1pm, Kyle: An anti-war parade makes its way from the capitol down Congress. It's a colorful and noisy collection of people who probably have "Keep Austin Weird" stickers on their bumpers.
1:15pm, Marc: My dream of hanging out with Rachael Ray has been abruptly dashed by a woman who asks if I've RSVPed for Feedback With Rachael Ray at the Beauty Bar—one would think that an official SXSW party would be open to all badge holders, but one would be wrong. I get updates during the day from people who have made it inside, none of whom were able to get close to the VIP section where Ms. Ray could be seen watching bands like The Raveonettes, Holy Fuck, and The Cringe (her husband's band). It's hard to imagine her listening to Holy Fuck while getting her EVOO on, but who knows what's in her iPod. Maybe I need to set up a Random Rules…
1:28pm, Marc: Saddened by the Rachael Ray experience, my spirits are immediately lifted as a big batch of antiwar protesters pass me at the corner of Red River and Sixth.
1:30pm, Josh: I begin my final day here on an easy note—a quick trip to Flatstock, the poster convention to end all poster conventions, where art meets rock bands in an explosion of screen-printing. (Or something like that.) As usual, I treat it more like a museum than a museum gift shop, not buying anything (too many posters already await hanging at home) but soaking in the radness of people like Chicago's Jay Ryan.
1:33pm, Marc: I'm back at the Paste/Stereogum party at Volume, where they're handing out free Southern Comfort—the stuff is disgusting and doesn't taste very indie rock, but SoCo is all over SXSW, so I guess they know something that I don't. Boy-girl electro duo High Places are moving the crowd with their tribal beats, but the chances of anyone caring about this group in a year or two seems unlikely.
1:45pm, Kyle: A reporter from something called HDNet interviews a guy on the street about his tattoos, which include a portrait of a musician friend who died on an upper arm, the cover of Sunny Day Real Estate's How It Feels To Be Something On on his opposite shoulder, and something more abstract on his calf. Another guy walks up and volunteers his tattoo: a middle finger and "FUCK OFF" on his ass. A passerby smacks it to the delight of everyone.
1:52pm, Kyle: I've wondered this all week: How is 418 Sixth Street—what looks like a good-sized vacant bar in the middle of everything—empty during SXSW, when every space that can possibly fit a drum kit is being used?
2:15pm, Josh: At a tented stage in a parking lot—sponsored like many things here by Toyota Yaris—a scheduled performance by young Canadian rockers Tokyo Police Club becomes a solo-acoustic performance by the band's singer. (A family emergency forced the switch.) The acoustic set is short and surprisingly good—you wouldn't think two-minute rockers about robots would make sense this way, but they do.
2:15pm, Marc: A friend says she thinks that Blitzen Trapper sounds like Aerosmith, but the Portland band recently signed to Sub Pop is throwing way too much stuff into its sound—country, classic rock, pop—to be so easily pigeonholed. And singer Eric Earley doesn't look or sound anything like Steven Tyler, though he does appear to be pretty serious about what he's doing onstage—perhaps a bit too much for a band that plays music that's so wonderfully unhinged.
2:40pm, Josh: It's off to the grounds of the French Legation Museum, which sounds fancy and is fancy. It's like a sprawling back yard, complete with color-coded Porta Pottis, a big tent with a nice sound system, and a promising lineup. Onstage when we arrive is Lightspeed Champion, who Sean O'Neal will be happy to disparage, but I think the British band/guy/former member of Test Icicles has some solid songs. He does sound a hell of a lot like the singer from The Dears, though.
It's become tradition over the past couple of years to see Dinosaur Jr. mastermind J. Mascis walking around in a haze of long gray hair, big glasses, and bewilderment, and this party is my second sighting of the year. Here's the kicker: He's wearing a "Keep Austin Weird" hat today. Still, he takes the stage with an acoustic guitar and refreshes hundreds of memories of why people loved him in the first place, tearing through "Get Me" and "Not You Again," easily my favorite Dino song. You're weird, J., but we love you still.
Actress Zooey Deschanel is walking around looking perfectly at home among the birds and trees, because she's a wood sprite. Her collaboration with guitarist M. Ward—out this week on Merge—as She & Him doesn't do much for me. Then again, I don't watch much, I'm sorta sunburned, and lots of people are chattering throughout. Here's a sweet lil' Urban Outfitters commercial anyway.
