As Promised...

Wilco’s forthcoming Sky B lue Sky hits record stores on May 15, but I’ve gotten my greedy little mitts on an early copy.

My friend J. Frank Parnell likes to claim that A.M. is the only good Wilco record, but he is quite wrong. A.M. is an Uncle Tupelo record without Jay Fararr’s twang mope, and its bar band rock is solid, partly because it’s an album without pretension, and partly because my life would be less full without songs like “Box Full of Letters” in it, if only because it’s on my top-ten list of break-up songs.

Being There, the double disc follow up, is my favorite Wilco release. It is the sound of a songwriter following his whims and growing sense of confidence in his vision while still struggling against his roots. The tension between folk/country/classic rock tradition, a growing pop sensibility and a nudge towards experimentation makes for a record with misses as interesting as its successes.

Summer Teeth finds Tweedy and friends chasing pop dreams, with dark lyrics beneath shimmering guitars and keys, and it works, for what it is. It won’t change your life, but it’s worth popping in on a road trip. Winona Ryder loves it.

On Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Wilco takes on Brian Wilson, chasing the Smile dragon that buried Wilson, totally shedding their “alt.country” tag in favor of big arrangements and sweet melody, with orchestral flourishes that flummoxed their label and worked brilliantly. If 9/11 had never happened and “Jesus, Etc.” had been the lead single as it was supposed to be, it’d have been a number one hit. I’m on drunken record proclaiming Yankee Hotel as the counter to Radiohead’s Ok Computer, and I stand by my claims that current toddlers will someday debate those two records with the same fervor that we once debated Sgt. Peppers and Pet Sounds.

A Ghost is Born went further along the same path, but isn’t nearly as successful as a whole. The feedback wonkery might once have thrilled me (and it translates better live), but it’s not a record I’ve gone back to much in the intervening years, despite some tracks I quite like.

Opening with, “Either Way,” Sky Blue S ky finds Wilco dialing back a bit, revisiting the sounds of Being There through the lens of a band that has moved far away from that sound. Despite Nels Cline reveling in his jazz roots and turning out some dreadful jam band like guitar parts on tracks like "Impossibly Germany," on my first listen, I’m hearing an album that feels brave. A bunch of critics and fans who came to Wilco around the time of Yankee Hotel won’t have a clue what to make of this record.

It’s quiet, often heavy on piano and keys, only occasionally venturing into the noise of Ghost, and it feels introspective. It’s the sound of a man who’s getting older, who’s been places, who’s had long held dreams come true and found their resolution empty. Midway through, the tempo picks up, “Shake it Off” shows an appreciation for blues riffs and the pulsing rhythms that marked much of Ghost, but the record slides back into contemplation with the quick and lovely, “Please Be Patient With Me,” before picking up again with “Hate in Here”—a song that reminds me of the Doobie Brothers, in the best possible way.

This is an album. While there are tracks that stand out as potential singles, I suspect it works best as a whole, rather than as a couple of standout tracks and a mess of filler. It doesn’t worship sadness the way so much “emo” does, but it does understand the difference between melancholy and reflection, and revels in both places, musically and lyrically.

The thing that I’ve always admired about Wilco is that they’ve never been afraid of evolution. That they’ve been willing to take risks with their sound. They’re willing to grow. They’re willing to grow older.

I liked, but didn’t love, this record on a first listen, but I’ve got a niggling feeling that it’s going to end up growing on me, that I’ll be playing it a lot and that I’m going to consider it a gem down the road.

Box Full of Letters (acoustic b-side)

Either Way

You Are My Face

Please Be Patient With Me

What Light

In Other News...

I expect to have the forthcoming W ilco record in my hot little hands tomorrow. I will review. And, if you're nice, I'll post a couple of tracks. But I'll contintue to spell it W ilco because I don't want to get nasty letters from lawyers.

Roughly Three Weeks...

As Weasel reminds in the comments to my previous post, The Season approaches.

The time of good things, the time of the smell of freshly mowed grass, of poorly made beer in plastic cups washing down pork products of questionable origin, the time of Manny plucking dandelions in the shadow of The Monster, of the inimitable sound of hardwood meeting horsehide, the time of Jeter ranging deep into the hole and gunning a runner down with that leap and toss, of Pettitte's cap pulled low over his eyes as he waits for the sign, the time of mythical pitches from the Far East, of the inevitable August Boston Collapse and, most of all, the time of the rivalry, is nearly upon us.

