BITE ME! SXSW 2006 live!

SXSW 2006 - Austin, Texas

Thursday

It starts at the airport as we are whisked away in a cab emblazoned with a Nine Black Alps logo in the rear window and ends four long Jagermeister fuelled nights later. For 20 years now Austin has played host to the SXSW music and film festival. Beginning with 200 bands on a dozen humble stages, it now boasts over 1300 performers on hundreds around and outside the city. Pretty much every car park, club, pub, taco shack, and clothes shop puts up a stage and a bar for this Disneyland to the music fan. It's the Olympics of indie rock, and for one week every year in March there really is no place like Austin, Texas. Damien Kulash of rockers OKGO probably said it best when from the stage he declared, “SXSW is like celebrating all your birthdays at Christmas.”

Other commitments mean we arrive a day late and a dollar short for this years festivities and soon hear tales of Flaming Lips show in a tented parking lot, whereupon they dropped hundreds of streamer filled balloons all to the strain of their cover of “Bohemian Rhapsody”. So, with a wallet full of dollar tips, my pocket guide on who’s on where and when, and a fully charged Sidekick I'm ready to hit the town. Meeting friends at the nearby Hilton I hear "Territorial Pissings" by Nirvana as I myself erm…piss and think “Surely this week is the only time this will be pumped into the restrooms.” Meanwhile, a guy next to me asks "Who's this?" His badge title shows he really should know better. I quickly hear that Neil Young is about to play across town at the tiny with a small t club Antones. It is here that I am quickly reminded of the hierarchy system - badges first, wristbands second, and cash last. Sure this classist system hurts your pride when you are lined up with no chance in hell of entry. First and foremost, though, this whole shebang is a music convention, so suck it up my friend and move next door. At the same time, on the other end of town, on a much bigger stage, Morrissey himself has turned up to play a majestic version of "How Soon is Now" and a Vegas styled reading of "Girlfriend in a Coma" whilst flinging yet another Moz stained silk shirt to the adoring throng. All this and a certain little three piece from Brooklyn threw themselves around a stage behind a BBQ joint while singing a frat boy classic about fighting for their right to party.

The first live music I get to hear is when I saw Elefant at the Levis/Fader party in a small but well populated courtyard. Here singer Diego Garcia, sporting a cast from a broken foot, sweatily charges through some of the faster songs from their new album—the Doorsy "Lolita" and new single "Uh Oh Hello"—but save the best for last with a storming "Misfit". Damn it’s sticky here. I've no idea what the temperature is, but I do know I feel like I'm in a school swimming pool changing room. Why I decide to get my drink with Guinness I'll never know. Pretty soon I'm bleary eyed and wandering the packed streets. I catch a song or two at the end of the great Kevin Devine's set at The Hotel Café bash then leave to find ex Catherine Wheel Rob Dickinson struggling to be heard with the terrible sound system over incessant chatter at Friends. Then I checked my list and remembered my first must see and finally got into the groove of the festival.

Grabbing a cab to the Diesel party I managed to quaff a few Red Stripes before seeing Editors saunter on to then detonate the tiny bright white lit stage. Finally, I'm excited as the band burn through forty too short minutes of unbridled joy and frenetic enthusiasm. After the show we file out energized and the evening becomes a blur of different colored shots and jalapeño pizza. Whilst waiting for food a tiny band plays at an ATM kiosk. No one bats an eyelid.

Friday

Note to self, don't ever touch jalapeño pizza again. Ever!

I awake to what can only be vomit on my pillow whilst my whole body has a migraine. After choking down four dollar hotel water I finally shower, dress, and head to the Mountain Dew showcase at La Zona Rosa. I so don't feel in the mood, but the devil in me insists I go. It just so happens that I made another bad choice here.

As I leave my room I spot Wayne Coyne from the Lips in the glass elevator. He has his usual beige suit on and looks for all the world like a mannequin. After drinking too much icky green Amp I feel worse than I did before and am filled with self loathing after leaving diarrhea in four venues all before 1pm. Never mind…don't mess with Texas.

