In the air, about halfway to Denver, I'm feeling as satisfied as

expected. Yesterday was every bit as excellent as the first three days
of the festivals, even if it ended with my sore feet short-circuiting
my brains desire to keep on partying. More on that later...

Deploying from the hotel with our roomies Jesse and Marki shortly
before noon, we beat a path to Maggie Mae's for Rachel Ray's second
annual culin/die extravaganza. Not surprisingly, we arrived to a queue
that extended well into 6th street, so we decided to cut our losses
and grab food and listen to some strange acoustic metal at the nearby
Hideout. My three cheese and pesto sandwich hit the spot and the
extra-large cappuccino was a great call.

A short walk later, we were on the wrong side of I35 sitting on the
patio at Miss Beas. What could be better than  the no wave assault of
Talk Normal on a pleasant early afternoon in east Austin? In this
case, nature seemed to conspire to add its own flourish, as at least
two dozen birds perched in the nearby trees began chirping loudly
towards the end of the set. Amplified by the mics below, the tweets
and twitters (ask your folks what those words used to mean, kids) were
an uncanny fit with the mix; Peter and I seemed to notice
simultaneously and exchanged a contented look. Only in Austin?

Out next stop was Friend Island, an annual day party thrown by
Absolutely Kosher and a handful of other labels. Penetrating farther
east than we'd ever walked, there was some amount of apprehension that
sherpa Marki had jotted down the wrong address, but when we rounded
the corner to the sight of Jordan from Azeda Booth unloading gear from
his van and chatting with an oddly-familiar stranger, we knew we were
in the right place. Then, an awesome day became even more awesome in
the following tangible ways:

1. The stranger turned out to be Grizzly Bear's Ed Droste, an
exceedingly nice dude who laughed politely at my lame web sheriff joke
(Google it?) and was more than happy to be saddled with an arm-load
merch from Jordan
2. Free draught beer (!!) and none of this PBR or Miller Lite
bullshit: crafted IPA and Porter from Bend, OR and the boys from
Megafaun (who just keep coming up in these posts) were running the
bar. At their recommendation, I tried a 2/3-1/3 mix they called "the
bear inside a bear, BIAB for short." In fact, I tried it five or six
times, because why not?
3. Free pancakes, at least one of which was in the shape of an enormous phallus.

Basically everything you could ask for from a SXSW day-party, with one
obvious exception: what about the dang music? Well, the one band was
done right as we arrived and the next one was kind of terrible and
went about half an hour overtime, which really interfered with my
willingness to stay inside (cold, dank, lame) instead of outside
(beer, penis pancakes with smarties, $1 hotdogs from a family playing
baseball next door...) I did really want to stick around to show some
love to the boys of Azeda Booth, but I made the tough decision to
leave right as they were going on to make the long trip to the Mess
With Texas party in Waterloo Park. Striking out on my own, my purpose
was to see one of the artists who had eluded me all week: Thao Nguyen
and the Get Down, Stay Down.

About twenty blocks and two litres of sweat later, I arrived at the
park and staked out a spot on the lawn in front of one of the two
stages at this massive free event. Thao and her fellas were every bit
as excellent as expected and her bubbly demeanour, while far from
unusual among musicians at SXSW, was particularly noteworthy: "I'm
putting my gum down here," she said between songs, "but don't worry,
I'm going to pick it up later. I don't want you to think I'm an
asshole!"

After that, a short walk south reunited me with Peter outside
Peckerheads on 6th, where we had hoped to see the notoriously
energetic King Khan and the Shrines. Unfortunately, of all the lines
we had considered all week, this one was the worst and it showed signs
of only the slowest progress, so we decided to head back to the Omni
for a quick siesta. In fact, this turned out to be a great call: on a
whim, we headed up to the rooftop hot tub and pool for a quick soak,
and I ended up having a long and interesting chat with members of
Chicago's Scotland Yard Gospel Choir.

--

Dinner was probably our best and most authentic experience so far: a
trip to the Iron Works, a cafeteria-style BBQ joint, where most meals
consist of meat, other meat, more meat, a slice of Wonderbread
(gross), potato salad, beans, and pickles (yes!) All drenched in a
thick coat of tangy home-made sauce, naturally. Other dinner guests
included the guy from Les Savy Fav who runs French Kiss records, no
doubt a SXSW veteran, so we figured it was a good call.

A short cab ride to a huge outdoor venue on the south shore of the
river was drawn way out by insane traffic, no doubt owing to the fact
that we had decided to hit up the only official free-for-all show of
the festival, SXSW's gift to Austin. Unfortunately, the scene at the
venue was a logistical nightmare. Neither wristbands nor badges were
able to bypass the enormous (but mercifully fast-moving) line that
stretched the length of at least one city block and once we were
inside the promised registrants' lounge (free beer) was a challenge to
find among vendors hocking low-grade festival food, weak beer, and
stoner wares like hundreds of bongs in every shape imaginable.