So, Mr. Weasel, what are we to do? On April 20, my beloved Yankees roll into Fenway for the first meeting with your loathed Sox. Last season was fun. Do we continue in the same manner, attempting to one up one another in aesthetic embarrassment, or do we find something new?

I understand, given the impending birth of your first born, your time may be limited, but I also know you will want to instill the inherent values of The Nation in your offspring.

So, Weasel and readers, how do we proceed?

It's That Time of Year Again...

I feel I'd be remiss if I didn't alert you to the return of the The Screech Owl Nest Cam.

Enjoy.

Real Family Values

I haven't yet decided who I'm going to support in the Democratic primaries for President in '08, but I've long felt that John Edwards deserves a hard look. Personally, I'm looking for a winner, but I'm also looking for someone I can support without holding my nose.

I parted ways with the Clinton brand of politics forever in 1996, when then President Clinton signed the "Welfare Reform Act." I could not, and can not, give my support to anyone who'd put his name on legislation as odious as that particular law. But, more importantly, I've long believed that the Clinton's "third way" is only effective when it's espoused by a mouthpiece as compelling and personally charismatic as Bill Clinton. He possesses rare political skill, but when other Democrats have tried his approach, the results have been a disaster for both the party and the country (e.g. Al Gore, Version 2000 and John Kerry).

Hillary has her husband's policies, but not his cult of personality, and I'm wary of her. Obama is compelling. He has Clinton-like charisma, but he's largely untested and yadda, yadda. I want him to be for real, but I'm not yet sold on him.

Four years ago, Edwards was Obama, a new face with substantial charisma, maybe a touch too pretty. But he's worked hard these last four years, and his work has earned my consideration. I can still see a situation where HRC and Obama eat one another and Edwards emerges as the leader. And it doesn't worry me.

But that is neither here nor there at the moment.

Because with the Edwards' revealing today that Elizabeth Edwards' cancer has returned in a more serious form, their joint press conference was most remarkable not for what it said, but for the way it revealed their bond and their genuine partnership.

It shouldn't be an issue. No one should really care who or what an elected official does during his or her downtime, as long as everything is between consenting adults.

But the Right has made it an issue, and it's worth noting something I first learned from Talking Points Memo last week. Hell, I'll just quote the post itself:

How many divorces have their been among the men -- and women -- in the Democratic field? Let's run through them real quick, just for the fun of it. None of the following liberal Dem candidates has gotten divorced:

(1) Hillary: You know the story. No need to repeat it

(2) Obama: Married to Michelle, whom he met when she was just out of law school, for 15 years.

(3) Edwards: Married to Elizabeth since 1977; they've had four children, one of whom was killed in a car crash. As Andrew Sullivan recently observed: "Most couples never survive the death of a child. The Edwards family did — and went on to have two more."

(4) Richardson: Married to his high-school sweetheart for 33 years.

(5) Biden: First wife killed in car accident in 1972; married to his current wife for almost 30 years.

Yeah, you have to really scrape your way to the bottom of the Democratic field to find divorces. The only Dem Presidential candidate with any kind of credible shot who has gotten divorced is...Chris Dodd, who divorced in 1982.

In fact, if you think about it, the entire field of Dems deemed credible boasts fewer divorces than Rudy Giuliani alone!

Snark aside, as someone who has personal experience with the worry and fear that comes from a loved one's battle with cancer, my thoughts are with Elizabeth Edwards and her family tonight. As a family, John and Elizabeth Edwards have faced tragedy and illness that have ripped other, seemingly strong, families apart.

For that, they have my respect and admiration.

Spring!

Upon arriving home tonight, I was forced to turn on the air conditioner in my humble abode for just a short while to create an ambient temperature that was livable.

Those of you in less balmy regions can feel free to hate me.

In other news, well, I've got none. So some SXSW pics instead.

If you liked Sleater Kinney in 1992, you will love The Hedrons in 2007.



If you like Jack Johnson, you will love Paolo Nutini, but you should also be shot as a service to the rest of the human race.



If this is something that makes you wonder, "What the hell is happening here?"



Well, I'd agree. But when this happened next:



I felt it better to move on and stifle my curiosity.

Implosion

Ampcamp seems to have imploded sometime this week.

Some of our material made it up there, and some is here.

