5:20pm, Sean: My wife texts me from the ridiculously overcrowded Alternative Press party, saying she can’t stand waiting for me anymore and is getting the fuck out of there, like now. Luckily she manages to grab a swag bag for both of us, always the best “stuff we all get” of the whole festival. This year’s haul includes a really nice pair of headphones and an assortment of garish Hot Topic clothing. (Does anybody out there want to buy a Skelanimals skateboard deck?)
5:28pm, Kyle: A healthy percentage of the music-industry invaders that sweep into Austin for SXSW are publicists. It’s a tough gig trying to stand out in a sea of people competing for attention, so Amanda Charney from Plan A Media takes her artist Elizabeth Wills around with her. Wills, a Texan, is playing her first SXSW, but doesn’t seem fazed by the punishing anonymity of the whole process. And it is punishing!
5:30pm, Marc: There's a Lou Reed tribute—which, weirdly enough, is starring Lou Reed—taking place in a couple of hours at the Levi's/Fader tent, so I've decided to skip out on the rest of our party at Emo's and insert myself into what is going to be a madhouse. Sure enough, the line is down the block, but luckily I know someone who works for Levi's, and pretty soon I'm inside watching Saul Williams do his mini-tribute to Bono via a cover of "Sunday Bloody Sunday." I've been to this tent in the past, and it's fine and all, but I can't help but think that if I had created the blueprint for what half of the bands at SXSW are doing, I'd want my tribute somewhere a little classier.
6:15pm, Kyle: Our party ends following strong closing sets by Georgie James and Tapes ‘N Tapes, and the staff at Emo’s now politely asks everyone get the hell out. On cue, a powerfully intense garbage smell sweeps through the outside, which helps push everyone out. Is this some kind of Brave New World smell technology for crowd control? Seriously, that’s pretty genius if so.
6:36pm, Josh: So I kept threatening my girlfriend that I was going to come home with a "Keep Austin Weird" tattoo, never thinking that the slogan really fit in the first place (and never actually considering it, of course). But an amazing cab ride made me reconsider the notion that Austin isn't that weird: Within 30 seconds of meeting our driver, Onion president Sean Mills and I were asked if we were "zio-cons" or "zio-bots," which was followed by a semi-comprehensible explanation. Conspiracy theories then flowed like muddy water—a jumble of mind-control experiments, 9-11, and Bolsheviks. Sean stoked the fires by asking the driver if he knew about "438-8" or some other nonsense. The driver was highly intrigued, then asked, "Are you government?"
8:15pm, Marc: After a bunch of bands with names I either don't recognize or aren't said loud enough for me to hear are done paying their respects to Reed—who can be seen at the side of the stage with a look of what appears to be genuine contentment—the big guns are finally brought out: Yo La Tengo, Mark Kozelek (who, surprisingly, wasn't distracted by the crowd noise, and, not surprisingly, was my favorite), My Morning Jacket, Thurston Moore (who jumped into audience and literally landed at my feet), and closer Moby, whose rock band helped Reed himself get through what turned out to be an excellent version of "Walk On The Wild Side." Despite what it might have looked like on paper—not to mention it taking place at a free party in the early evening—the tribute turned out to be as enjoyable and respectful as organizers had presumably hoped for. Apparently N.E.R.D. is on next, but I assume the set has nothing to do with Reed or the Velvets.
9:21pm, Kyle: “I don’t give a fuck if it’s a rock ‘n’ roll cliché, get your hands up in the air, motherfuckers!” demands Evan Foster, singer-guitarist of The Boss Martians. “Let’s give it up for rock ‘n’ roll clichés!” Hot damn, it’s good to be at the Swami Records showcase. (That’s the label started by John Reis of Rocket From The Crypt fame.) Some blazing garage punk is just laxative needed to flush out the pretension that’s thick in the Austin air. Reis’ new band, The Night Marchers, headlines tonight’s gig.
9:45pm, Sean: The Secretly Canadian/Jagjaguwar/Dead Oceans showcase over at the Mohawk is filling up fast. I only manage to catch the last song from Bodies Of Water, whom one of our commenters has been so insistent we see. This particular tune is heavy on manic Go! Team-style chirruping and trebly synthesizers, which I’m not crazy about—although I’m not going to pull a Maxim and pretend to review a band I only saw 60 seconds of. Sorry Ghost Tits, wherever you are.
10:02pm, Kyle: Another interminable wait between bands, and this time it’s especially weird because all the bands are sharing a drum kit. One of the guitarists from CPC Gangbang says to the crowd, “I hope everybody remembers us when you’re passing out ballots for the longest turnover between sets.” CPC Gangbang has two modes: on and off. When they’re playing, it’s all guns blazing, with noisy, feedback prone guitars and garage punk played fast and loose.
10:05pm, Sean: I’m not sure even Oklahoma’s Evangelicals know what they really sound like. And I’m not just talking about genre—some songs have a distinctly early-’80s vibe, like the pinched, yearning synth-pop of The Blue Orchids, while others are drowned in psychedelic swirls and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah twitches, but it all hangs together fairly well—but there’s just way too much reverb on everything, making it impossible to distinguish any vocals or, at times, individual notes. What is it with these modern indie bands who try to make their music sound as muddy as possible? Dudes, sometimes the echo pedal is your worst enemy.
