If you're an avid reader here, you'll notice the lack of attention given to the W.O.W. Apologies -- I've been consumed with school and school and work and work. Come May I'll be out of this storm and regular updates will return.
I did get a few days of vacation to head back down to Austin -- for the Agit we kept a daily, almost minute-by-minute blog and all by my lonesome I amused myself with Iphone photos and tweets. I consider these little comments my most comedic and spontaneous, so I highly advise sifting through some of them. SXSW is after all a constant comedy of errors, but it's also the most euphoric four days of the year for me.
Seeing what FM3 had developed for their first ever live performance in America (?) was pretty liberating. Perhaps the most hypnotic 45 minutes of my life (that’s with or without drugs, here stone sober). The occasion was also so left-field from the rest of SXSW that I had to give the duo their own post, the final post. Not sure if the Hideout on Congress was a normal venue for the experimentalists from China, it’s a coffee shop with a tiny, tiny, theater in the back. The kind of place that’s hard to leave once a show get’s started. I vividly remember Psych HS playing there last year and people filing out only minutes into it, the shabby retractable seats creaking then slamming, the abandonees forced to walk right in front of the band (and a sneering Matt Whitehurst) on their way out. For FM3 there were probably only 10 or so people to watch (a shame they didn’t get better press, they did come all the way from China?), problem being there was nothing to see (hence no pictures, the above picture is a performance from Sonar).
There was an end table lodged into the aisle between the seats and one microphone hovering above it. For a while nothing happened. Then Zhang Jian appeared with a bottle of rum, two glasses with ice, a bag containing seven multi-colored Buddha Boxes, and a game-board painted with Chinese characters. Christiaan Virant then came and sat down, poured both of them a drink asked for the house to cut the lights asking to get close “if you want to hear”. What proceeded was a slowly evolving game of Buddha Boxing (sonic Mahjongg?) between the two, as explained later -- each side chose a box, a setting, a volume level, and a placement on the board (keep in mind all of these variables have different results whilst enjoying your Buddha Box), then the opposing player can either remove that box, move it, change the loop, or the volume – the only catch is they have to add one box of their own. Occasionally a pen light would be shined on the board so they could get a grasp on where they were in the game, but it was the darkness, the magnification of silences and little ice cubes clinking in their glasses that enhanced the experience. These guys are masters of their machines, manipulating the sound just by laying a box on upside down or on top of another box. The sounds from some far off astral plane -- the long, high-pitched, tone that ends by winding into a flutter was the first choice, but took a while to register. As they layered tone upon tone, sometimes removing one, sometimes trying to loop them all in unison, the miasma increased. I found myself actually drifting in and out of consciousness, waking back up when the dark, ominous, loop gonged. When completely alert, I would hallucinate around the tiniest specks of light that entered the theater. When closing my eyes, I felt like a child who journeyed to space by pressing hard on the lids.
A lot of talk this week centered on the future of the music industry (which all agreed is in dire straits) and the ways in which we’ll consume it. FM3 have shown me what a little ingenuity can do. Sure it’s only a plastic box that plays nine loops, but their twist on form and function, how people can interact, explore, and actually create other entities with what the duo call their “album,” is somewhat revolutionary. And of course if you’ve been reading here, the week was constantly teetering on the precipice of revolution, or if not revolution, than the destruction of stale ideas. Once the kids start making their own Buddha Boxes, and giving the public art that is built on primitive simplicity, that can be shifted to be what you want without sacrificing the artists’ intent, then the future of music tends to look awfully bright, blinding even. Really, fuck an MP3, viva la FM3. Amen.
...or He's the DJ, I'm the Rapper. If Friday was transcendental then Saturday was magic, first by accident, then by divine intervention. I had yet to indulge in some hip-hop, so the Fader Fort was a given (that giant print of Ad Rock jacking a beer is embedded in my mind forever), every inch of that place oozed with newage/oldskool love -- constantly brilliant bumpers courtesy of Fool's Gold, spray painted boomboxes stacked high, images of my adolescent heroes plastered everywhere. Let's be honest, anything Diplo touches turns to platinum, he turns water into cachaḉa, he's the one pulling the strings behind curtain of this revolution. It's a place where nothing's actually hip-hop per se, but simultaneously encompasses all of hip-hop in style and function. To make one dance, to make one always feel this party might be the last. All the best hip-hop feels like the cathartic near-future. Santogold is the latest realization of that revolution. But we'll get to her in a minute...
