The South By Southwest Music Conference has been called rock
'n' roll spring break, and for good reason. No, it's not about board
shorts and thongs and Coronas and poolside bacchanalia (sigh…), it's
about four days and nights of music in Austin, Texas. Sure there's
plenty of partying to be had -- free beer, free BBQ, and for some, a
label rep willing to throw down a credit card when that's not the case
-- and, there's a good amount of folks with an agenda as transparent as
a Janet Jackson marketing scheme. And yes, things can get pretty slimy
if you let it. But really, it's all about the music. Music of all
stripes. Whatever your Jones. That simple. And if it's not, you're in
the wrong business, babe (he says, filled with idealism and naiveté).
This year was no different. Typically, there was
an overwhelming number of choices, the gorging of BBQ and Mexican food,
the occasional distraction of the NCAA basketball tournament (San Diego
State won it all, from what I could tell), a chance to mingle with the
great unwashed on Sixth Street, panel discussions to contemplate
attending but eventually blow off, a few requisite hands to shake, and,
like a triathlete, the will to go the distance. Every attendee has a
different agenda, a different must-see, a different case of
happenstance, a different discovery, a different disappointment. What
we below here is hardly definitive -- I'm too old and jaded to think
that journalists can really make such claims. What we do have, though,
is one writer's highlights of a weeklong nomadic journey -- the
indelible moments that keep you wanting more of this thing called
music.
Remind me to never get a real job.
-- Neal Weiss, Los Angeles, April 9, 2004
WIDE AWAKE: Some
of the best rock music in history is the kind that sounds like it might
self-destruct at any moment. From the Velvets to the Who to Sonic Youth
and Nirvana, there's little more exhilarating than the songs -- pop
songs -- that take listeners to the stratosphere and leaving them
wondering if they're ever going to find firm footing again. Australian
outfit The Sleepy Jackson
delivered a similar sensation in a not-very-rock setting --
mid-afternoon in a courtyard between two buildings in downtown Austin.
Mostly the madness of the genuinely weird, blue-eye-shadowed Luke
Steele, TSJ is on this day a hair-raising collision of sounds -- pop,
psychedelic, and a smidgen of country -- all funneled through the
splendor of guitars that sound like they're about to explode. That one
amp did peter out mid-set only added to the magic.
The Sleepy Jackson, Lovers (Astralwerks)
LAY IT DOWN CLOWN: Gingersol releases an album all about the demise of the marriages of both
main members, Gingersol hits the road to showcase said album, meaning
they're singing these wrenching songs on a nightly basis. Don't know
how much that factored into this particular SXSW performance -- fair to
note that one of G-sol's exes was in attendance that night -- but the
set is pop-rock catharsis of the rarest kind. Perhaps it's beer and
adrenaline -- guitarist/keyboardist Seth Rothschild noted before he
took the stage that he had been awake for something like 36 consecutive
hours -- perhaps it is the culmination of a well-oiled, passionate band
working its ya-yas out. Either way, it is an exhilarating 45 minutes.
Bonus points for closing with the Replacements' "Can't Hardly Wait."
Gingersol, Eastern (Rubric)
FEEL THE NOIZE: Hard to gauge Bobby Bare, Jr.'s actual
level of insanity, but it sure makes for something special when he
takes the stage. On this night, Junior and his current outfit, the
Young Criminals' Starvation League, turn it up and turn it on, making
heads spin with his beery brew of folk-ish alt-rock and chaos with such
oddball ditties as "The Monk At The Disco" and the greatest pop song
yet to be discovered, "I'll Be Around." Bare's a true original, nearly
a force of nature, and the rare breed that can pull off covers of the
Smiths' "What Difference Does It Make?" and Slade's "Cum On Feel The
Noize" in the span of about 15 minutes. One reporter's advice: don't
ever miss a BBJ gig. Just don't.
Bobby Bare, Jr., From The End Of Your Leash (Bloodshot), due June 22
THE RESCUE BLUES: It seems like the Old 97's
have been gone for a long time. A solo outing by its front man will do
that to a band. But, taking the stage at a party hosted by their new
label, New West Records, it's easy to remember why one cared so much
about this Texas quartet in the first place. Lessee: hooks, charm,
smarts, spirit… Repeat. Yeah, that's it. They're older Old 97's now and
a little rounder in the faces, save Rhett Miller, who is slowly turning
into a runway model, but no less engaging. New songs find new places
while meshing seamlessly with old favorites. How can a human being not
be happy to witness this?