And I'm just going to load it all in here for the hell of it:

SXSW Wednesday Day Parties

We had good intentions. We were going to get a nice, early start and catch some of the bands at the Gorilla vs. Bear vs. Austinist party at Mohawk, but we woke late, the weather is dreary, and by the time we got downtown, our need for BBQ was more pressing than our need for indie rock.

But, after fueling up at Stubbs, we did pop into the Mohawk for a set by Sparrow House Music aka Jared Van Fleet from Voxtrot. Solo, he’s playing moody, atmospheric folk with occasional wisps of pop. The best of it has him channeling his inner Elliot Smith, and the darker songs had the packed room of emo kids nodding along meaningfully. We bailed early in favor of the free PBR tallboys down the road at Little Radio’s party at Red Eyed Fly.

We were too late for Bloodcat Love, but ran into Brothers and Sisters again, playing today with the lap steel they were missing last night. Similar set, and the Mohawk’s sound guy is top notch. Still recommended.

Next up, Brooklyn’s Pela. They’ve got an obvious Replacements fetish, which is no bad thing, and it’s nice to hear a band that isn’t trying to make dance rock. Still, we weren’t blown away, despite a passionate and energetic performance from a group that has obvious chops and can write a nifty hook. Your mileage may vary.

After Austin local’s The Octopus Project finished their first song, the photographer standing next to me muttered, “Holy Shit.” That about sums it up. They defy category, serving up a twisted instrumental stew anchored by crushing drums and bass and filled out with power chord guitar riffs, bleepy bloopy, theremin, xylophone and samples from an iBook. Awesome.

Peter, Bjorn and John finished out the afternoon. If this is the way Sweden sounds, I’m moving. Everyone loves them, and you should too.

Heading out again shortly, maybe to the Merge showcase, maybe to the Emo’s empire for sets by Calla, Beirut and the like.

SXSW tip of the day: If you park in the Austin Convention Center lots, you get in and out privileges for the rest of the day. Use the one on 2nd and Brazos. You have to walk a bit further, but you avoid the traffic snarl.

SXSW Wed. Night

Driving downtown, we were faced with a conundrum. Should we go to the Merge showcase, where we could hear Lady Bug Transistor, Imperial Teen and Oakley Hall? Or should we dally around the various Emo’s stages and pop into Sub Pop, 4AD, Beggar’s Banquet and others? We’ve seen Oakley Hall a few times and Imperial Teen once (excellent live, if you were wondering), but Beirut and Calla in particular were strong pulls too.

In the end, traffic and parking woes caused us to miss our shot at Lady Bug and we opted for Emo’s. And we are glad we did.

After a long, involved search for parking (memo to The City of Austin: Mass Fucking Transit That Works Please), we were craving volume. Because we came of age in a simpler time, we still associate Sub Pop with a certain level of musical aggression. So we popped into their showcase first to find Tiny Vipers just setting up. We knew nothing about the Seattle based duo, but with a name that implies a venomous sting and Sup Pop behind them, we had high hopes.

We were wrong.

Now, we like some slowcore as much as the next guy. We are, in fact, very much looking forward to seeing Jesse Sykes and The Sweet Hereafter tomorrow. But this wasn’t what we wanted; we listened to one dirge and headed down the block to try and score a good spot for Beirut.

Which was lucky. The big room at Emo’s was full, and they weren’t letting anyone in, even if you were sporting a shiny SXSW badge. The hyping of Beirut has worked.

We did worm our way inside before they started and loved the first few songs. They’re interesting, and in a live setting, the melding of horns, accordion, violin and what not was a whole lot of fun. But they’ve only really got an EPs worth of solid material and things got bogged down a bit in the middle of the set. But the crowd begging to get in makes me suspect they’re going to be one of the big stories of this SXSW.

After Beirut, we found our way back into the Sub Pop showcase for a brief hit of Loney, Dear. We’d heard, “I am John,” the lead single from their new record and quite liked its quiet, melodic pop. They were fine. Between song banter is amusing with a Swedish accent. But they weren’t interesting enough to make us risk being late for Calla.

We’ve always loved Calla (full disclosure, Aurelio Valle was once a regular at a place where I poured drinks. He tipped well.). They were, in a word, fantastic. They still have a numbing rhythm section and spare, cinematic songs, but they’re evolving into a band that isn’t afraid of a touch of melody. Strength in Numbers has been out for a couple of months now. Get it.

We could’ve finished the night at Emo’s with Voxtrot or made our way over to Antone’s for the surprise Spoon set. If we didn’t live here, we probably would’ve chosen Spoon, but we do, so we went home instead.


