SXSW 2009 :: Day Three

Craig: Besides Andre and I, there are three others who rolled down to Austin with us in a rented silver Toyota Siena. On our first day down here we did a remarkable job of keeping it together—literally and figuratively. On Friday, however, everybody went rogue. This is a much-needed exercise at SXSW because it gives one an emotional break from the pressure of finding the “best” show at every 30-minute interval while saddled with considering the “preferences” of “friends,” big lines, hot heat, and everything else that makes it feel like the world of music is eating us alive. I was feeling that way when we got our day started at 2:30 in the afternoon. We had already missed like two hours of music and I had the itch.

We rolled into Club Deville to learn that, sometimes, free beer isn’t free. With one person working a lukewarm keg and a line stretching a mile long, the one “free beer” area of the party was much less appealing than walking right up to another bar and paying some dude $3 for a cold can of Tecate. Whatever: the story here is American Analog Set, native sons returning to a packed audience, playing their classic album The Golden Band (1999). The music was deliberate and wonderfully expansive and Hot Freaks (the collective of blogs that promoted this party) gave them the respect of a full, almost hour-long set instead of the 20-30 minutes that has become the standard down here. Andre, who hadn’t seen the band since 2005, stuck around as they methodically unwound the most tender post-rock musings known to mankind.

I left with the intention to see Efterklang but, on the way over, I made the mistake of walking past the French Legation Museum, a beautiful plot of land that sits on a hill slightly away from the downtown bar scene. Last year it was one of my favorite spots: a grassy hill, families with young kids, dogs running around, ice cream. This year they added a second stage, so that at the bottom was folk music while the noisy/rock stuff happened on top. I caught the soundcheck of Marnie Stern, who, for the record, mic checks with “vagina one-two, vagina vagina.” I think during her set she spoke of her vagina several times, as well as her bass player’s. It was endearing in a kind of scary way, especially because in-between talking she was shredding the hell out of a guitar. Fretboard tapping and looping-galore marked a brilliant and short set. Later in the afternoon our favorite new band These Are Powers stopped by and gave a performance equal in awesoeness to the one the night before.

Andre: I didn’t know where Craig was and I didn’t particularly care. The Thermals were tearing it up at Deville, keeping the count at two-point-five minutes per face-melting song. The Portland three-piece struck a nice balance between old classics and new material from their forthcoming fourth album. I’ve always thought of the Thermals as punk rock equivalents of the Mountain Goats. Sure, Hutch Harris’s voice definitely has similarities to John Darnielle, but also there’s something in the delivery, the way in which he constructs immediate, almost desperate narratives, screaming to be heard, that reminds me of the Goats’ best albums.

I had to cut out of the Thermals a bit early to sneak over to the Flamingo Cantina to catch a set from Jason Lytle’s new band. If there is one band that I like more than the Walkmen (and surely, all CMG staffers and readers know how much I love the Walkmen) it’s gotta be Grandaddy. Perhaps this isn’t the place to talk about how on a Monday night while living in San Francisco and working a crap internet job I was dead-end drinking with my roommates and their friends when someone put on the The Sophtware Slump (2000) and I just about fell out of my chair as my heart popped out my chest, split in half, and reformed like a fucking phoenix to fly out the window, enlivened by music, in love with Grandaddy. At any rate, I was pumped to see Lytle do anything: drink a Tecate, eat some bbq, crap on my chest—it didn’t really matter to me as long as it was him doing his thing and I was able to witness it. He didn’t disappoint, unleashing a new five-piece featuring one veteran (Aaron Burtch on drums) from the Grandaddy days. On the surface, the new lineup seemed more antique and less “synthy” than the old band—Lytle was playing an acoustic, the keyboardist rocking a Rhodes, and there was a dude on melodica and trumpet—but, then again, they were able to pull off some really weird sounds. The material was mostly new and Lytle proved capable, once again, of penning the most memorable of melodies and stacking on those California multi-part harmonies that make a beer and a lime seem like the perfect choice on a sunny afternoon. The crowd was on their toes, eager for every note, and when the band launched into “Stray Dog and the Chocolate Shake” from Sumday (2003) people just about passed out. (Though the most soaring moment was certainly the set closer, a slightly slow but utterly amazing rendition of “Chartsengrafs.”)

