SXSW 2010 :: Day 4

Cokemachineglow @ SXSW, Day 4 :: Saturday, March 20

The last day of SXSW 2010 ended with a bang—or at least started that way. Saturday morning kicked off with the thunderous blasts of not Cymbals Eat Guitars or No Age (or Hole, for that matter) but with actual thunder. And rain. And irritation. But the downpour stopped by the time your intrepid critic was functional enough to head downtown and stayed away all day, an Austin miracle. Unfortunately, all the sun in the world couldn’t keep the city from being, as the Dismemberment Plan’s Travis Morrison once said, fucking freezing, an issue later on for outdoor guitarists attempting to move their fingers.

The Middle East

Things were cozier inside the Austin Convention Center for KCRW’s day showcase, at which I finally caught the much-talked about Australian outfit the Middle East. The band’s 2008 debut, The Recordings of the Middle East, waffles between gauzy folk and generic post-rock, so I was pleased to see the band embracing their more acoustic leanings. Word is they’ve got a new record done and due later this year, one that should warm the hearts of lovers of Nick Drake or the Swell Season.

Rogue Wave

Rogue Wave followed them, and despite the disappointments of the band’s recent records (and their slow but certain shift toward the pleasant strums of their latest label head, Jack Johnson), singer Zach Rogue’s voice hasn’t dimmed since debuting on Out of the Shadow (2004). Rogue still writes good, occasionally great songs; I wish he would dress them up in the idiosyncratic costumes he once did rather than go the straightforward route.

At Stereogum’s “Range Life” party at the Parish, a venue I’d left a mere twelve hours earlier, Wye Oak offered their own brand of acoustic pleasantries in advance of a rare solo appearance by Death Cab For Cutie’s Ben Gibbard. But before Gibbard could receive the eye-battings of the well-coiffed female (and hell, the guys, too) population of the front row, a string of comedians warmed up the crowd.

Kristen Schaal and Kurt Braunohler

Kristen Schaal, an indie rocker by association by virtue of her role as the Flight of the Conchords’ only groupie, Mel, on the now defuct show of the same name, took the stage with Kurt Braunohler for a set of brief bits. After that, “The Sarah Silverman Show” writer Chelsea Peretti riffed about her romantic troubles and sometime-VH1 talking head Pete Holmes earned actual LOLs for his musings on Facebook-as-government-conspiracy.

Ben Gibbard

The long-awaited Gibster finally took the stage, ignoring a provided stool and launching into acoustic takes on some Death Cab oldies: “Title Track” followed by “405,” arguably DCFC’s finest effort and a song close to my heart given the vast stretches of life I’ve lost forever on that maddening excuse for a freeway.

ARMS

A few choice cuts later, I had bigger, colder fish to fry, and walked across town to the Kung Fu Saloon for Piano’s day party and ARMS, the revived solo project of Harlem Shakes’ Todd Goldstein. With his old band, creators of one of last year’s best pure indie rock records, no longer shoo-soo-shakin’, Goldstein’s new trio is touring on the strength of a new, free EP and the rumblings of an album on the way. It would be hard for the guitarist-turned-singer to top Harlem Shakes’ exuberance, and at ARMS’ patio show, he didn’t try—instead, the band’s new material was as downcast as the weather, driven by guitar arpeggios and Goldstein’s crisp falsetto and punctuated by bursts of noise that he managed to summon from his axe, numb fingers and all.

The set was worth soaking in the frosty air, but warmth beckoned. Back at the Convention Center, I looped the guitar exposition twice and weighed the cost of shipping a 1968 gold top Gibson back to Los Angeles. I compromised and bought a half-dozen $2 albums next door instead, only minorly irked that the Steely Dan selection was missing Aja, the album I debated skipping SXSW over so I could spend my week off listening to it on loop.

iLL-Literacy

With night approaching, it was time for CMG’s resident whitest boy alive to catch some hip-hop, co-courtesy of CMG, at the Audible Treats showcase at the Independent. At a bare, warehouse-style space near the highway, it didn’t take long for the crowd to pour in—though most missed the opening moments of iLL-Literacy’s ridiculous set, in which the posse arrived on stage with yellow Lego heads. Playing their beats live with a smattering of electronic gear and well-equipped MacBooks, the group offered OutKast-style funk cut up with hard rhymes and beatless freestyles.

Truthlive

Truthlive took the stage next, opening his set by taking a shot at Lil Wayne and appearing with a grooving live band. The vivacious MC rapped about the industry, his mic skills and acid reflux, in case anyone was wondering if guy needed some Tums.

Crayon Fields

With a full house and the beats still rebounding through the walls, it was clear the Glow’s co-sponsored shindig no longer needed my services and I left in search of indie pop. I found it at the Crayon Fields’ show at Mi Casa Cantina, a set cut short by a keyboard on the fritz but otherwise full of charmingly fey tunes tinged with the same nerdy confidence of last year’s excellent, mildly antagonistic Pants Yell! record.

Saturday night’s big events—the Alex Chilton tribute, Perez Hilton’s lackluster annual party (headlined by 1999 all-stars Hole, Snoop Dogg and Macy Gray)—were either badge-only or too bothersome to brave the weather for any further. So, with some forty shows attended and photographed in four days with a sleep hours and beer count somewhere in between, I bid adieu to South By Southwest. “You Can Call Me Al” was playing in the shuttle; Jaime’s tacos were still simmering in my stomach, and the half-forgotten words of another D-Plan song came to mind. You are invited, for all time.

A few post-mortems: the following night, Method Man and I shared a flight from Dallas to Los Angeles. Meth sat front row, obviously. Five hours after I left my friend Jordan’s house for the airport, Bill Murray (not to be mistaken with actual/joke [?!] MySpace band Chill Murray) apparently arrived for Jordan’s second annual post-SXSW vegan barbecue and shotgunned Tecate like a pro. The New York Times, presumably embarrassed by their old rivals at the Wall Street Journal beating them to the punch, wrote an article about chillwave. And SXSW, long a festival devoted to new music, completed its metamorphosis from a discovery zone to a testing ground, where buzzed-about bands had to prove their internet-beloved music extended as effectively into real life (so people could Tweet about it). If you didn’t go, I hope you’ve found something new and exciting in these pages—and if you did, I’ll see you next year.