First things first. I thought I was rushing to get a chance to see D.R.I., but instead got Dri, not that big of a disappointment, but I've really nothing to say about the Dri except that she was perfectly acceptable indie jangle for getting crust out of one's eyes. Another set from Lykke Li followed. The fact that I stalked the Swedes to one more show is indicative to just how infectious they are.
Hly MF Jesus H. Christ though...David Fucking Banner stumped like he was running for president -- of the ultimate anarchist state. He spit, chucked beer bottles, started a mosh pit, spoke of topics ranging from current race relations to the price of gas...he was a fire-breathing dragon. With Mannie Fresh on the turntables and a live band behind him, he became an instant superstar with perhaps the most impassioned performance of the week. Granted a superstar in an alternate universe where a hip-hop artist from Mississippi rapping about clinical depression gets the same treatment as 50 Cent.
Exhausted...and made even more so by Telepathe's drolling, brown acid disco, I spied Diplo handing out new mixes, so I knew something incredible was about to take place. Sure enough he was there to assist Santogold, his latest ingenue who's being constantly compared to M.I.A. Not bad company to hold. Santogold, though surfing through world rhythms and flashy neon beats, is far from naive -- her songs are anthems with sung choruses and roughneck street knowledge. Here she brought along her female S1W's (maybe SNW's -- Security of the New World) who danced with tight, stern, choreography that matched the proceedings perfectly. By the time "Creator" rolled around, the tent was pure electricity. Remember way back in April when I said this could get huge?
The best part of this week has been our location, giving the ability to take regular breaks without having to walk for miles. I needed one after that (not to mention a cold shower). Cleaning up was necessary in order to go to church. Only two things stood in the way of SXSW's patron saint Roky Erickson, that was Duffy (not the webmaster but the latest British soul singer) and Okkervil River. Both were hindrances, as not being able to stand much longer started making me wish for home, my wife, and dog.
This is my third time seeing the "inventor of psychedelic rock," and even in the four year span since he's returned it's been a journey. By the grace of his brother, Roky looks completely recovered. He's gained a few, grown a Santa beard, but that voice has remained. See Roky solo now, see Roky belt out new songs, see Roky channel his inner demons and spirits for the benefit of the world. The Explosives, his backing band, kept chiming in about inducting him into the Rock Hall, but Roky's bigger than that. They should be begging for his approval. Being ten feet from a legend of his stature is what makes this fest so appealing -- magical.
...or smoking the bible with Bushwick Bill. Those starfuckers out there should be having a great time this week. Today Rachel Ray -- Tomorrow the world.
Say what you will about Pitchfork and their authority on modern music (the indie supreme court?) but they sure know how to fix a line-up. All one had to do is fashion a campsite at Emo's -- at least until four. I've never seen so many doods crouching and bouncing over tiny cities of junkyard electronic equipment (Playskool vs. Marshalls). The Animal Collective was mentioned yesterday, they are not playing here but their playful, mysterious, and transcendental composition is a common theme currently. High Places is the closest match fer sure. The boy/girl duo make make-believe out of tragic beats and found sound, sweetened with reverberated chipmunk vocals. Lykke Li (pictured above), a quartet from Stockholm, had a similar vibe, though she's an entirely different monster. Not monster, some wickedly beautiful cross between Joanna Newsom and Debbie Gibson. She was funky, fresh, dipping prog into pop, soul into pristine Swedish funk. Dance parties might not spring up at 1 PM in 89 degrees, still the band rode enough whimsy to challenge my feet.
Inside White Williams soldered stoner metal to Dayton street funk, all with blue-eyed passion. Then came Jay Retard, newly christened as a Matador Records recording artist. This is where the road started to shift and I was lead down an entirely dysfunctional avenue. I'm imagining Eno growing out his hair like Kirk Hammett, doing bubblegum thrash, raping the corpse of last year's garage rock wonders and spitting out the bones. Beware young children.
