Heineken. Peaches was there, a good egg, but was so drunk she could barely form a sentence.

Shows missed: Thurston Moore doing two sets, the Black Angels, ? and the Mysterians doing a small in-store.

Highlight: During Nine Pound Hammer’s set, one of the women from Hemi Cuda squeezes a jet stream of breast milk into the face of guitarist Blain Cartwright as he’s in mid-solo. Greatest rock ’n’ roll moment of all time? Definitely maybe!

Day Three: Qui are God

Having been to SXSW previously, I avoid the sucker’s deal, which is the daytime panel discussions. I’ll summarize them in a nutshell: the record industry is fucked. Once you’ve grasped that little kernel of truth, you can pass on the panels and just load up on the free beer and BBQ, which is everywhere during the day.

You can’t swing a cat around 6th Street without hitting a television crew set up while “rock dudes” wave their demo tapes in the backgrounds, and it gets a little sad after awhile. After feasting on some righteous free BBQ, care of somebody with too much money to spend, I walk down to the outdoor show and catch the beginning of a set by Montreal’s Priestess, who are better than ever. Japan’s Boris are up next, and just obliterate an audience made up mainly of metalheads and local families just out to enjoy the sun and free music. The only thing I need to say to describe Boris is that they have a gong.

Ex-Butthole Surfers bassist J.D. Pinkus has a new band, Austin locals Honky, who lay down some full-tilt boogie before my band Bionic do our thing for a decent-sized crowd. After a bit of necessary schmoozing, I make it down to legendary venue Emo’s and catch the Riverboat Gamblers and the glorious sounds of Turbonegro, complete with a guest appearance from Nick Oliveri of Queens of the Stone Age. I then leave to go see the show I am most excited about, Qui, featuring Jesus Lizard singer David Yow, which turns out to be easily the best show of the fest for me. The guitarist from Mastodon is right beside me in the front row and just keeps yammering on about how Qui are the best band ever. He’s right and he should know because, well, he’s in Mastodon.

Shows missed: the Stooges (no way I was getting in that line-up), the Figgs, Detroit Cobras, Meat Puppets, Daniel Johnston, Spoon, Dead Meadow (again), Lee “Scratch” Perry (two shows).

Highlight: Qui, by far.

Day four: We are experiencing some turbulence

It’s the last day of the festival and everybody I meet seems utterly gutted from the sensory overload of the fest and the copious amounts of free beer. I do some more band biz and take my hungover ass down to see River City Rapists featuring Nick Oliveri and the Motards’ singer. After a 20-minute set of blazing punk rock, they smash all their gear into kindling. Really woke up the incredibly hungover audience. Check out Bad Wizard next door, who are so hung over they can barely get through a song, and then Melbourne, Australia’s Beasts of Bourbon as they put on one of the drunkest shows I have ever seen, before riding out to East Austin and drinking the last Lone Star beer I will taste for a year.

Highlights: Beasts of Bourbon trying to get through an incredibly rough version of AC/DC’s “Ride On.”