Old 97's, Drag It Up (New West Records), due June 29
THREE IS THE MAGIC NUMBER: One
of the greatest things about SxSW is the ability to string together a
music-viewing experience in no more than a couple/few hours that
reaches across countless musical boundaries. One of the best runs this
reporter experienced was the one-two-three punch of the totally
dissimilar Nellie McKay, Van Hunt, and the Willard Grant Conspiracy.
Young, blonde, industry darling-in-the-making Nellie McKay
plays a hyper-witty mix of cabaret, jazz, and pop armed with nothing
but an electric keyboard and her persona before a crowd at the Driskill
Hotel that seemed to adore her before she even tinkled a note. If it is
a self-fulfilling prophecy -- industry execs willing her to greatness
because that was the buzz and God forbid they're not on board -- so be
it. McKay exhibits more charm and charisma than a room full of
three-year-olds putting on a school play, not to mention a considerable
amount of originality, humor and attention-grabbing word-play. Think
Randy Newman, Doris Day, and some Norah Jones, all wrapped in a quirky
Cole Porter-meets-teen-angst package. Hard to say how to McKay story
plays out. Wouldn't be surprised if she winds up on Broadway or the
silver screen. But for the moment, it's a welcome entree.
Two blocks away, Van Hunt
plays to about 15 people at the Hard Rock Café. No knock on him, it was
some strange sort of BMI showcase that, if it wasn't unannounced, it
sure seemed that way. But those in attendance witness someone to keep
an eye on -- a singer/songwriter/guitarist that draws on such heroes as
Curtis Mayfield, Stevie Wonder, and Prince to stake his piece of the
R&B pie. It's a quasi-throwback, indeed, not unlike Ben Harper or
Macy Gray perhaps (the second comparison quite appropriate; both were
groomed by Andy Slater, now top dog at Capitol Records). But seeing
full-band R&B in an era of turntables and backing tracks is like a
smog-less day in Los Angeles. Hunt sizzles with soul and bad-ass style.
He looks damn cool too. Nothing wrong with that.
And then for another corner of the brain, Willard Grant Conspiracy.
The cinematic folk collective, on this night seven strong, mesmerizes
with traditional and neo-traditional songs of death and mortality from
their latest, Regard The End. Main Conspirator Robert Fisher
holds court with an unguarded but strangely sanctified presence, his
songs rural homilies powered by a breathtaking baritone. It makes an
otherwise dumpy venue into some kind of music hallowed ground. You can
almost feel the dirt between your toes.
Nellie McKay, Get Away From Me (Columbia Records)
Van Hunt, Van Hunt (Capitol Records)
Willard Grant Conspiracy, Regard The End (Kimchee)
WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE: Grey DeLisle
takes to the stage, er, the sunken floor, holding her autoharp, flanked
by her backing trio, and begins to sing her dramatic, neo-traditional,
mountain-influenced songs in a bar called Coyote Ugly, named for a
movie in which hottie bartenders get jiggy with their job descriptions.
You see where this is headed? Thanks to a power outage that temporarily
neuters DeLisle and band, the bar is quickly reclaimed by its
bartenders, mountainous for entirely different reasons, who then get
jiggly on the bar to the sound of Guns N' Roses' "Welcome To The
Jungle." Power back on, more of DeLisle's graceful ghosts. Power blows
again, more jiggly. It's Pavolvian, I tell you, how these women climb
atop the bar the moment they hear the first manic notes of Slash's
guitar excess. If your attention span cooperated, you'd have witnessed
some great, stirring music, if not, it's just a sub-Hooters' sub-plot
etched in your brain. Let's hope SXSW makes it up to DeLisle next year.
Grey DeLisle, The Graceful Ghost (Sugar Hill)
THE CONTENDERS: L.A.'s The 88
have emerged as one of the darlings of the local scene, and with good
reason. The dapper-dressed quintet plays a tightly-crafted pop that
instantly recalls early-'70s Kinks but, upon closer inspection, remains
something slightly more Quixotic and of their own making. Word is just
starting to trickle out beyond Southern California about the group --
meaning music journalists claiming uber-hipness wouldn't dare claim
they haven't at least heard of them at this point -- and a swing
through Austin offered a chance to give many a first look. As an
L.A.-based writer who has seen The 88 several times, I wasn't expecting
any surprises. But surprise they do, with new, catchier songs that
trump the old. Here's a good band, getting better all the time. Talk
about civic pride.
