I suppose it depends on how often you’ve taken advantage of the free booze and the 4 a.m. parties the previous three nights, but Saturday is always a pretty rough day at SXSW. Faces that once glowed with enthusiasm and anticipation now look strung out and beat down (basically, everyone looks like a 30-year-old L.A. female who does too much coke and does too little sleeping), and day parties tend to find a lot of people sitting in parts of clubs they would probably want sterilized under normal circumstances.

            The we’re-all-hungover vibe is in effect at the Rachael Ray party at Maggie Mae’s, where at 1:20 p.m. I’m currently attempting to navigate the clusterfuck feed trough, which thankfully includes a vegetarian option (a not-bad-at-all jalapeño mac and cheese). Having missed Rach’s party last year, I’m excited to finally get my chance to offer her that bear hug I’ve always wanted to give her, but I ultimately miss my chance when she stands near me for 30 seconds and then bolts as Josh and I waste precious time talking about him taking a photo of us on his iPhone ...

I had the realization today that this is my sixth straight “working” SXSW (the first three I spent as a showcasing artist, the last three I’ve spent passing judgment on other showcasing artists), and it’s the first one in a long time that’s actually been fun. In years past I’ve been too caught up with my obligations to enjoy myself, but this week I set the simple goal of seeing one good show a night and letting everything else fall where it may, which has actually worked out great. Sure, I’ve missed a few dozen artists I was sort of curious about (Wavves, Vivian Girls, Telepathe, DM Stith, etc.) but nothing I’m not convinced I’ll never get the chance to see again, and the trade-off of not feeling pressured has been more than worth it. As a result, it’s been my most relaxed SXSW since I was just another Austinite using it as an excuse to party for four days—which is something of a miracle, considering reports indicate it’s the biggest one ever.

 

On a short list of regrets, not getting my shit together and picking up my media badge ...

By the time Patrick Stickles arrived on stage at Club Deville last night, the Titus Andronicus frontman sounded like he had played far more than five shows over the past four days. His voice was hoarse, he acted a few notches below cranky, and he appeared to have aged five years since I saw Titus open for Los Campesinos! in February. Yet, as he signaled the start of the band's set with the first few notes of "Titus Andronicus," he shrugged that all off, bounding about his area of the stage and screaming himself into further hoarseness.

 

That's the way things go at SXSW: long periods of exhaustion punctuated by brief bursts of  euphoria. Want to see Metallica? Well, wait in this line. Then wait in the venue. Then watch DJ Bassnectar. And Silversun Pickups. Now you may rewarded with "Master Of Puppets." Oh, btw, do you mind standing through that whole process?

 

So on the final real day of SXSW (the fest likes to pretend that it runs through Sunday, but a tribute band marathon at Emo's does not a fifth day make), I opted to pull a switch-up on the whole operation and substitute in ...

 Saturday is the day at SXSW Music on which people really start dragging: You start seeing people sitting on every available sittable surface (curbs, window sills, etc.) and the energy of Sixth Street is a little less frantic. But it’s a nice sort of fatigue, and it doesn’t stop the parade of concerts happening in every nook and cranny. But it does keep me in bed a little bit later—nothing seems more important than a bit of chill time.

 

But still: Rachael Ray’s Party. I didn’t go last year, but this time out the lineup was stronger and it was at a bigger place, Maggie Mae’s, so I figured I’d give it a shot. Also: Delicious-sounding food was promised (ancho chicken soft tacos, seven-layer sliders, bourbon BBQ chicken), and who can turn that down? Guess what? The food was pretty damn sub-par—not inedible, but by no means TV quality. Ms. Ray was walking around (being stalked by Marc Hawthorne), not behind the Dorito-crushing machine that she patented, so maybe it’s not her fault. Also: tons of free pre-mixed Mojitos that were insanely sweet. And this is coming from a guy who ...

The last real day of the festival arrives—time to power through!