But the gate and floor-plan weren't the only issues. When we finally
found the well-hidden tent (Miller Lite? Sigh...) the Cannabinoids
with Erykah Badu finally hit the stage, no less than an hour and 20
minutes late! From the little we could make out, Badu sounded like she
was probably great; unfortunately, the sound was so incredibly shitty
that her vocals were drowned out by pretty much every other channel in
the mix. Adding insult to injury, the set came to an end after a mere
two songs, just as the under-mic'd front-woman was promising to take
us "into hyper-space". Huh.

From the small beer garden, we watched the ensuing chaos unfold--tens
of thousands (maybe?) of perturbed Badu fans deciding leaving in a
simultaneous huff--and took the opportunity to chat with some of our
fellow badgeholders, one of whom happened to be the front man from the
Rural Alberta Advantage. As I told him, I had recently heard tons of
buzz about the band but for whatever reason I thought they were from
Brooklyn and I joked that he should be careful about appropriating the
name of our proud province. As it turns out, I was totally out to
lunch: while the band is Toronto-based, he grew up in Edmonton (and
beyond to the north) and he's also a super nice guy! In a few short
minutes, he filled us in on the outcome of his multiple shows at SXSW
(positive reviews across the board), gave us both multiple copies of
his new CD, and hyped up a tour of western Canada that should be on
the horizon in short order. What a pitch man!

After quaffing the last of our weak-ass (but definitely free) beer, we
headed for an exit, only to find that the exodus of upset Badu fans
was LINED UP AT THE EXITS, attempting to leave! I don't want to harp
on this too much, but what a SNAFU! Someone dropped the ball here in a
big way and it's really unfortunate because the people of Austin are
the most gracious hosts imaginable and the idea of giving back with a
free show was sincere and sweet. Apparently there was a "stalker
incident" that delayed Badu's trip to Austin from her home in
Dallas... Really? Really? OK, I'm done talking about this. Onwards and
upwards.

Across the river and down 2nd street, I split up with Peter to take in
a set I had been waiting for all week: Brooklyn's the Subjects, a
catchy-as-hell teachers-and-students foursome whose Hounds of War is
one of the best songs to come out in the past... ever? They played a
tight, precise show made up predominantly of new material but
including that one old song I so desperately wanted to see. Good news:
I was blown away by Hounds of War, which I know almost embarassingly
well. Better news: it wasn't even the best song of the set! Their new
material, which we later chatted about over a beer THAT THEY BOUGHT
FOR ME, is shit-hot and should be coming out in September. Mark my
words, Calgarians: if there's any justice in the world of indie rock,
this band will be huge.

The next might-see on my list was PJ Harvey at Stubb's BBQ. In keeping
with a pattern that held pretty much all week, I showed up to find a
disgusting line that was utterly motionless. Fortunatly, I spotted
Gentleman Reg waiting to get in and managed to say hi and offer some
qualified kudos on his upcoming release before heading off to greener
pastures. In a rather hilarious turn of events, I ended up deciding to
hit up Wintersleep at Rusty Spurs--not because I like them, although
they are fun live, but because I figured I might find a few friendly
faces. The result: success! Jello shots with Matt from Women! Why not?

Having killed the down time in an appropriately badass manner, I
headed towards the Velveeta Room (it's called that for reals) for
another all-too-brief visit with Eugene Mirman. It must be said that
the stand-up comedy at SXSW is an absolute treat, offering a great
opportunity to get off one's feet over the course of a long night. The
funniest bit was dedicated to shredding Delta Airlines, basically for
being a company run by terrible humans. As I write this, it is
resonating oh-so-much because of the fact that I'm currently sitting
in Denver airport enjoying a delay of 1:15 (and growing steadily)

The second-last stop of the night was one last trip to Club de Ville
for Colourmusic, who put on an enthusiastic but mildly irritating show
mixing Clockwork Orange jumpsuits with an absurd mix of power chords
and hand claps. Then it was over to Emo's main room, where I wanted to
make sure to secure a good spot for the late, great Daniel Johnston.
The band playing beforehand was the most obnoxious kind of latin funk;
thankfully, the passage between the main site and Emo's Jr was wide
open and I managed to catch the tail end of Pelican, whose intricate
brand of colour-by-numbers instrumental metal is accompanied by the
most feverish synchro headbanging I've ever seen.

And then... home town hero Daniel Johnston. As the roadies up the
stage, I overheard the diminutive dude standing next to me being
introduced as the guitarist from punk legends the Dead Milkmen, who
seemed just as excited as I was for the impending show. The man is a
living legend and a compelling example of a community rallying around
a family to overcome debilitating mental illness. Frankly, now that
I've spent some time in Austin getting to know its lovely people and
places, it's a little easier to believe that even a seemingly lost
cause like Dan could find a place and thrive. It was a touching moment
to say the least, and I think it's for the best that I managed to
resist the urge to turn around and punch the guy who was yelling at
him to "play one of the good songs." Are you reading this buddy?
You're a fucking philistine.

Pat