10:25pm, Josh: Luke Temple, a gentle singer-songwriter from New York that's—wait for it—been compared to Jeff Buckley a lot, was a perfect fit for the Central Presbyterian Church. That's not a hip name for an Austin rock club—it's a big ol' church. He ends with an amazing song called "People Do," all gentle, quiet, and church-y.
"Saturday People" by Luke Temple
10:25pm, Sean: My friend Dave from locals Brothers And Sisters tries to entice me into watching The Explorers Club on the inside: “They’re like the Beach Boys, but they dress in silly costumes and they’re way over-the-top.” You’ve just named three things I hate; thanks for the warning, Dave. Later he comes back out and he’s changed his mind. Now they sound like an “America cover band.” (Pot, kettle, etc.)
10:39pm, Kyle: Holy shit is Dan Sartain skinny. On stage it’s just him and a drummer, and he peppers his set with new material. Sartain hasn’t done much for me in the past, and precedent prevails here.
11:05pm, Sean: Not only is Bon Iver difficult to hear over the swells of chatter and breaking glass in this packed house, they’re impossible to see. All three members are seated on tiny drum stools well below our sight line, prompting my friend Jennifer to ask if they’re a “band of little people.” I really enjoy the band’s sparse indie-folk and lovely reedy harmonies, but this is definitely the wrong venue to see them in. I’m sorry to see them semi-screwed again. Some bands just aren’t meant for festivals like this.
11:27pm, Kyle: Add The Marked Men to the list of bands whose recorded output doesn’t do their performances justice. Sure, their poppy garage punk sounds the same after awhile, but at least it’s a good sound to replicate. The band hails from Austin and Fort Worth, so Emo’s Jr. is packed with fans, including a guy standing in front of me in a “DRINK TILL SHE’S CUTE” mesh hat, who pumps his fists like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard.
11:28pm, Josh: Though they have some lyrics about God and the word "choir" is right there in the name, Retribution Gospel Choir doesn't exactly make sense in a serene church. Or maybe they make perfect sense, because they're fucking awesome every time I see them. Led by Alan Sparhawk of Low, but with his wife's gentle drums replaced by a pounding madman named Eric Pollard, the band operates as Low's evil twin—giving in to blues-y rock's darkest impulses. It's powerful in a diametrically opposed way. I'm gonna go see 'em in Chicago next week, too, dammit. Their new record is out March 18 on Mark Kozelek's label, and he was tonight's headliner. I'll let Marc tell you about that, though, because he's a huge fanboy. The following video is not from last night, but it features Kozelek sitting in with RGC.
11:33pm, Kyle: Bumper sticker on an island behind the bar: ANALRINGTOSS.COM EXTREME BACHELOR PARTIES. (Uh, NSFW). Who would put that on their car?
11:42pm, Kyle: Legit encores are practically unheard of these days, but the crowd demands The Marked Men return, even though two bands remain on the bill. The band stops breaking down their equipment to blast through one last song.
11:45pm, Marc: After dropping off my free jeans at the hotel, I'm back at the church where I started my SXSW the night before, and Alan Sparhawk is testifying to his love of loud rock with his Retribution Gospel Choir. The Low leader's voice is just creepy enough to give him an Eli Sunday feel, which makes the high-volume set that much better.
12:05am, Sean: The Mohawk is absolutely teeming; it’s impossible to stand still for even 30 seconds before being shoved by somebody trying to make their way through the crowd. Every year it seems like I spend my entire SXSW week swimming through people, squeezing past their sweaty flesh and trying desperately to find a patch of clear ground where I can stand still for more than a minute. And despite how much I enjoy his albums in the comfort of my own home, being constantly jostled makes it hard to really get into the syrupy strains of Jens Lekman, whose omnipresent smile mocks my current misery. I do get a kick out of Lekman doing the “air glockenspiel”—there definitely aren’t too many performers who could pull that off.
12:05am, Kyle: Looking at and listening to The Spits, you’d swear the band has been playing since 1981, but nope, their new-wave-inflected punk—completely with yelpy vocals and fat synthesizers—is a recent creation.
12:30am, Josh: So I left church to go to the Playboy "Rock The Rabbit" party, which is the hot ticket of Thursday night. It's not an official SXSW event, but there are huge lines, a worthy lineup (Moby, Justice, MGMT), and the promise of fabulous people. It's pretty packed and sweaty and there's a lot of attempted fabulousness going on, plus the place—and old paper factory, I'm told—is huge, with various barriers to entry based on how awesome you are. Playboy bunnies, complete with puffy tails, are escorted around by burly security guards. I take one for the team and have my photo taken with two of them. You're welcome, team!