2:50pm, Kyle: Devonte Hynes' post-Test Icicles project, Lightspeed Champion, generally gets dismissed as sub-Bright Eyes singer-songwriter dreck, but his performance at the Press Here Publicity party—accompanied by a female singer and a violinist—at the French Legation Museum isn't bad. (No, I'm not sure what "French Legation" means either.) It's not great, but it isn't the sheer awfulness I expected. However, Hynes wears a big goofy Russian winter hat, and it's in the upper 80s.
3:05pm, Sean: Today I've pretty much given up on chasing down bands; I'm going to just try to enjoy myself. A good way to do that is to get away from downtown, which is why we head to the Garden Party at the French Legation Museum. It's set on a sprawling lawn with plenty of shade, so there's little reason for shoving, and the music itself is housed under a large tent with lots of chairs. I get there too late to snag one, but even from out on the perimeter there's no mistaking the massive goony-bird frame of J. Mascis. Josh says he was wearing a "Keep Austin Weird" hat earlier, but luckily he came to his senses before sitting down for this acoustic set. I say "acoustic," but he's also plugged into a couple of fuzz pedals to better facilitate his endless solos. I recognize a couple of Dinosaur Jr. songs I sort of like, but I keep being distracted by the nice breeze and good conversation.
3:33pm, Kyle: Scottish rock outfit Sons & Daughters plays next, looking far too stylishly dressed for the bucolic surroundings of the Legation Museum: Singer Adele Bethel wears a sparkly gold-lame tube top, short skirt, knee-high gold boots, and keeps a tambourine in hand at all times. The first song is pretty loose, and guitarist Scott Paterson confesses, "We're flying by the seat of our pants up here." Apparently they're playing with half the gear they normally do, but they seem to do fine. Paterson changes guitars for nearly every song, but each always has a capo around the seventh fret. Okay, fancy man.
4:05pm, Sean: Free ice cream! Every year festival folk hero the Ice Cream Man arrives and turns SXSWers into smiling 4-year-olds. Rock stars, industry folks, and fans alike line up to get our hands on Big Dippers and Pink Panthers—I spy Spoon's Eric Harvey, but he cockblocks my attempt to cut (as does my wife!)—and then spend a few minutes enjoying them in the shade. Tiny indie-rocker crush magnet Zooey Deschanel is walking around in her size zero dress; I wonder aloud whether giving her a drop of ice cream would cause her to bloat up like Veruca Salt. (The Roald Dahl character, not the band.)
4:12pm, Marc: Last year's two-day Mess With Texas party took place in a club that had a mile-long line out front by the time I arrived, so I was happy to find out that they decided to throw it at Waterloo Park this year. I've had to make the difficult decision to skip main-stage headliners The Breeders in order to catch a few things closer to Sixth Street, but I'm glad I've made it in time to see The Night Marchers, the new band from Rocket From The Crypt's John "Speedo" Reis. I catch a little bit of fellow San Diegans Grand Ole Party on my way over to the side stage—and wonder aloud why a woman who tries to sound like Karen O would also want to look just like her—and am disappointed at how few people have shown up to see Speedo. One of underground music's greatest entertainers looks healthy and sounds fantastic, leading his band through a fiery set that sounds a lot like Rocket without the horns. One song seems to have stolen a riff from Stone Temple Pilots, but other than that, this is the kind of music, ladies and gentlemen, that makes you want to give it up for the band.
4:25pm, Kyle: It's perplexing that Kate Nash isn't all over this year's festival, for a number of reasons: Her debut, Made Of Bricks, was just released in the U.S.; the single, "Foundations," has some traction; and there's plenty of buzz around her name. Is it just post-Lily Allen/Amy Winehouse fatigue? But when have record labels ever cared about that? Turns out the Nash's only performance at SXSW this year is the invite-only Q magazine party at the fancy Driskill Hotel. We didn't RSVP in time, but I decided to stop by to see if I could either bullshit my way in or crash it. Up the main stairs, no dice: The check-in table blocks the entrance. But the party takes up the entire mezzanine level, and I remember there's another stairway in the back. Coming up that way, I open the back door just as someone coincidentally distracts the security guard with a question. I walk in like I know what I'm doing, and boom, I'm at the stage. I consider it some Fight Club-style sneakiness, but Sean O'Neal correctly notes it's more like a Mentos commercial.