The 88, Kind Of Light (Mootron/EMK)
EXIT MUSIC: This might be the first and last time that Cooper Temple Clause and Dolorean
are uttered in the same sentence. The former draws on Radiohead,
Spiritualized, Oasis, and a scraggly '70s look to make rock fuzzy and
fairly epic. The latter is mellow as can be in a Nick Drake, Elliott
Smith, and/or Iron & Wine sort of way. The former aims for the
outer reaches of the universe with supersonic textures, the latter is
whispery, majestic avant-folk music that makes every day feel like
Sunday morning. So why are they mentioned in the same breath? Both
remain engaging for no more than about 20-25 minutes. A knock on each?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. There's a time and place for everything, and SxSW
is nothing if not an orgy for those with rock 'n' roll ADD.
Cooper Temple Clause, Kick Up The Fire, And Let The Flames Break Loose (RCA)
Dolorean, Not Exotic (Yep Roc)
I MUST BE HIGH: SxSW
is chock full of industry folks thinking they're hipper and more on the
pulse than the others clowns standing right next to them sipping the
same free Shiner Bock and watching the same over-hyped band. As
Centro-matic's Will Johnson said, "There's a lot of people around here
with good hair and cell phones this week." It just is what it is. So,
how cool am I -- good hair flowing in the Austin night, free hand
clutching cell phone -- to be cruising around in a rental car with a
with a cohort who actually has a pre-mastered CDR of the upcoming Wilco album, A Ghost Is Born? I mean, are there any bigger mack daddies in all of Austin at this moment in time? Chicks have to dig us. Dude, check out that 10-minute groove! Check out that blistering guitar tone! They're sooo not alt-country! This is like Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, but different! It's almost as if Jeff Tweedy was stoned out of his mind when he made this record! You think? (Get well, Jeff.)
Wilco, A Ghost Is Born (Nonesuch), due June 22
CARNIVAL OF SORTS: I
didn't think I was a Centro Head, but upon retrospect, that just might
be the case. (Thank God there's no patchouli involved.) First, there's Centro-matic backing Varnaline's Anders Parker (he having co-produced of Centro's recent release, Love You Just The Same),
for a round of thick slowcore that can be felt down to the bones.
Immediately following on the same stage, there is Centro-matic in its
more downbeat and contemplative persona, South San Gabriel (with
Parker and Slobberbone's Brent Best sitting in). Languid stuff with the
occasional drum-machine blip that lulls me into a nice, wee-hour happy
place.
Two days later, it's an afternoon gig
by Parker w/Centro again, with Parker getting a chance to show off some
new piano-core, if you will. Nice job, Anders. Bring on the new
Varnaline record already. Then it's Centro, the real Centro, in
all of its glory. An amazing and rare group this is, and a band in the
truest sense of the word, in that it would not be same if one of its
four members were no longer involved. Its sound -- Neil Young-like
rural rock and din meets Farrar meets a Pavement-esque slanted
enchantedment meets the cryptic majesty of early-R.E.M.-- is fully
realized. Its ammo -- from the songs and throaty vox of Will Johnson to
minimalist/massive drum work of Matt Pence -- is abundant. And its
volume of material -- something like a million albums in a decade --
makes the group ripe for a lifelong obsession.
The Centro-matic slobberfest climaxes
Saturday night at 1 am. They're a little bit worn, the crowd is a
little bit worn, but there's no shortage of that certain kinda
something taking place. It's a group hug of sorts, the feeling being
that the most interesting band in the country is doing its thing right
here and now. And, until further notice, it's our little secret.
Centro-matic, Love You Just The Same (Misra)
South San Gabriel, Welcome Convalescence (Undertow)
Anders Parker/Varnaline, Songs In A Northern Key (Artemis)
THE SOUND OF SILENCE: No,
not the Simon & Garfunkel song but we're talking literal silence.
After four days and nights of music pummeling the senses, there's
something to be said for a bit of a cleansing, if you will. And if
there must be noise, let it be the sounds of the suburbs -- cars
driving down the street, dogs barking, traffic helicopters buzzing,
sprinklers streaming, postal carriers stopping by, kids playing, babies
crying. That never sounded so good. Ditto for the sound of ordering
Thai food instead of 'cued bird or migas. Mmmm… prik king.