MGMT is pretty boring, and both Tommie Sunshine and Justice rave like it's 1992, which is fine and fun, but not all that exciting. Still: fabulous, and we stay until 4 a.m. That's saying something. Celebrities spotted: Tom Morello. I think I see the guy who plays Doakes on Dexter, but maybe not. Supposedly Elijah Wood is around. Time for bed!
12:35am, Kyle: John Reis gets his gear on stage for The Night Marchers. He’s looking dapper as always—black slacks, button-up shirt, and jacket—and a lot trimmer than the last time I saw him. He’s still a master of stage banter and working the crowd. “You will hear 45 to 50 minutes of music you’ve never heard before, and it will seem like an eternity.” He’s wrong, especially with the opening song “The Bad Bloods,” which boasts a particularly kickass chorus. The sound is familiar to fans of Reis’ other projects—The Sultans, The Hot Snakes, RFTC, etc.—but it’s especially potent in a live setting. The tracks I heard on MySpace didn’t do much for me, but live, I’m eating them up.
1am, Marc: Mark Kozelek started off his set by saying "goddammit" and then apologizing and explaining that he'd been told not to swear on the church's stage, but it's been smooth ever since. As America's greatest living songwriter (yeah, I said it), it's not hard to be impressed with whatever he puts on his setlist, which here includes stuff from his forthcoming Sun Kil Moon record, covers of Modest Mouse and AC/DC, but, sadly, nothing from his illustrious Red House Painters catalog. When I hear Kozelek's beautiful voice atop his dreamy acoustic guitar, it makes me wonder why I bother listening to anything else.
1:06am, Kyle: Caught up in the moment, the bolo-tie-wearing singer-guitarist of CPC Gangbang stage dives—but no one really catches him, and he soon face-plants onto Emo’s disgusting floor.
1:17am, Kyle: “Seven hundred dollars for all these bands?” Reis says. “That’s a deal! Who would bitch about that? Certainly not some guys from San Diego who live under a bridge and fish for their food.” A master.
2am, Kyle: For all the hullabaloo of getting a invite and the crazy media restrictions, the Playboy party is incredibly easy to crash. As Marc and I search for the media check-in, we walk up an alley that takes us to the party’s back door. To stay legit, we check in and get our passes. But considering the bodyguards who follow the bunnies around everywhere and the general sense of tightly controlled revelry, we had no problem sabotaging the system. Smash the state! We’re immediately offered an interview with a band called The Heavies, but a) we just got there, b) we have no idea who that is, and c) it’s 2 in the morning. Question #1: “So, how much have you drunk today?”
2:16am, Kyle: The Playboy party is in a giant stuffy warehouse with slick floors that claim several casualties over the couple of hours we’re there. One woman takes a particularly nasty spill while waiting for the bathroom. She seems too drunk to really notice—she never drops the cell phone from her ear—but several people rush over to help. Among them: Matt Walsh of the Upright Citizens Brigade.
2:24am, Kyle: Standing in front of what looks like a Jumbotron stolen from a stadium, Moby performs a DJ set to a raucous crowd. When he closes out his set with a remix of Guns N’ Roses’ “Paradise City,” the crowd goes ballistic.
2:35am, Marc: Thankfully the Playboy party isn't in the sticks again this year, so I walk a few blocks from a holy house to a den of sin. Actually, everyone is pretty well-behaved (though who knows what was going on in the VIP area), and besides the bunnies and a few aspiring centerfolds cruising around, there's nothing especially sexy about this party. Moby is in the next room spinning "Born Slippy," which drives home the fact that I don't really belong here. Yet, for some reason—free whiskey, perhaps?—it'll be another hour before we leave.
2:35am-3:45am, Sean: Here’s a tip for anyone trying to schmooze their way into the media entry gate of the Playboy party: You need to know who you’re fake-writing for. You can’t just say, “We’re with the media” without expecting to get that follow-up question. After so many faux Fletches, the poor girl who’s been charged with doling out rejections is grateful to meet someone who actually is on the list, so she practically rolls out the red carpet for me. It’s a surreal sight inside: Moby’s spinning in the main room, waxy-looking Playmates are strolling around trailed by stonefaced security guards, and I spy various celebrities like Tom Morello, members of the Upright Citizens Brigade, Steve Aoki, and Aziz Ansari. After my second complimentary Jameson and soda—always the perfect nightcap to a full day of downing beer—my eyes start to get a little swimmy. I make sure that Kyle is going to be the diligent one and write all this up before mentally checking out. The rest is a blur of LED lights and LES hipsters and endless waiting in line for the bathroom. French duo Justice wants everyone to “D.A.N.C.E.” but I’m way beyond ready to “P.A.S.S.O.U.T.”
3:06am, Kyle: Seriously, it’s 3 a.m., I’m sober, and we’re a long way from the hotel. Must…see…Justice… The French duo takes the stage to a remix of “A Fifth Of Beethoven,” the weird crossover hit of the disco era. The crowd is a little sparse, at least at first. Maybe everybody’s starting to drag? But within a few minutes, people start flooding the room. Two Bunnies stand in the back, half-dancing, as their bodyguards keep a close eye on everyone in a 15-foot radius.
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