 

3:41 p.m. – The MyOpenBar.com Four Square Punk Party is in a shadeless dirt lot at Cesar Chavez and I-35, but the low-rent setting completely suits the sloppiest of sloppy punk being played on the tiny platforms that could only generously be described as "stages." The setup is pretty great, though: Four stages occupy the corners of a small square area, and the band on each stage plays one song before rotating to the next band. On stage right now are Cerebral Ballzy (who I'm psyched to see because they made my band-names list last year), Golden Era, She Rides, and Team Robespierre. As soon as Cerebral Ballzy starts playing, beer begins flying. Singer Honor pours it on himself, people pour it on him and his bandmates, and the world's smallest, sloppiest pit breaks out in front of the stage. CB's drummer has what look like fresh stitches above his left eye, which makes total sense.

 

3:48 p.m. – Jim, the drummer for Team Robespierre, plays with a jagged cymbal that's missing about a third of its body. Once the band ...

Saturday is the last-chance day for the film side of the South By Southwest Festival.  It's the day you spend lots of time rushing from one screening to another, knowing that this is your last chance to catch some of the movies -- literally your last chance, in some cases, because if they don't get a distribution deal, you'll never be able to see them again.  It's the day when you realize that you've spent a lot of time, emotion and intellectual energy on films that may end up never getting an audience, which is too bad for you, but an even bigger bummer for the filmmakers, who are at this point wandering the streets with drugged bonbons in an attempt to get us in front of their screenings.  And, for multi-purpose culture jockeys like myself, it's also a highly risky day, because the music festival is also ending, and the temptation is great to slip away from the dark theaters and get out into some gorgeous Texas spring weather for a live show.  I'm not saying I did this and I'm not saying I didn't, but a little bird broke into ...

Some years this festival crawls by at a Groundhog Day-like pace, where it seems like the parade of day show/showcase/after-party will just go on forever. But this year has passed so quickly I’ve felt kind of like the white rabbit in Alice In Wonderland, forever running late to all my very important dates. (By the way, that’s a last-minute substitution for the metaphor my tired brain coughed up yesterday, which was “a monkey chained to a speedboat.”) It’s probably because, for the first time in my 10-year SXSW history, I’ve been trying to get at least seven hours of sleep a night, a luxury the younger me simply wouldn’t have allowed. The advantage to this is it’s made me far more appreciative of everything I do catch, since I’m less likely to resort to knee-jerk cynicism out of weariness. The flipside is I’m missing way more shit—like most of our own day party, for example.

 

By the time I got to Radio Room (after a long detour to spend nearly 15 minutes on the other side of downtown, cajoling two media passes to the Perez party), Parenthetical Girls ...

Talk to anyone the mission of SXSW, and you'll get the same answer: new music (with a post-script that "It used to be so much better, man"). Asking what kind of new music will splinter the consensus—unsigned bands? Texas bands? Indie bands?—but, ideally, people come to SXSW not to reinforce what they already know and love, but find some new stuff to know and love.

 

Ideally. Because in recent years, SXSW has become a destination for well-established artists looking for a quick victory lap or to generate buzz for their new material. The Hold Steady needn't be in Austin playing half a dozen times (though I respect that). And neither does one of the biggest bands in the world, Metallica. But here they were, playing a "secret" show at the 3,000-capacity Stubb's. Getting ready for that show swallowed up a lot of my day.

 

1:20 p.m. – Okay, I cheated on my rules today about not seeing bands I've seen before. The Thermals are playing our day party, which I have to attend, so it's not like I can ignore them, right? The Oregon poppy punk (or punky pop) trio makes ...

Austin again, for a light-viewing Friday.  Hopefully you'll forgive the brevity of this post, but for one thing, I'm preparing for the big push that is Saturday -- the final day of the South By Southwest Film Festival, for which I have a full roster of viewings planned -- and for another, I ran into some friends last night who had an in with Rwake's people and a case full of Tito's.  So, as you can probably guess, I'm in no condition for an insightful analysis of last night's viewings.  I'm lucky I'm not dead, to be honest.  But I'll do my best, and soldier on for tomorrow, when we go over the top.