Ahhh....who else? Bon Iver did not fail to dissapoint. Anyone with a dry eye in the room didn't have a heart. Again, file under transcendental -- through perfect harmonies and rustic melancholy. Or Fuck Buttons, UK's rich privileged version of Wolf Eyes, only instead of diving into the bleak underbelly, they jet-set through rainbows.
Memo to Bradford Cox. I 100% prefer Atlas Sound over Deerhunter. Especially as you are flanked by chica bassist and chica drummer. Pushing cathartic rhythms towards a psych-punk maximum. Keep in mind, this was just my day, the clock hasn't even touched 6. We were met with whiffs of Enslaved, Matt and Kim, Fleet Foxes, and another triumphant TNV set before getting into nighttime.
I was happy to finally get a glimpse of Crystal Castles. Standing and stumbling on one leg they (now a trio with drums)drove white-hot Atari spikes through my skin, strobe lights and ecstatic din. I think I saw the future right before passing out. That album's gonna be addictive, the kids will soon fall in line.
If there's one thing that remains a constant, it's sticking with what you know. Now the essentialists are getting their profiles raised and bands like Psychedelic Horseshit and Los Llamarada are playing to packed rooms...being followed by Half Japanese (who are apparently going through their last go-round) and the Homosexuals and Bad Trips. The latter pummeling me into submission with "Sister Ray" reduxes to the point of saying uncle for the day.
Stay Tuned -- we're among the last throes of the insurgency.
Last year seemed to be all 'bout self-abuse, every morning spent bloodied and bruised with a brain full of mush. Not this year (I'm happy to report a clean bill of health -- wife, mother, father, and middle bro) as the local Whole Foods has contributed to expensive remedies (Tangerine Pom) and glorious produce. So 2008 is more for chilling, riding the wave, and not concerning myself with seeing every band within earshot.
Thursday in the sun, Steve and I only chalked up two bands, and spent most of the time taking in the sites and smells. We did see an early set from No Age, a band highly anticipated. The duo ripped through a taut set of their metaphysical skate-punk, throwing riffs, scattered percussion and ocean noise towards the winds to see what floats back. I was under the impression a lot of what they do is a put-on, like scaling the speakers and taping mics together for no particular reason, but their sincerity shines bright and the batch of new songs slated for their Sub Pop debut are painted with a wide swath of melodic discovery. Here's a little something to get the hype for this long-player rolling.
My favorite band of the day was undoubtedly Los Campesinos, a joyous twee-punk septet from Cardiff, Wales. This is exactly what emo could've become had it been built with earnest and Pavement guitar scrawls. These kids are adorable, rocking melodicas, violins, xylophones, wood blocks, synths, and hyper-syllabic group chants. My favorite line -- "I never like Henry Rollins." It's the ethos of new punk (they still hand make zines in Wales) dished out with plenty of smirk and heart-on-sleeve dedication. Plus they are the nicest group I've met in years. Please, if you're reading this, go see them at any cost.
The Campesinos are also big fans of Times New Viking. At this point in the fest it will be hard to find anyone who isn't transfixed by the buzz. We've made it a mission to marathon through every TNV set this week. Why? Because each show just gets better. I'm the guy who keeps jumping around, singing along with all the sing-alongs that have now morphed from slogans to gospel truths. As dusk approached at the French Legation Museum, the trio played what was probably the best and most concise I have ever seen them play. Keep on rolling...
Which lead me to the ultimate in showcasing, the (aforementioned on this blog) Siltbreeze get-down. Lo and behold I've not much to report because this was my view the entire night.
That's not sour grapes at all. I'm eternally indebted to Mr. Tom Lax, thanks for everything, now let's party). I loved seeing a new generation emptying wallets to buy avant-vinyl. I was particularly impressed by label newbies Naked on the Vague and the indecently loud psych bluster of a giddy Mike Rep and his Times New Quotas. Oh yeah, then there was this......
I can die happy if I hear the words "Psychedelic Horseshit" spoken on TRL. Onward champions.