SXSW Thursday Day Parties

Memo to Tally Hall: Being able to play competent sounding songs in a whole host of styles doesn’t make you innovative or interesting. It makes you a Jersey Shore cover band. If you start melding your disparate influences, you might be on to something. Oh, and closing with a straight ahead rendition of “Free Bird” isn’t irony. It’s dumb.

But enough with the hate. Because there was much to love today.

Brooklyn’s Hopewell kicked off our day splendidly with a mini set of big, clean guitars, oooh woos and jingly keyboards. Front man Jason Russo came of age in Mercury Rev and there’s hints of that sound here. They’ve also been spending some time listening to the Flaming Lips and would fit easily on a bill with them. Nifty psychedelic pop/rock. Recommended highly.

The UK’s Goldrush followed them admirably. Another band that wears it’s Flaming Lips influences on it’s sleeve, Goldrush also brings some classic rock to bear (think mid-70s Stones, Neil Young with Crazy Horse) and nods to the more recent Wilco sound. Looped violin, a touch of cowbell, keyboards and shimmery guitars abound. We were impressed.

Piney Gir, my new future ex-wife, contributed some backing vocals for Goldrush and they returned the favor, backing her excellent brand of boot stomping, skirt twirling, alt.twang. We’ve loved the London based, Kansas bred Piney for a while, and she delivers in person. She’s got terrific pipes, and performed her whisky drenched heart out, even for a crowd heavy on industry wankers. Seek her out.

Private to Ms. Gir: I know it’ll never last Piney. But please, please, please marry me?

Onwards, we decided to take in Great Lakes Myth Society simply because their publicist has been working so hard on their behalf. Based out of Northern Michigan, and spawned from the ashes of the Original Brothers and Sisters of Love, they call themselves a collective, a word which makes us wary, but we quite liked the rough edged folk rock of the CD and their live set was a rollicking affair. For making the accordion rock, we salute them.

The name on everyone’s lips is The Fratellis. All the cool kids were waiting to see them outside of the Levi’s/Fader party. Or maybe they were waiting for Sloan. We don’t like to wait in lines, so we’ll catch them both later in the week.

SXSW Thursday Night

The theme for the bulk of our evening tonight can be summed up in two words: Known Quantity.

We started with Shearwater at the Central Presbyterian Church. Palo Santo has been in heavy rotation on our home stereo since last spring, and it should be in yours too. In the vaulted church acoustics, the John Cale like soundscapes cascaded around the anchor of Jonathan Meiburg’s massive voice to a hushed, pew ensconced crowd. Matador will re-release a remastered and partially re-recorded Palo Santo next month as a double record, with a bonus disk chock full outtakes, demos, covers and the like. If you’re a vinyl person, you’ll get a track your laser dependent friends will miss. If Matador’s smart, they’ll find a way to have Shearwater tour churches. Thus far, easily the best combination of band, material and venue we’ve heard.

On the way down to the Barsuk showcase, we were forced to wonder if SXSW has finally jumped the shark. Back in the day, when labels mattered, a solid SXSW appearance could make a band, but in this blog driven, myspace world, SXSW would seem to lack a reason to exist. Don’t get us wrong, we’re having a fantastic time and we’re quite glad to be here, but the festival’s raison d'etre hasn’t really changed with the times. Unless a band has had no American exposure, what does an appearance here do?

Our feelings were reinforced as we waltzed into the Barsuk show on the strength of our badge. Bob Mould, late of Husker Du, Sugar and the City of Austin, was next on the bill. Devoted fans without badges were waiting in quite a long line on the off chance they might get to see him play a forty minute set.

Husker Du came into our lives at an important time and we enjoy about an album and a quarter of Sugar, but we’ve moved on. For us, Mould is like that old college friend we’ve lost touch with; after a few beers everything is on familiar footing, but it’s a little awkward at first. We felt guilt, because we were really only there because Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter were on later and we were feeling too lazy to venue hop and risk missing Ms. Sykes.

But, Barsuk has decided that Mould needs to be here, even though it’s pretty apparent that he’s going to continue to fill small to medium clubs for as long as he wants to keep playing. I’ve no idea if they opened the doors to the real fans waiting outside, but in a better world, the host of badge sporting industry douche bags who took up space and nattered through his acoustic set would’ve made way for people who were anxious to be there.