Craig: I was totally camped out at the French Legation. It was like being in vactionland in the middle of vacationland. At the bottom of the hill, on the folk side of things, I saw a decent set by J. Tillman (reminiscent of Mark Kozelek in some ways and sporting, of course, a huge beard) and a set by Seattle indie-sters Telekinesis, who have a singing drummer. Much-celebrated songwriter the Tallest Man on Earth did his Swedish Bob Dylan thing, which was very cool if not entirely new (more on that later). Laura Gibson was one of the afternoon’s revelations, as the Portland musician (backed by two members of Musee Mechanique) delivered her perfectly arranged and delicate numbers to a very appreciative audience. Bowed saw, melodica, banjos, and keyboards by her backing band were complimentary without being gimmicky. Pulling myself out of the reverie for a minute, I forced myself to walk over to Ms. Bea’s to check out Todd P’s showcase.

Andre: I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to check out Todd P’s showcase on the east side of town, but first I had to give in to the corporate monster that is SPIN and swing by their party at Stubbs. As much as I can joke around about SPIN_ not keeping it real, their annual day party at SXSW is a really important happening. Every year (at least for the last three years) they unearth a classic rock band to headline. In past years the Buzzcocks and X collectively blew our Tecate-fazed minds. Sure, the bands were aging, but the whole point of these headliners is to not only excite the 50-somethings who saw these bands in their twenties but to educate, or at least spark the recognition of, 30-somethings (and younger 20-somethings) like me who might forget, amidst the hoopla of Vivian Girls and Abe Vigoda, that this shit is heralded for a reason. When the Buzzcocks played two years ago they quite simply kicked ass. The same for X and this year’s headliner Echo and the Bunnymen, whose set, from the middle to the end, was straight-up enthralling. Those Crocodiles (1980)-era “hits” were captivating and I remembered that Echo and the Bunnymen were the logical next step after Joy Division, embracing an icy and anarchic vocal delivery with industrial and vicious guitars. When Ian McCulloch sings, “These are the blues I’m singing” he couldn’t sound more disaffected, more unhappy with the outcome of his life, even 20 years later when he’s got money in his pockets and a crowd at his feet.

Feeling like I had paid my proper dues to the dinosaurs I hoofed over to Todd P’s joint to see the next next wave in music. Unlike SPIN’s party, which required some insider schmoozing to get an entry pass, Todd P’s parties are almost always free and all-ages. Well-established and near-legendary for his New York City and Brooklyn shows, he brought his flavor to Austin, making him truly the most important promoter at SXSW. Among the highlights of the show: Titus Andronicus, Abe Vigoda, Japanther, and Ponytail. HEALTH and the Dirty Projectors played later but we missed them, somehow. This is the sacrifice we face every day in Austin.

Craig: After reuniting with Andre and other friends at Todd P’s party, we broke off again and I spent the majority of my dinner break in Champion’s, which is, yes, a sports bar. I watched some games, ate a big ole chicken quesadilla, and enjoyed a domestic macro-brew. Going rogue is all about satisfying your most immediate and sometimes weirdest desires, like sports in the middle of a music festival. Whatever. I headed over to Emo’s to finally catch one of the 30 sets this weekend of the Pains of Being Pure at Heart, and was lucky enough to get there in time for Brooklyn’s Air Waves. A ‘90s style rock trio fronted by a woman who looks really ‘90s (unbuttoned button-down shirt!), their music reminded me of all the things I love about every band Tanya Donnelly has ever been in. When Pains did take the stage, it was good in a way that made me feel bad that they have so much hype. If you ever walked into a bar and saw these guys play, or heard their record at a party, you would think, “Gee, this is really great.” With the albatross of “Best New Music” around their necks, I was inclined to think “Gee, this is really pedestrian.” That’s just not who I want to be, a guy who says “pedestrian.” As an aside, it was hot as hell in there and the singer was wearing a jacket. A jacket! It’s 90 degrees and we’re in fucking Texas. (Andre reports that a mopey Ian McCulloch was wearing a peacoat and hoodie during his afternoon set. What is it with these guys?)

Andre: When I finally squeezed in to see the Pains of Being Pure at Heart I wanted to call out, “BULLSHIT!” I was able to talk myself down though and just enjoy them for being an entirely unoriginal band with great taste in playing a sticky blend of shoegaze, Smiths, and pop that is irresistible. We wrapped up the night, reunited like an indie-rock Voltron, with a set from Champaign (and personal) faves Headlights, who played a sticky blend of shoegaze, Smiths, and pop that is irresistible. Um, you get the point. Or maybe I get the point. I’ll find out tomorrow.