Here I sit, high atop the Hilton with a headache. Blame it on the free Maker's Mark courtesy of John Norris and the extremely precise and professional staff of La Zona Rosa, who treated Times New Viking like they were three Bonos. Wow was their sound gigantic last night. I know for fact I'll see the "kids" play multiple times, this virgin set though couldn't have been better. I think the lack of enthusiasm from the crowd was due to awe -- most people at this fest have yet to be inundated with the "shitpop" phenomenon.
Sound issues and venue location plagued Columbus Discount once again, sadly. Night of Pleasure tore through their amphetamine punk without much regard to the troubles. As did the Unholy Two, who made more than enough mentions to the late great Dr. Martin Luther King. What a juxtaposition to have Chris Lutzko's heady feedback-laden crud blaring while blessed Austinites munched on overpriced BBQ. I could see the frustration in Adam Smith's eyes and wished I was technical enough to help with the technical difficulties.
Fortunately CDR's great white hopes, El Jeezy performed magically at high noon, with the sun beating down gloriously, and the free PBR already reminding the crowd of a late sweaty night at the Boo Boo. From there we headed to the Fader Fort (a loving nod to Harmeet Kala) where more free booze was the object of desire. Jeremy Jay was mediocre Jordan O' Jordan (where the fuck is that guy), shaky singer-songwriter flak that didn't impress. The Ruby Suns, who just released a great tropical topical record on Sub Pop, couldn't exactly translate live, coming off like a second-rate romper-room Animal Collective with none of the flair. The biggest surprise was the re-invention of the Kills, who I thought were dead in the water, but managed to present a new strain of icky thump coming through busted ghetto blaster. They got beats and soul. Beats and soul.
Speaking of beats, after the honeymoon with TNV the night took a turn towards electronics. Lindstrom from Oslo, Norway chilled a packed Thirsty Nickel into blissful submission. This was not the ideal venue for him unfortunately, he needed neon and darkness, smoke and weed, not body shots and white caps. Get this guy another show, someone. Our important last slot decision was to see Bon Iver atop Maggie Mae's, but the capacity crowd and undesirable setting forced to seek shelter elsewhere. So we took a risk and headed up to the Karma Lounge -- the best decision of the day. There we got a taste of Cut Copy's amazing skills as DJs(Diplo should be worried) and the riotous arrival of Tough Alliance, who basically lip-synced their entire album amid videos of dolphins and sickly sweet dry ice. It was wild, a pop filled mix of Bronski Beat and Wham! -- all the gay wonders I secretly adore.
I've been tempted the last few days to keep my regular posts alive. Something about Polvo nostalgia (coming soon), something about Cheveu (I missed the show but I'll see them six times this week, and I've listened to the album non-stop), but the only thing on my mind is the Siltbreeze Showcase coming up this Thursday.
So, in an effort to get every single person attending SXSW to cram themselves into the Soho Lounge I must use my patented hyperbole to pimp what might be the center of the SXSW "shitpop" universe this week. The Siltbreeze Showcase is nothing short of brilliant. Like Michelle Obama said two weeks ago it's the first time I've ever felt proud to be an American (or an Australian, or a Mexican, but alas Los Llamarada won't make it to the U.S.A. till Friday (go see them anyways).
The Line-Up:
8:00 - Ex-Cocaine from Missoula, MT
8:40 - Blues Control from Brooklyn, NY
9:20 - Naked on the Vague from Melbourne, AUS
10:00 - Eat Skull from Portland, OR
10:40 - Mike "Rep" Hummel from Harrisburg, OH
11:20 - Psychedelic Horseshit from Columbus, OH
12:00 - XNO BarbequeX from Sydney, AUS
12:40 - Pink Reason from Parts Unknown
1:20 - Times New Viking from Over the Edge, CA
Hopefully I'll get some free records out of the deal. Till' then, if you're in the Denver Airport tomorrow round 3 PM, I'll meet you at the freak lounge for drinks.
Check here regularly for up to the minute SXSW news, spews, pictures, and rumours about your favorite stars. Thus starts another fucking adventure.
Being in San Fransisco for a brief six months, Doug/Blonee/Middle Bro, brought few things back that were worthwhile besides stories about medical marijuana and the original full time innovator, Ben (a.k.a. Grandpa), and how the two interact. He did however spend plenty of time(and money)at Aquarius Records where he purchased the most self-less X-mas present ever for Adam/Huffy/Little Bro and myself. Of course he stashed a Buddha Machine for himself first but gave each of us one to treasure for a lifetime.