Enough of that. Mould was good. He’s a pro. He writes good songs. Without Grant Hart, he isn’t great, but a new album drops in August, and according to Mould, it’s “dark, with lots of guitar.” It was hard to tell from the stripped down acoustic versions of new material, but it sounded like he’s flirting with the Du sound again. One can hope.

Seattle based Rocky Votolato filled the time between Mould and Sykes. He’s very good at what he does, if you like that sort of thing. Us, we’d rather put on Matthew Sweet’s Girlfriend and not leave the house when we’re in that sort of mood. Votolato’s new disc drops June 19th.

Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter came into our lives when our heart was a tattered wreck and nothing seemed sweet or good at all. On record, they sound like rainy Sundays when even the dog hates you. Live, they’ve got a bit more punch. We love them either way. And, either way, they’re anchored by Sykes heart broken voice and the sublime guitar of Phil Wandscher. We hope Ryan Adams lies awake at night and regrets whatever it was he did to piss that guy off. Just buy the records. All of them.

After Jesse finished, and at the request of the ampcamp powers that be, we left for Beerland to take in Jay Reatard.

Atlanta’s Carbonas were just gearing up when we arrived. We are picky about our punk. We had an older sister who wasn’t adverse to us raiding her Stiff Little Finger’s vinyl back when we had just begun to flirt with puberty.

Carbonas was fine. They were loud and fast. They made people happy. We’d pretty much heard it before.

Our ampcamp taskmaster had described Jay Reatard thusly, “He's like the Misfits if they were Wire, but one guy playing everything, at least in the studio.”

Live, it (they? he?) are a four piece. A tight four piece. Our notes read, “Loud as fuck. Fast. Ear’s bleed while you dance.” We are picky about our punk, and this Jay Reatard character is solid. We regret that we can not offer photos. Our camera gear cost us more than our car, and we weren’t going to brave that thrashing throng for your benefit.

But our ampcamp taskmaster is right. Jay Reatard is the Misfits if they were Wire, and if that sounds tasty, you should grab their record so you can say you had it before Pitchfork told you to buy it.

SXSW Friday Day Parties

Expect a Pitchfork “exclusive” some time in the next couple of weeks. Ireland’s Simple Kid is signing a US deal with Yep Rock. The details haven’t been fully worked out, but the deal is all but inked; we got in straight from the Kid (aka Ciaran McFeely) after his low-fi one man band set entertained us over a fry up at B.D. Riley’s Full Irish Breakfast. Everyone’s going to compare him to Beck. He even looks like him. Playing on his own, with an electronically generated “backing band,” we thought his sunny low-fi pop more reminiscent of the Trashcan Sinatras recorded in a bedsit on a four track. He’s supported acts like Travis, The Thrills and Suede, and fans of those bands will find him swell when the Yep Rock release hits shelves in about a month.

Onward to the Scottish Arts Council’s party at the Lava Lounge and a stellar set from The Hedrons. Their debut One More Won’t Kill Us won’t be available stateside until May, but if their live show is any indication, they’re worth waiting for: Drums like early Sleater Kinney, searing guitar, massive bass. There’s no sludge here, this is clean, the bastard love child of The Ramones, Patti Smith and The Runaways, and we’ll bet every penny in our wallet that you’ll find them at one of Iggy Pop’s sets this week. Loved, loved, loved them.

We have nothing to say about Jo Mango. She didn’t do much for us, so we took advantage of beer paid for by the Scottish taxpayers before worshipping at the altar of Emma Pollock. Late of the much admired Delgados, this was Pollock’s first ever show with a full band and she was, as usual, lovely. Her solo record is out from 4AD in September, and the material sounded much like the more straight ahead Delgado’s tracks. Very solid.

We really wanted to see The Fratellis, so we stuck around for Glasgow’s Twilight Sad. A set of angsty, arena ready anthems, guitars cascading through a wall of sound. Twilight Sad has worn out their copy of the Joshua Tree, but we’d have liked them better if they’d spent more time with the clear My Bloody Valentine influences. Still, worth a look.

The Fratellis bailed. And we are bummed. But we have a lead on an after party tonight where we should finally catch them.

About Last Night---SXSW Friday Night (and Saturday Afternoon)

We haven’t hit the wall, but we see it looming. We could barely see straight after the Yep Rock showcase last night, let alone compose coherent prose.