I just miss Morningwood by mere seconds, but hang around to watch HelloGoodbye do their prom night pop punk complete with onstage dancers and confetti bombs. The free admission, open to all ages show and the fact that Jack's Mannequin are on the bill means that I am way older than the majority here. Half the kids are wearing green shirts for Paddy's day, whilst the other half are in Something Corporate t's. There are many squeals as the baby grand piano is wheeled center stage. After recently being treated for Leukemia, singer Andrew McMahon shows no sign of fatigue whilst he leads his band through a set packed with album highlights. He displays real charm and charisma, especially when he jumps atop the piano towering above the kids during a cover of “American Girl". Admittedly, by now I felt out of place amongst the boy band crowd and last night was taking its toll, so I skulked to the dankest, darkest corner of the hall and fell down. By the time I pepped up the main reason I came here was taking the stage.

Due to my recent love of their new Epitaph album "Voices" I seriously did not want to miss my only chance to see Matchbook Romance this week. The kids, however, left in droves, literally running to the other side of town to get Romance of the My Chemical kind at a not so secret benefit for ‘Shirts for a Cure’. I should have left too, Matchbook Romance got on stage after what felt like ages and stood dumbfounded that nothing was working. I felt for the guys because close to twenty minutes of their set time ticked away embarrassingly as frantic messages were passed back and forth. It was such a shame because if any "Industry" people had shown up they would be long gone by now. Despite not having any working monitors the guys ploughed through just four songs when the crowd asked to hear "Promise" and before they could fulfill the request demons killed the drum kit and they finished with a dignified "You Can Run, But You Can't Hide". I left as soon as the band did figuring that waiting for Thursday may be just as fruitless with a wrecked stage. So, off to the big Spin party at Stubb's I go. On the way I see an almighty queue to see Brian Jonestown Massacre - shame Frankie missed his flight!

I was revved up to see We Are Scientists, who were a real tonic after the day's disappointments so far. Watching the contorted facial expressions of vocalist Keith Murray as he screamed "The night is young, I'm blacking out, but it's been fun," was priceless. It was the first time I had seen this Seattle three piece live, but I'm sure it won't be the last.

As I stand and watch Googol Bordello's singer Eugene spin a mix of Slayer and Lithuanian oompa on the wheels of steel I suddenly feel like a drunk pirate and begin to receive random texts from around the town. “The line for Blender bar is jacked up,” said one, “Jane’s party has Dr Pepper cupcakes,” said another. Speaking of Jane, later that night I learn that none other than Perry Farrell jumped onstage to sing "Mountain Song" at NME's BBQ. I only hope that those present appreciated the moment that would have made my week.

Later on I find myself stuck in the Blender bar line and overhear what sounds scarily like a Nickelback cover band across the road. I'm sure it wasn’t, but nothing would surprise me anymore. Inside the venue some friends and I crash out next to boxes of condoms by the staircase. Needless to say, several rounds later we make many balloons. Here we watch the hotly tipped Jim Noir doing his best Beatles in the cavern impression. Brakes manage to sound better and snottier than both the Electric Soft Parade and British Sea Power bands they are made up of. We also enjoy a band called The Kooks, whose singer wants to be the next Pete Dougherty so much it hurts. (We’re talking all the way down to his little hat and white wifebeater.) Then we disappear to see, or at least hear, Matthew Sweet and Susannah Hoffs do a fiery riff heavy "Cinnamon Girl". We are outside a packed bar called The Drink with about a hundred more - close up to the windows as even badges are denied. My buddies head to Superchunk, and I need a breather.

The biggest buzz of the festival by any stretch was the Arctic Monkeys back over at La Zona Rosa, so much so that many I spoke to weren’t even going to try to get in as they figured they had no chance. So, our crew traversed across town (again!) in a drunkenly loud lump. We managed to lose and then find each other again at the St. Patrick’s Day Street fair all to the sound of "New Years Day". When we arrived half an hour before show time things were relatively quiet and entrance was surprisingly simple. It was pretty exciting though and judging by the amount of strong accented Brits in the crowd it felt as though half of Yorkshire had been airlifted in for the event. The band came on to a rapturous reception and for the first few songs they were great, cocky, punky, and a bundle of wound up hormones. But, were they worthy of all the accolades bestowed upon them? Hell no! Not even close. In fact, once many people saw what all the fuss was (not) about and the young band played yet another long titled song they quickly left. I did too after singer Alex Turner seemed way too worried about whether or not his hood was up or not for the next song/photo opportunity. One odd thing of note was that the gig did not feel like part of the festival, which was made clear by security (?) telling me not to take photos despite having a photo pass on my camera. Well excuse fucking me!