For those unfamiliar the Buddha Machine is a small plastic box, the size of a cigarette pack, with one speaker, and containing nine perpetual loops (my included battery has yet to die) that can be switched at random with a toggle at the top. The only other features are a volume wheel and an audio out plug. Sounds almost like a Family Dollar Ipod, but the ghostly atmospheres packed inside are close to magic. By themselves the loops are hypnotic, almost spiritual, after a length of time textures begin to appear, blow it through stereo speakers or a Marshall and the loops distort, engulf. As a piece of home entertainment the Buddha Machine is what you make it -- mood sound for meditation or, played somewhere in the room along with any competent psychedelic record it adds another intoxicating dimension. Perfect with anything by the Boredoms, Faust, Grateful Dead, etc. etc. etc. There's a reason Brian Eno and Sir Richard Bishop both have bought dozens of these for live shows and experimentation. As a musical instrument, FM3 (the Chinese electronic duo who invented the thing) have made their art a tool that goes beyond the simple series of 15 second tones, it's being used in colorfully different ways. But they've recorded much more than this immortal artifact, and now playing SXSW I'm intrigued as to what they can accomplish with a live hour of music.
This is my last post regarding the festival you didn't attend. I swear it. By day five I was sleeping in the airport, dreaming of bands I didn't see, unable to catch a reasonably early flight back to Columbus, and trying to register a concise picture of everything that happened to me in the past week. My wife (as wonderful as she is) can't believe all I did was watch live music from 11 a.m. to 2 a.m. from Wed. to Sat. But that's really all I did. I'm a geek, not a playboy. No shopping, no news (other than random NCAA scores, btw I was dominating till Maryland lost), no dog walking, no baseball researching, nothing other than standing in front of people who thought they were much more important than me. As Envelope quipped at the Fader Fort, "everyone here thinks they are important." Austin is the no-coast, welcoming all types, and I met them all. So to sum it up, my Elite Eight performances that will having me bragging well into the holiday season.
The Twilight Sad >>> Wednesday >>> Emo's Annex >>> 2:30 P.M.
Yo Majesty >>> Friday >>> Beauty Bar >>> 11:40 P.M.
Los Llamarada >>> Saturday >>> Blender Balcony at the Ritz >>> 12:00 A.M.
Most of these shows can be read about below. But if you have any inclination to hear more, post a comment, and I'll be happy to reply and point you in the right direction.
Saturday passed in a daze; being void of internet access, miles away from downtown, and having lost my voice shouting chants and slogans with Times New Viking, I wasn't exactly scrambling to get everything in like I did the three days prior. Sleeping late, enjoying the sunshine, and walking Austin's pedestrian-friendly streets, is equally important. Plus I had to take out a small loan to pay for cabs at this point.
That said, a late-afternoon triple threat of Ghostface Killah, Rakim (both backed by full bands) and a brief but lively (and smoky) infomercial from Redman (I think his record drops...ummm....March 27th, had to be there), displayed SXSW's magical element of chance/surprise.
Strangely (and sadly), in three days, I didn't get to see much comedy from the current indie-renaissance (Micheal Showalter, Tim and Eric, Zack G.) that was everywhere, save a tiny bit of Saturday night's Human Giant showcase. I'm sure for some, this whole week has felt like living in a half-hour of absurd, McSweeney's-referencing, stand-up.
Saturday night was also the best representation of what Columbus has to offer. Columbus Discount Records took over the surreal Light Bar on South Congress. Upon a roof-top stage complete with waterfall and neon, Terribly Empty Pockets showed why, even when the odd-man out, they possess a quality both deep and endearing, pop go jangle and pop go sad.
But of course, instead of turning the atmosphere into 'nother night in the Boo Boo, I headed to Rusted Shut, who don't get around to Ohio much. Even with technical difficulties, the 20 year old trio from Houston grasped onto the week's aforementioned revolution of mayhem with a level of volume that made it impossible to distinguish one song from the next or your skull from your Flipper damaged mind.