 

Okay, full disclosure: I’m a Third Eye Blind fan. Some people might even say fanatic. And not in a nostalgic, I-loved-the-band-when-I-was-a-kid-and-have-too-many-great-memories-associated-with-its-songs-to-stop-listening sort of way. In fact, I didn’t even start liking 3EB back when it was on the top of the charts and “Semi-Charmed Life” was used in one out of every three movie trailers—I began with “Never Let You Go” and Blue, and then worked my way back to the first record, which is one of the handful of albums I own that I can genuinely say I like every single song. I understand that I’ve probably lost most of you by this point—those of you who I didn’t already lose with my top 10 albums of 2008, which, if I remember correctly, prompted a commenter to say I should never be allowed to vote again (I think because I put Coldplay at #1, not because I made American Music Club #2)—but that’s okay, as long as you don’t come up to me later and ask why I like Matchbox 20. I loathe Matchbox 20, and that shitty band should never, ever be confused with my beloved 3EB.

 When I woke up this morning, I sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, slumped over, and pressed my palms into my eyeballs like a character in an Alka-Seltzer commercial—or, more in line with my band itinerary yesterday, a character in a Cursive song. It's like my body doesn't want all the beer and meat that I've been shoving into for the last three days. It's having a similar reaction to standing for 14 hours a day.

 

Josh was all about eating our party up; my interests lay more in catching up with friends, using some of the (estimated) one million drink tickets provided by The Onion and Pabst, and catching Parenthetical Girls at 4. In the mean time, I caught The Thermals again, playing a set that totally won me over to its crunchy-and-catchy side. The band's new single, "Now We Can See," is still available for free download from this website and your friendly neighborhood Decider, and if you're anything like me (and I'd like to think you are), that "oh-way-oh-whoa-oh" refrain is going to be your new favorite earwig. Still, as I tweeted previously, singer-guitarist ...

 So today was our party, and our party—to use the parlance of the day—fucking owned. I don’t know if I’ve had a better time at any SXSW day party ever, and that includes the ones we’ve thrown in the past. Thanks to everybody who came and enjoyed the bands and comedians with us; sorry to anybody who wasn’t able to get in. Things were a little thin at the beginning of the day, but by early afternoon, it was one-in, one-out for the remainder.

 

I’m too damn tired to go into tons of detail on all 12 bands, but I shall mention (and thank) them all: Ohbijou kicked us off with spare, sweet strings. Cuff The Duke braved the big outdoor stage with some solid Canadian power-poppings. Chikita Violenta weren’t violent, but they were awesomely energetic.

 

The Thermals, who were playing their first of three shows of the day, drew the biggest early crowd: No surprise considering how incredible the upcoming Now We Can See is. It’s always nice to see teens totally freak out over a band like this, singing along with every word and really getting it. And The ...

Thursday morning I woke up feeling kind of how Robert Downey Jr. looks in Less Than Zero, thanks to the Red Bull Drive Way The Fuck Out Here For Nothing party, so most of my day was already  shot. I think maybe in SXSWs past I was able to force myself to get up and go to day shows even if I had stayed up until 5 a.m. the night before, but these are different, thirtysomething times. Besides, we have five voices chattering out here in the SXSWilderness, so what does it matter if I opt to stay home and recharge? Y’all ain’t the boss of me!

 

Anyway, I really only had one objective today (which has been my objective ever since the festival lineup was announced): See Grizzly Bear at the Central Presbyterian Church. It’s funny; I’ve never set foot inside that place before, for reasons spiritual or sacrilegious, but now I’ve spent two nights in a row sitting in a pew, staring up at a big ol’ crucifix, just to catch some indie rock. In my mind, this makes up for years of agnosticism, so I’m fully expecting to get into ...

Thanks to the oxygen sensor on our plane yesterday, the warnings from which delayed our flight four hours, Josh & I spent a sad amount of Thursday gathering the various wristbands we would've collected yesterday. To attend SXSW is to endure the eternal quest for access to all the parties, shows, and weird events that happen roughly 20 hours a day. Of course you'll never be able to make them all, and chances are you won't remember which you've RSVP'd for. And even once you arrive to pick up your credentials, there's a good chance your information never made it to the right people, and you're shit out of luck.