On the long trek home I contemplate going to check out J Mascis’ new stoner band, Witch (buy the cd) and realize instead that I am hopelessly lost. I end up talking to a rickshaw driver for too long and then amble to a hotel where I hear whispers of a late night party. I, along with many others, think we are being punked at the party no show. I then get invited to a secret late bar, but I leave my new found friends running across the street in a flurry of cowboy shirts and Mardi Gras beads.

By now I just want to go to bed but my legs don't get the message, so instead I slump into a lobby sofa and watch hundreds of people with cooler hair than mine wearily drag guitar cases across the shiny floor. At that point the death knell of my Sidekick shocks me awake, and I trudge home.

Saturday

The call comes early the next day but luckily I feel surprisingly good. Due to a bunch of crazy circumstances and knowing the right people I find myself doing double duty today. I am at the Alternative Press three stage extravaganza at Emo's, so as well as writing for you dear reader I'm also psyched to be filming footage to be shown on FUSE.

Excited?....Yes...Much.

Armed with my ‘bands to shoot’ list, for the next six hours I cross the street between the stages more times than those chicken jokes added together and during the course of the day capture some great moments. The highlights today include a gorgeous acoustic set by emo uncles Say Anything, who really surprised me with a heartfelt set of songs that are usually played louder.

Another mellow moment came with the uber cute cello tinged Straylight Run who sounded so accomplished and fresh at the same time. Across in the annex Circa Survive woke up downtown with sounds of a more graspable Mars Volta before the disco in hell beats of Head Automatica (Daryl Palumbo's crew) previewed a few tracks that shouldn't scare any old fans away.

Finally, I squeezed back to the main room and was not prepared at how intense the nail bomb blast of Thursday proved to be. The devoted faithful hung onto Geoff Rickley's every word and hands. The stage diving was plentiful as the floor swirled, and all the time I continued to roll film in the pit. After a way too short set I was left shaking with adrenalin and realized this was my high point of the week. I'm so glad Thursday is back in action. I missed them.

For the next hour, and with a real sense of achievement, I decide the only correct thing to do is celebrate. We all go to the frankly insane Boiling Pot (where they literally throw a mix of sausage and crab legs right in front of you, and you bash hell out of them with mallets. Talk about crab meat flying).

Before long music beckons again. This time in the mellow soothing shape of Siam. This Aussie songstress has a warm voice that melts in your ears and was accompanied by a great cellist that added some emotional highs. Best of all was her kooky/ditzy between song demeanor and the fact that she curses like a f*ckin sailor.

The festival was rapidly coming to a close and I felt a need to go where the people go and so that took us to the giant outdoor stage of the Fox and Hound. As we arrive the place was alive with people asking who their picks were, and the beer was flowing big time. On stage, Be Your Own Pets female screamer was flanked by equally big haired muppet guitars, as most waited for the next act.

To be honest, I really wanted to hate She Wants Revenge. I had played their album to death for a fortnight late last year, and then never put it on again upon learning of the Fred Durst connection. I had lost all care almost overnight. Well I'm here to tell you I was so wrong. She Wants Revenge straight up killed it tonight. Even though they weren't the final band, they should have been. No one had a voice all week that impressed me as much as that of Justin Warfield. It literally soared into the stratosphere. I was quite literally gob smacked.

And so my festival for this year was over. Sure I had a few regrets. There were many bands on my "to do" list that I never got close to seeing. I have no excuses really for missing about half a dozen Tapes n Tapes gigs, (although I did at least try to see Clap Your Hand Say Yeah!) it was just a matter of timing. No matter, because once again I have loved my time here. The next morning as I cross the bat bridge into town to eat I hear the sound of a man playing blues licks on a battered harmonica and realize this festival really could not happen anywhere else. Of course there is the abundance of venues, but it’s more than that. It is the fact that Austin really loves music. You can feel it in the air, and that's why SXSW remains the world's greatest music festival. -glenurse