The best tip of the week though belongs to Mr. Roland Woodbe (go figure?) and his urging to see Los Llamarada, a barely legal group from Monterrey, Mexico that seemed to just discover rock and roll last week. Better yet, they didn't even discover rock or punk, or post-punk or post-rock, or simple noise for that matter, they recently invented it. Teenagers the world round, wash your hands, unite, and give up peacefully.
My morning started at the Vice three stage extravaganza, it's usually a swinging time, but this year it was overrun with bands about 5 years too late (Big Business, Foals, Against Me), bands that didn't show up (David Yow's Qui and Boris), and hordes of tacky Turbonegro zealots. This is no dig on the actual group, just their army of knuckle-dragging, patch-wearing, male-pattern baldness having, man-child fans. Maybe this was an intentional Vice strategy; to get an unusually high concentration of "donts" (there was an entire family in the denim garb) milling about the same location.
Good fucking thing Clockcleaner's brutal sludge punk pretty much kicked this party in the teeth first thing. Lead singer John Starkey is the ultimate anti-hipster, figuratively pissing into the mouths of the posing, incredibly too self-conscious, audience that would rather swallow than admit they like it. Yeah, that's kinda how the whole day went.
Every year there always seems to be one band that follows me around everywhere. Friday it was Deerhunter. I was curious to see how their headphone echo psych translates live, but I didn't need to see it three times in a 24 hour period. They truly lack a stage presence; a connective thread with the audience and within their playing. Their effects pedals deserved the applause this week, not the band.
Wooden Shjips could teach them a thing or two about how this new weird America is beginning to change hands and move from bohemian grove to scruffy nihilism and kaleidoscopic drug jams. More than a handful of bands on Friday exhibited this freakish destruction of cultural norms, reconstructing rock and pushing things so far forward that there's no looking back. Blues Control with beats and cassette manipulations, Times New Viking with irresistible hooks and holy distortions, and Entrance, who finally put down his acoustic and found Electric Warrior hidden on some Turkish bootleg of Bunalim. Or Columbus' Teeth of the Hydra, who carpet bombed the Lava Lounge with purplish-black, molten, metal like three giant demons of goodwill.
Now that's a face that says, "We are at the precipice of something mighty, beware and rejoice."
SXSW soon becomes a game of survival, thriving on little sleep and little citrus. Dark Meat kicked things off in grand fashion, marching in their 12? piece marching band at high noon. I was never sold on the Polyphonic Spree, but this is something vastly different, worshiping mother earth and lsd instead of Scientology. The communal juices were flowing over.
I made a joke with the Besnard Lakes guitarist about how their latest long player could finally topple OK Computer as the definitive album for introverted yet inspired dreamers. Live they didn't fail in that commitment, even adding to the pungent, dense, fog of layered melody and chaotic noise. Hirsute and head-banging. I'm beginning to see a trend here in Austin, the freaks are finally out in force, looking to bring down the man and his endless parade of free shoes, Lily Allen samplers, and promotional whiskey.
That line of freedom, was certainly snorted up by my favorite band of the moment. While the Walkmen fall out of fashion, playing to an audience that look more concerned with mortgage payments than chord changes, Psychedelic Horseshit ramble through a sutured set of Dylan revelry and cracked pop songs. Or following suit, Diplo assembles masterpieces with Top 40 and South American travelogues, becoming the upper echelon of the whole "DJ who wants to be respected as a musician" camp. And once my Columbus brethren rolled into town, the party really started to take a nebulous shape. Even the Ponys sounded good. Can't wait for tonight. Times New Viking and Peaches? Goodness.
Being a seasoned pro of the SXSW gauntlet of free food, free booze, and free bands, Wednesday felt like a preliminary round; people were still getting into town, important bands were hiding out till later in the week, and the weather was less than desirable. Cloudy with a chance of whooping cough. That said, weaving one's way through the maze of day parties has rewards. Like finding rough diamonds after a few steps into the coal mine.
The pick of the day, and perhaps the entire week was Glasgow's Twilight Sad. During their brief day set, they blazed through an tiny orchestra of feedback. This must have been what it was like to see My Bloody Valentine back in the day. Blistering noise with thick Scottish accents cutting through, creating a dour and stoic blend of rainy day "pop." You could hardly call them a pop band, though at night, their set seemed more reserved and deliberate, as if Snow Patrol was a fluke, and The Twilight Sad sold millions on multi-hued hits of morphine.