 

In a way, SXSW is all about greed. Not (necessarily) the financial kind, but something more abstract: access. Everyone wants access to everything, and SXSW's rigid class system (badges>wristbands>Joe Public) activates the gluttony centers in attendees' brains. You may not necessarily even want what's in that swag bag or to hear the bands playing that party, but you'll fight to the death to have the option.

 

So that's why it's important to run these errands instead of ...

 I'm sorry for breaking SXSW.

 

Allow me to explain: Every year, the music end of the festival gets farther from the ideal of a giant stage for new talent and closer to the "well-known acts surrounded by mid-to-lower tier performers" model of stuff like Lollapalooza. SXSW is still a sprawling beast in comparison (Kyle's tweets about last night/this morning's Jane's Addiction show make it sound like Perry Farrel's got it together, but I'd like to see his sparkly ass organize something the size of SXSW.) What is the undiscovered songwriter to do when a performance rights organization like BMI is throwing all its SXSW weight behind Devo? I'm just feeding into the death of the idealized SXSW, because if I had a badge, I might already be in line for Devo. Of the nine bands I saw yesterday—slacker, I know—I was previously aware of five, and intimately familiar with three, to the point that I used to run a blog named after a lyric from one of the band's songs.

 

That band, Great Lakes Myth Society, could use a little bit of that ol' SXSW "let's get known ...

It’s hot right now in Texas, which is obviously nothing new, but it’s hard to remember the last time it was this hot at SXSW. That’s fine with me, but it causes some issues related to time management and showering. Basically, there’s always something happening during SXSW, and if you have a personality like mine where you constantly feel like you’re missing out on something good (I’m still pretty jealous that I didn’t see that Cash Cash show on Wednesday), well, you start giving up some basic daily activities, like eating meals sitting down and taking showers. I feel kind of filthy, but it’s 12:15 p.m. and The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart is going on in half an hour at the Brooklyn Vegan/Paste party at the Radio Room, so fuck it, I’m flying smelly today.

 Before I begin, I'd like to point you to Decider Minneapolis, which is running some photos and video from SXSW. Check it!

 

Howdy. (That’s my attempt at being Texan.) The second day at SXSW 2009 began slowly, as my body clock adjusted to the time difference. Not the time-zone difference—there isn’t one—but rather the staying-up-too-late clock. But I shan’t complain, because I am in sunny Austin, where it’s 80 degrees and there are bands playing every ten Goddamn feet.

 

So this morning was mostly about getting some business done that we would’ve conquered yesterday had our flight not been delayed—boring stuff like picking up credentials for all the buzzy late-night parties (Perez Hilton, here we come) and the always-fun, always-packed Fader Fort. We stopped off at its new location this year, which is east of I-35 and looks like a big ol’ field with some tin shacks lining the side that’s been turned into a swanky clubhouse. Janelle Monae was playing, and there was en entire Levi’s store built into the grounds. This is supposedly where Kanye West will be making his big surprise appearance on Saturday—I guess ...

I'll be honest with you, handful of AV Club readers who are bothering to click on this film blog entry:  I'm getting a little burned out.  I've driven back and forth up and down the I-35 so many times that I'm beginning to see the Tanger Outlet Mall in my sleep.  I've eaten so many K.C. burgers at Casino El Camino that the blood is actually beginning to pump backwards into my heart.  The ushers at the Paramount have learned to recognize my hacking cough from several blocks away, and are beginning to give me preferential seating right in between the toilets and Harry Knowles' electric scooter.  And I'm neglecting some very important television-watching back home, so much that I probably should learn to use my DVR one of these days.  But I soldier on for you, brave handful.  All for you.

 

You go to enough of these screenings, and you start to see the same people over and over again.  That one usher who looks like he has a robust supply of penniless drifters in his basement; the guy with a platinum festival pass and no command of the English language, who ...

