DAY TWO, MARCH 16: FOR THOSE CONTINUING TO ROCK, WE SALUTE YOU
10:30 a.m.: SXSW managing director Roland Swenson gives a heartfelt introduction to an appearance by Neil Young and film director Jonathan Demme, noting that the festival had tried in the past to get Bruce Springsteen and Bob Dylan as keynote speakers, but never Young—he seemed out of reach. As on his recent Daily Show appearance, Young was totally normal and chill, which actually seemed a little strange. He spoke about songwriting, the concert film he made with Demme, etc. It wasn't terribly enlightening, but interesting just the same.
12:06 p.m.: Owen, also known as Mike Kinsella (Cap'n Jazz, American Football, Joan Of Arc) is playing at the Convention Center. It's a little early to completely absorb his beautifully confessional songs, but he sounds great and, appropriately enough, plays the song that includes the line, "I listen to my same old CDs / New Order and Morrissey."
4:16 p.m.: Islands, featuring former members of The Unicorns, make a pretty little mess onstage at the Longbranch Inn, both with the cheese popcorn they're tossing around and with worldbeat-tinged indie pop. When rappers Subtitle and Busdriver join the fun, for a few seconds it feels like the place is going to explode.
5:10 p.m.: Elefant, the New York band that sounds British, closes out a Filter-sponsored party. They're giving away Puma track jackets with "Elefant" emblazoned on the back. The sound is boomy and weird, since it's in a big stone courtyard covered by a tent. But Elefant are still good, even though the singer doesn't wear his scarf. It's probably too humid for that.
8:47 p.m.: Guy walking on Sixth Street talks on his phone: "Every time someone thinks I'm a loser, I can feel it." Blabbing on your cell phone at top volume isn't helping.
9:15 p.m.: People go nuts for Morrissey, of course. And he's very good, of course, because he's the sort of born entertainer/artiste that most bands here wish they could be, or at least be near. No, his later solo stuff isn't as good as The Smiths, but it's still pretty damn good. And for the old school, he even busts out "Girlfriend In A Coma," "How Soon Is Now," and, best of all, "Still Ill." Up next, according to the guide, is a "Special Guest." This is usually a good sign, so we stick around until the next scheduled act, Goldfrapp, takes the stage. Ray Davies was reportedly supposed to show up and play, but didn't.
9:17 p.m.: Red Hot Chili Peppers logos (with the release date of their new album) are spray-painted on top of other people's posters and flyers all over the city. Because if anyone needs the help of viral marketing, it's a multi-platinum artist with a large, devoted fanbase—never mind the unknowns or relative unknowns whose posters are getting covered up.
10:02 p.m.: A man who turns out to be Wayne Coyne of The Flaming Lips walks down Sixth Street in a giant plastic ball, followed by people in giant alien and insect costumes. SXSW has a little bit of a Mardi Gras to it, which may explain the Bible-beaters roaming the streets and urging people to repent. As the evangelicals shout over a megaphone, a woman yells, "Elvis is my personal lord and savior!"
11:24 p.m.: Scott H. Biram—"the dirty one-man band"—plays a song about getting hit by an 18-wheeler, which actually happened to him. Biram's pleasantly abrasive hard blues is excellent, and he's an electrifying performer—no small feat for a man whose setup consists of his voice, his guitar, and some kind of kick-drum contraption. He swears a lot, too. Biram debuts a new song: "Well if it tastes like chicken, and it smells like pee, you know that fish didn't come from the sea!" A few seconds later he adds, "That's all I got for that one." Who needs more?
12:13 a.m.: Bobby Bare Jr.: "Could you turn off the yellow lights? I feel like I'm a cheeseburger in the yellow lights of life." Bare, son of country-music legend Bobby Bare, plays an excellent set of rocking Americana, a nice mix of country twang and rock bombast.
1:59 a.m.: In an effort to end night two with a bang, it's straight to Eternal to experience the fuss that is Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. It turns out that the Brooklyn band—which plays earnestly quirky indie pop that brings to mind Talking Heads, The Velvet Underground, and Violent Femmes but is too inspired to sound derivative—is worth every drop of the ink that's been spilled in its name.
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