Or maybe it was the CPC Gangbangs that cured my non-existent hangover. Perhaps the Hives and the Mooney Suzuki killed the garage rock revival, or in the case of the former, simply mastered it. Well this Quebecois outfit, got the package late, broken in shards, played out on a wooden turntable, wobbling and constantly shifting speeds. Quite a contrast to New Zealand's Mint Chicks, for whom I had hopes, only the day-glo punk of their records is not that fashionable live, proving too many Elvis imports made it down under. Ugh.
The party officially got started when Tampa, Florida's Yo Majesty tore through the Creekside Lounge with enough beats, bitch slaps, and occasional nudity, to get a crowd of white hipsters to chant "fuck that shit," twice, as they played their soon to be underground hit "Club Action" until the kids could no longer take it. Seeing the trio roaming the streets completely blotto at 1 A.M. gave me a good feeling that Yo Majesty embraced exactly what the spirit of SXSW is about. Go see them tonight.
Final proverb? "Old people will always prefer free bloody marys and art cars, while the young still get hard for Victory Records and new Sub Pop bands." Avoid Maps and Atlases as if they were herpes. Till tomorrow.
The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, well, they should be rocking your planet tomorrow. But unfortunately, defunct. Dusty White, a now-Columbus time-share holder, has been holing up in Los Angeles (a city I despise), to great avail. Though he is in the band fronted by the man pictured above, SeaWolf, he claims it is "COMPLETELY fucking different than ANYTHING" he's ever done before (and I'll take his approval based on the fact that he'll contest to Amon Dull's Yeti being the greatest album ever). They are playing at the Blender "Bar" at the Ritz first thing Wednesday night (8:00 p.m.), contrary to the recommendation of my last post.
But if we must get into semantics, Dusty is also the "quasi"-legendary guitarist of Freedom, a band, in essence, that you'll be yucking about three years from now.
Tips for the solo and/or disgruntled South By Southwester. If you find yourself being shut out of higher profile shows (you don't really need to see Voxtrot, do you?) or itching to duck into some place more intimate and "black lodge"-esque, you may want to try the Blender Balcony at the Ritz. While the door for the main bar, on the first floor, will be crammed with badges trying to pile in, cut to the left and head up the stairs. In past experiences there's never been much of a line, and this is a dark, dank, unusual theater, with stadium seating. This year tends to have a high ratio of psych mutants mucking up the confines; including Black Moth Super Rainbow, The Phantom Family Halo Band, No Age, Dead Child, Lords, and Indian Jewelry (pictured above, and whom I witnessed at the Balcony last year). Be warned, this smarmy, grotesque, trio will force you to join in.
The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, well, they should be rocking your planet tomorrow. But unfortunately, defunct. Dusty White, a now-Columbus time-share holder, has been holing up in Los Angeles (a city I despise), to great avail. Though he is in the band fronted by the man pictured above, SeaWolf, he claims it is "COMPLETELY fucking different than ANYTHING" he's ever done before (and I'll take his approval based on the fact that he'll contest to Amon Dull's Yeti being the greatest album ever). They are playing at the Blender "Bar" at the Ritz first thing Wednesday night (8:00 p.m.), contrary to the recommendation of my last post.
Tips for the solo and/or disgruntled South By Southwester. If you find yourself being shut out of higher profile shows (you don't really need to see Voxtrot, do you?) or itching to duck into some place more intimate and "black lodge"-esque, you may want to try the Blender Balcony at the Ritz. While the door for the main bar, on the first floor, will be crammed with badges trying to pile in, cut to the left and head up the stairs. In past experiences there's never been much of a line, and this is a dark, dank, unusual theater, with stadium seating. This year tends to have a high ratio of psych mutants mucking up the confines; including Black Moth Super Rainbow, The Phantom Family Halo Band, No Age, Dead Child, Lords, and Indian Jewelry (pictured above, and whom I witnessed at the Balcony last year). Be warned, this smarmy, grotesque, trio will force you to join in.