You wouldn't know it from Wednesday, but there's still a full week left of the South By Southwest Film Festival.  The music side of the program opens up tonight, which means that by the time I sputter into town, the streets are already filled with ironic t-shirts, outsized specs, and people perplexingly desperate to see the Decemberists.  Oh, how well I remember those days, when I myself was known to stay up past 10PM!  Of course, I am older now, and wiser too, and I have realized two things:  (1) there are precious few bands whose music is more appealing than sleep, and (2) no one is paying me to go see rock shows at this year's SxSW.  So movies it is:  while Sean, Josh, Kyle and the boys are off doing their musical thang-thang, I'll still be holed up in dark theaters, getting paler and sleepier.  In a transparently desperate attempt to hang on to my scenester credibility, however, I decide to make tonight's viewings two movies that deal explicitly with the world of rock 'n' roll, in all its sleazy glory.

 

Although it's been on the festival circuit for a while now ...

 Welcome to one of the most redundant blogs I’ve ever written, considering I already spent most of Wednesday dutifully Twatting my every move, and it looks like my colleagues here have already mentioned nearly everything notable I said or did during the day in their own write-ups. So what hasn’t been covered already? Uh… Well, speaking as an Austinite, the weather is about as good as it gets around here; I consumed way too much free food, drank for nearly 14 hours, and pretty much saw every local friend and itinerant ally I expected to see, and now we’re just going to get gradually sick of one another over the course of the next few days; and I’m also pretty sure the hangover I’ve had since Monday’s Decider party isn’t going away until mid next week. Guess that’s about it. Thankyougoodnight.

 

Oh, right: I suppose we could talk about music. I started my SXSW the same way I always do, at the Austinist’s Gonna Gonna Get Down, where the first band I managed to catch in between mouthfuls of free brisket was Here We Go Magic—which I believe actually bills ...

Because we're drowning you in SXSW coverage, I present my notes in easy-digest list form, so you can read them quickly before your boss catches you screwing off at work. Stick it to the man, comrades!

 

10:07 p.m. – After a colossal clusterfuck of a trip getting down here, Josh and I amble over to Beauty Bar for the Asthmatic Kitty/K Records/YouTube showcase. I have my first Shiner of the fest, and notice how most of the dudes in the audience are wearing plaid button-down shirts with pearl snaps. My shirt has pearl snaps, but isn't plaid, so I WIN. As Fol Chen begins their set, it's difficult at first to tell if they're line-checking their instruments or actually playing a song.

 

10:17 p.m. – A woman standing in front of me turns to her friend, makes the "so-so" sign with her hand, then they leave. Fol Chen's synthy, sloppy indie rock isn't without its charms, but I feel the same way—especially when they whip out a cover of Mariah Carey's "Emotion."

 

10:35 p.m. – Outside, Desolation Wilderness is more my speed: a rock quartet that reminds ...

With the dawning of another SXSW, so many questions come to mind: Is Kanye West going to make any of his rumored appearances? Is the bad economy going to mean less people and thus make for a more manageable week, kind of like what happened in 2002? Will I be able to survive with just a wristband, which doesn’t carry nearly as much power at club doors as the badges I’ve always had in the past? Will I be able to find the Red Bull Moon Tower and make out with a girl who looks like Sabrina from Dazed And Confused, or perhaps Christin Hinojosa herself? Will my bosses actually force me to walk down that deep, dark tunnel that is Twitter? Is Third Eye Blind’s performance on Saturday really going to include Joanna Newsom and the RZA? Will last year’s unrequited love for Rachael Ray blossom into a full-blown romance this year at her party on Saturday, thanks to this special media badge I need to remember to pick up on Friday? Will my NCAA tournament bracket be completely busted by the time I get back to San Francisco? And how many hours will it ...

 So a bit of introduction before I start divulging my first day at SXSW Music 2009: My name is Erik Michael Adams. I'm a 23-year-old Caucasian male. I'm also the assistant editor for Decider in Austin, and enjoy shoehorning Arrested Development references into music columns. And I guess that's it.

 

This is my second SXSW, and despite the fact that I couldn't get to bed Tuesday night, I was at The Onion's Sixth StreetHQ drinking coffee and checking tweets at 9:30am. Heading down to the Mohawk for Austinist's “Gonna Gonna Get Down” day party, Sixth was mostly barren, but it felt like everyone not loading truckloads of beer into the bars was eagerly bouncing on their heels, champing at the bit like they were Chicago A.V. Club editors on a flight delayed for four hours. Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" played from the window of Roppolo's Pizza, whoever put it on oblivious to the fact that the only musical choice for representing the impending arrival of a massive, unstoppable force is "Ride Of The Valkyries." (Right, Zack Snyder?)

