SXSW 2009 :: Day Two

Andre: In regular fashion, we’ve returned to SXSW for another four days of deep consideration of the state of music and getting staggeringly drunk. In previous years we had come to the conclusion that SXSW, while a massive corporate event on the surface, is actually a giant hotbed for a communist consumption of music. Due to the wide array of free day parties put on by various media sources like Pitchfork, Pepsi, and Paste magazine, music fans can see all of the bands they want to see for free, and often with free booze. We spent the past two years absorbing intense amounts of new music without paying a dime—we loved it, being the DIY enthusiasts that we are and like to tell people we are, and never bothered to get badges or wristbands. We were young punks riding the wave of corporate sponsorship and seeing whatever we damn pleased. It was anti-capitalism and it actually seemed to work.

This year, however, things have shifted: we caved in, got official press credentials, and, as a result, we are now running around with hyper-complex color-shifting SXSW straps around our arms; when we want to go to night parties, we walk right in while our wristband-less friends wait in line or can’t get in at all. It’s funny (and, of course, kind of sad) seeing things from the other side, but it’s funnier to see how quickly we will embrace privilege when given a pig snout’s of a chance. So, after two years, Craig and I are dirty capitalists (an assertion that Craig would like to deny, if only to make himself feel better). So, like the vermin we are, we will consume and piss and shit and poison the well that is SXSW.

It all started off with the early and packed-as-fuck Paste/Brooklyn Vegan party. I felt old. Kids were wearing those big sunglasses, the ones that were two times the size of their faces. Supposedly tight-fitting American Apparel t-shirts are still en vogue and it appears that the company makes every damn shirt in indie rock, including the Golden Birds Summer Tour 2005 black t-shirt I was wearing (and the 2009 Mission Creek Festival one Craig was wearing). For about ten minutes Magic Hat reps were giving out free beers. I was potentially drunk by the second beer and by that time they cost $4. But, no problem, I was going to get to kick-off my SXSW with the Pains of Being Pure at Heart—or not: they didn’t make it in time, and how could they have? These guys are literally playing five or more shows per day. Every day! Standing in for them was a Bon Iver-ish looking fellow called the Wheel who had just played inside, but most people dispersed. Sure, there was a communal acknowledgment that 2008 was the year of beards, vests, and acoustic guitars, but like the majority of people in the venue that night, the two of us were ready for something new.

We slipped out to catch the action at the second annual Bay Area Takeover party at the Beauty Bar, where we found our way to a keg and eventually to the outdoor tent. John Dwyer (formerly of the legendary noise-rockers Coachwhips) had his new band Thee Oh Sees in top form, kicking it DIY noise-band style—playing on the floor, not the stage, and bypassing the house PA for the more intimate tone of amps blaring. The attitude here was encapsulated by Dwyer’s remarks halfway through the set: “I wish it was dark…and I wish this tent was on fire.”

After a few more nice beers—we were surely tanked by this point (who knew the free beer this year would actually have a significant alcohol level? Where was all the damn Lone Star? How was it only 2:30?)—we snuck back into the Paste party to check out a band that we couldn’t wait to see: the Wrens. They opened with a piano ballad from Seacaucus (1996) before tearing into a U2-style anthem version of “The Boy Is Exhausted.” Anthems were actually kind of the theme of the set, as the new song that they played was also piano-heavy and soaring, and every song (all from The Meadowlands [2003], minus that first one) were just epic. It’s a band Craig has been waiting forever to see and he was essentially delirious during most of the set. It was funny to see such nerdy fist-pumping.

