Lost in Austin

Took a break from the house stuff for my annual sojourn in Texas for the South by Southwest festival this weekend.

A thousand bands (I caught a DJ from the Canary Islands, thug rappers, a country band and more skinny white indie kids than you can shake a stick at in just one day), lots of beer barbecue and TexMex, and 90 degree temperatures.

What is not to love?

Small crew this year---just Pete, Tim, and me. But, as always, big fun. I'll bore you with long lists of bands and photos later in the week. For now, just some general thoughts:

I am getting old.
With the continued rise of the day party, we literally watched shows for 14 hours each day. From Noon to 2:00 a.m. basically nonstop. Thank goodness we saw shows in a coffee bar two nights, that caffeine helped a lot. I just cannot keep that up for very long. Two days actually. Too bad I tried for three... On 60 minutes they talked about how after 6 days of sleep deprivation (4 hours of sleep) college kids in a couple studies were becoming pre-diabetic and showing signs of mental illness. These are folks in peek shape and used to drinking all day long. I am neither of those anymore...but I still tried. I should be ready again in a year.

They sure do like ink in Austin.
I cannot imagine another city in America with a higher per capita rate of body art...except maybe Seattle. Tattoos everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean both on everybody on the street, and seemingly on all body parts. And these aren't just a cute ankle daisy or cheesy band of bicep barbed wire. Nope, legs festooned with entire Japanese Kabuki theaters. Necks and arms with vast nautical epics spilling onto shoulder blades. Entire zoos escaping along the breast clefts or down the small of a back. Even a guy with a big fish on the side of his head. It makes standing in a crowd as engaging as the Art Institute.

Everybody thinks they can drum.
We might be witnessing the end of the traditional rock drummer epoch. The vast majority of bands we saw this weekend did without the typical drum set that has been the root of rhythm for the genre's entire existence. In its place were electronic drum pads set to trigger entire Javanese gamelons, African slit drums, or thunderous percussion sounds of an indeterminate source. Or, drumming duties were split amongst multiple percussionists (a snare here, a bass drummer there, someone else tossing in some maraca). And even when there was a full kit, it seemed like there was always someone else throwing extra beats into the mix---a singer tapping on a spare tom, keyboardist stepping over to cymbals...

Did I mention I am getting old?
This is more apparent every year. Each time I go, it is just a little harder to find bands I know...amongst the more than 1600 out there...

This year, with the new gig and house stuff, I did a ton less research than usual. And even finding dozens of performers I wanted to check out, I really had to rely on Tim and Pete to play cruise director.

I think that the players in Ponytail (sort of lead singer on left), one of the most entertaining groups of the entire weekend, were all about 12. Or

I am pushing 60.

Maybe both.


Fun sightings.
Rode an elevator with Mick Jones of The Clash. Saw Clipse at Iron Works eating barbecue. Thanked Ira Kaplan for being the best Jewish guitarist ever. Thanked Tim Fite for giving away his last album on the Web. And hugged El Guincho for just being cute and fun. (Not in a sexy way...more like in a lost mopey puppy with big eyes because he's never been off his little island before and this is all kinda overwhelming way).

A rundown of the bands we saw, complete with dark and blurry photos, later in the week.