 

My main goal for Gonna Gonna Get Down was to gonna gonna get fed ...

Hey-ya, and welcome to the music portion of our SXSW coverage. Leonard has already been letting you know—via blog posts—what’s up with South By Southwest Film, and now we’ve got FIVE faces on the ground to relay the music experience.

Today started with a slight hitch, which you already know if you’ve been following our bad-ass Tweets. (A kajillion people are here Twittering—Pop Candy, Pitchfork, etc. etc.) Anyway, the hiccup: a flight delayed for about 4 hours. For a while there, it looked like we wouldn’t make it to Austin at all (“All flights on all carriers to Austin are booked,” came the ominous announcement) but the rock plane—I’d say 75% SXSW attendees—eventually made it out of Chicago. Amen to that.

We missed a little bit, including a reception for press at the mayor’s office that Sean O’Neal can tell you about. (I should mention that, unlike in prior years, we’ll all be submitting stories separately. So hit the “see all” button on the front page to get the full, immersive experience. Oh, and follow our Twitters. We’re getting paid per twit.

So, after checking into ...

Most of the week, I have what passes for a life in San Antonio to attend to, but does that mean I'll leave you, the loyal AV Club reader attentive enough to notice the South By Southwest sidebar, hanging?  Hell no, it does not mean that.  It does not mean even a little that.  I will jet up to Austin when I can, and when I can't, well, that's why God created screeners.  My living room may not have the energy or the bill of fare of the Alamo Drafthouse, but it has a better selection of liquor, and the chances of Harry Knowles showing up are practically nil.  So let's get on to today's viewing.

 

Say My Name is first in line, and it's one I've been looking forward to for quite some time.  Hip-hop is all growed up now -- it's got a good thirty years of action under its belt, and that means the ladies should have their say by now.  But the rap world is still widely perceived as a man's man's world, with rampant misogyny in both the lyrics and the life.  The bitch-and-ho paradigm still ...

Sunday was a getaway day for me at the South By Southwest Film Festival.  I had to rush back home to finish up some freelance projects and get in a viewing for the TV Club tonight, so I was able to squeeze in a mere three screenings this sleepy Sunday.  However, I’ll have further brief updated throughout the week for you SxSW-watchers.  Before I get to today’s reviews, however, a couple of people have asked how the swag here in Austin compares to the fancy bags of free giveaways they dispense at places like Sundance and Telluride.  The answer is, much in the way that a mermaid compares to an actual human.  Unless you’re craving tiny energy bars or cheap sunglasses (the item, not the ZZ Top song), you’re better off just taking your swag bag, putting a few cheap groceries in it, and handing it to a homeless person, who can use the 200-page brochure about filming opportunities in Miami as kindling during the unforgiving Texas winters.

 

First out of the box this morning was Made in China, the debut feature from director Judi De La Cruz Krant.  The story in this fast-paced comedy is ...

Well, that'll teach me to go jackassin'.  After all that bragging I did about the star-stuffed good time I was going to have at this year's South By Southwest Film Festival, I arrived in Austin to find it dreary, rainy and cold -- or, at least as cold as it ever gets around here, which for an expatriate Chicagoan like myself is pretty mild, but still not a lot of fun to trudge around in.  Also, like estimable Austin AV Club BMOC Sean O'Neal, I have a cold, which was bound to make me plenty of fun to sit next to in the theater.  By the time I got checked in, I was already surrounded by hipster haircuts and eager to get into a nice dark room where I wouldn't have to look at them.  

 

The first movie I saw (unbeknownst to me, in the company of Sean -- if you didn't spot me, either, I was the one coughing incessantly) was New World Order, a documentary on latter-day conspiracy theorists directed by Darkon's Andrew Neel & Luke Meyer.  Featuring a smorgasbord of anti-government ranters, 9/11 "truthers", 2nd-Amendment absolutists and other assorted cranks, the movie had ...