Craig: We really split the difference on Daniel Johnston. Andre found it a bit weird to trot a great songwriter onto the stage who could barely sing or play guitar. In fact, he rarely even played guitar, instead acting as a kind of frontman for Brooklyn rockers the Hymns. On one side, the show was a cruel charity case, a grotesque “Look at what the mentally ill guy can do, isn’t it special?” kind of deal. Andre was made physically sick by the whole thing, clearly preferring to just listen to his songs at home. He didn’t want to watch Johnston up there, hands shaking, voice trembling, trying for his dear life to make it from one song to the next. And the backing band seemed so out of place, a bunch of shrink-wrapped hipsters right out of The FADER or a Von Bondies look-alike contest. Andre wandered inside to watch These Arms Are Snakes, whose intense metal/indie rock mash-up was, apparently, intriguing. I, who was on the other proverbial side, stuck it out and enjoyed the antique charm of Johnston’s songs.

The Avett Brothers closed out our Paste party experience. Their reputation is so staggering at this point that it seemed if they pulled out anything less than the most spectacular show of their lives then we’d be disappointed. It wasn’t life-changing but it was damn good, and this band, despite some sound issues that weren’t their fault, knows how to bring a unique energy to folk and roots music that we haven’t seen in a long time. In a sense, they are putting a common spin on country and Americana music, but their songwriting is utterly imprinted with a style and spirit that only these three boys can pull off. They are punks in the truest, simplest meaning of that word, stealing something that was someone else’s—in this case roots music—and frankensteining it into something raggedly all their own, achieving a kind of ineffable honesty that a band like the Felice Brothers tries so damn hard to pull off. For all of their backward gazing influences, the Avetts feel new and inspiring.

Andre: I was chugging water as they played, as their banjos and guitars went off like firecrackers, and I was singing along like it was the hoedown of the future. Craig was, inexplicably, still drinking beer.

We’re both huge fans of HEALTH: their live set is sonically challenging without being over-the-top aggro, and their electronics/pedal boards boggle our minds. What really gets us—after having seen a ton of these kinds of “noise” bands in the last year—is that nothing with HEALTH is accidental. Nothing moves slowly. It’s tightly composed (40 second songs!) and crazy as hell.

We took a long leisurely break between the morning and afternoon sessions, getting checked into our hotel and watching some college hoops. After delicious enchiladas at the Rio Grande, we headed to Habana Calle 6 to see our good friend and one of only two Iowa City bands playing, Caleb Engstrom. He’s got a new band together called We Are We and their SXSW debut was great. From there we headed to Mohawk’s to catch the Jagjaguar/Secretly Canadian/Dead Oceans showcase. We were kind of wiped at this point, happy to sit on the patio and catch up with our friends from Crawdaddy! magazine while the very retro-cool Phosphorescent played his set of Willie Nelson covers beneath us. It was very Texan, obviously, and very fitting. Just when Craig was getting comfortable and ready to take off his “serious music dude” cap, I dragged him downstairs to catch These Are Powers. They were everything we’ve come to expect from experimental pop—the drum machines, loop pedals, yelped but seductive vocals, flourishes of live instrumentation, and funky ’80s New York fashion—but still entertaining as ever. The entire front row tripped out, shaking our heads and bodies, lost in the layers of some sort of dub groove freakout.

Craig: Women closed out the night for us, looking all disaffected and uninterested while playing those wondrous nuggets of melody and swift guitar runs from their self-titled record. We slinked out of Mohawk’s and, on our way home, got hit with the reality of day-long drinking in a big college town. While talking to a guy from some unknown indie band, he was suddenly approached and punched several times in the face, his assailant yelling “faggot” before immediately running off. It was the most honest and ugly thing I’d seen all day: this innocent musician curled over the curb holding his face while blood poured out of his nose. The other guy had bolted away and we all stood there, music journalists and drunks not quite sure what to do. Our fantasy land of rock bands and record labels had abruptly shifted and we were just a bunch of kids standing around in another American city. We found a cop and reported the assault, all of us kind of knowing nothing would become of it. In a deep despair about the unfairness of things, we walked home. There would be more music on Friday, the indie kid would have a sore face, and someone would wake up with bloody fists, remorseful, forgetful, or proud.