4:40pm, Sean: It's nice to see that not even the legends are immune to sound issues: Thurston Moore stops a few minutes into his first song with backing group The New Wave Bandits after he realizes that his microphone isn't working. After fumbling around a bit, the soundman finds the source of the problem and, in Moore's words, "Now we're cooking with gas!" This is perhaps the most straightforward set of rock music I've ever heard Moore play. It's like hearing all of the most pop-oriented songs from Dirty crammed together, without the crazy Branca-esque interludes. I'm glad I caught this—and even better, it actually looks like Moore is having fun. (Maybe it's easier to relax without the old ball and chain around.)
4:40pm, Kyle: I'm trying to keep a low profile—and draw attention away from my bare wrists—by staying close to the stage, which means I have to watch Lightspeed Champion for the second time in two hours. This would be pure torture for Sean—who timed his arrival at the Press Here party to miss LC—but I'm too pleased with my subterfuge to care. The set differs a bit this time, as Hynes half-ironically covers The Vines' "Get Free." Somewhere, Sean shudders.
4:47pm, Kyle: Speaking of irony, it's a popular fashion choice at SXSW. A guy standing next to me wears what look like vintage '80s black acid-washed jeans, though they're so form-fitting that they seem to be tailored. That's a lot of effort for a visual joke, but he also has a bowl haircut.
4:59pm, Marc: There's also a comedy stage out here in the park, and it's packed with some of our nation's best. I arrive in time to hear Paul F. Tompkins do his hilarious bit about working at a hat shop (Hats In The Belfry) in Philadelphia. Leo Allen follows with a solid set that receives consistent laughs (except for his joke about the lazy pregnant teenager who decides to sleep in rather than go in for her abortion appointment). Then comes the highlight of my stay here in comedyland, which consists of Brian Posehn, who has lost his voice, telling his jokes to Eugene Mirman, who then delivers every line into the microphone. It's as awkward as you'd imagine, which heightens the experience of hearing Posehn describe himself as a bunch of farts wearing a man costume.
5:10pm, Kyle: Although I'm bummed I have to wait through another band before Kate Nash performs, I'm pleasantly surprised by These New Puritans. The UK band looks far too young to know much about Big Black, but Albini's old band definitely informs the group's thudding, aggressive post-punk. A lot of bands ape '80s post-punk, but I haven't heard anyone make it sound so menacing. This is meant for brooding, not dancing. All four members—three men and a woman—have serious to stern looks on their faces. Keyboardist Sophie Sleigh-Johnson never looks at the crowd and rarely looks up from the keys. In her knee-length skirt and top, she looks like she just came from an office or hostessing job.
5:29pm, Marc: Atlas Sound is on the main stage doing its version of shoegazing, and while I give the main guy props for wearing an old Breeders shirt, I can't stop feeling angry about his lame sunglasses, as well as all of the neon shades that have infiltrated Austin this week. Seriously, why has everyone decided that this is the new product worth rallying around?
5:39pm, Kyle: A tech comes out to tape a setlist written on a napkin to Nash's keyboard. He also sets an asthma inhaler on it and a cocktail glass with a clear drink and lime down below.
5:42pm, Kyle: Kate Nash is so adorable in person that I'm tempted to start a site called LOL Kats. She looks especially young in person, but with her bright eyes and big smile, she couldn't be cuter. Turns out this quick performance was an accident; Nash planned to come to SXSW for fun, but then got asked to play the party. Again, why isn't she all over the festival? Although someone immediately yells "Foundations!" when Nash walks onstage, she instead grabs an acoustic guitar and opens with a new song, "Pickpocket."
5:55pm, Sean: The delays have gotten completely out of hand, and the interminable sound check for She And Him has made them almost an hour late taking the stage. Everybody crowds around to get a glimpse at Zooey Deschanel—and I admit, I'm one of those gaping at her, despite the fact that I can't really name a movie she's been in that I like—while M. Ward stands to the side pulling off the occasional surprisingly awesome guitar solo. Deschanel plays a tambourine large enough that it could easily fit around her waist, and for some songs she sits at an electric piano to bang out some rudimentary chords. The band's country-ish pop is pleasant enough, but Deschanel's voice is far too thin and nasally, and she has an annoying habit of covering up missed notes with a little forced twang. Let's put it this way: If she were just a regular girl auditioning for American Idol, she would never make it past the first round. It was a little pitchy, dawg.
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