We were there for Robyn Hitchcock and Peter Buck, Sloan and Apples in Stereo. And so were a whole host of other people.

Toronto’s Rock Plaza Central was on when we arrived. Frankly we don’t see the point. They add accordion, violin, mandolin and banjo to your basic pop-rock sound and it was pleasant. They would fit well on the Gap’s instore playlist.

Robyn Hitchcock and Peter Buck did exactly what we expected. You either love Hitchcock or you hate him. We like The Soft Boys and Hitchcock’s mental folk appeals to us. But we also think the only thing worthwhile about Pink Floyd was Syd Barrett.

Backed by Buck’s understated, chiming 12 string, the material, mostly from the recent Ole! Tarantula was catchy, more accessible than some of Hitchcock’s past work and went down easy. If I didn’t already have the record, I’d buy it now.

We had a brief chat with Buck after the set. We sensed he didn’t really want to be talking with us, that he’d rather be spending time with the attractive, younger red head on his arm, but we were curious how he felt about SXSW. “For me it’s just another gig,” he said, “And I get a chance to see friends and new bands I don’t know.” Glad to see he’s just like us, really, except we could never pull off that patterned, velvet dinner jacket and we don’t trash airplanes.

Sloan was magnificent. We sense their club days are numbered. Drawing heavily from Never Hear The End of It, the crowd serenaded them on stage with a sing-song “Slooooaaaaaannnnn” chant that made us feel like we were at an English soccer match. We understand they play stadiums at home in Canada, and they feel poised to make that jump here. Highlight: “Who Taught You To Live Like That,” which somehow manages to be more catchy live. They apparently drink Corona; knowing that makes us sad.

We were unfamiliar with You Am I, but trusted friends assured us the records are nothing to get all excited about. Live, they played a nice, standard indie rock set, but we can’t really remember a thing about it.

The Apples in Stereo frustrate the hell out of us. They’ve made us giddy (2002’s Velocity of Sound) and they’ve made us shrug. But there’s no denying they can play the hell out of a whole host of instruments and that, unlike a lot of rock bands, they actually listen to one another on stage. We’ve not heard the forthcoming New Magnetic Wonder, but they drew heavily from it during a giddy set that we, and the very packed room, enjoyed immensely. If the live sound has translated to record, it’ll be a winner.

One final note, a Yep Rock honcho who refused to be named, would only say, “I won’t deny it,” when we asked him about the label’s signing of Simple Kid.

Today we were spent and sluggish. We caught a set by Detroit’s Thunderbirds Are Now! at the Brooklyn Vegan, Le Tigre, etc, etc. party: Electro-punk, dance-rock, new-new wave, whatever overused descriptor you like will work. But it felt like they didn’t really believe in what they were doing, though they were clearly having a hell of time doing it. If they were actually taking the piss out of the Rapture, it’d be cool, but others, particularly label mates Les Savy Fav, do this sort of thing better.

We finally caught a set by The Fratellis. What can we say? Pete Townsend joined them on stage yesterday, they play the Troubadour in L.A. next week, and my cousin’s 13 year old daughter is going to have a poster of lead singer John Lawler adorning her walls by the end of June. They are going to be all over your radios this summer, because if this acoustic set was any indication, they play polished pop-rock with a hint of country/blues influence that doesn’t take risks or break any remotely interesting ground. Apple has already used “Flathead” in an iTunes ad.

Our verdict: Hootie and the Blowfish with a little attitude and a Scottish accent.

We are ready for people to go the fuck home, but we’ll be out tonight, probably at Kings of Leon and Spoon. We don’t think we can bear to watch Iggy Pop do his “I needed the money” show with The Stooges, but we are considering closing things out with Midlake and/or The Figgs.

SXSW Saturday Night

Ok, it’s time for you people to leave. You’ve done all the blow in Central Texas. Seriously. Moving between venues tonight, we passed the house dealer at a certain Red River club in an alley and overheard him complaining, “Shit’s been stepped on so much, it should be called doormat.” You are exhausted because you’ve been shoveling a mixture of lidocane and Italian baby laxative up your noses all day—expect long lines for the bathrooms on flights to LA and New York.

Tonight, we were feeling lazy, so we decided to spend the bulk of our evening at Stubbs for the big send off. Opener A Fine Frenzy shares something with 10,000 Maniacs: a name that implies a band that isn’t as boring as plain oatmeal. Piano based and blah.

Paolo Nutini was up next and we realized we’d seen him earlier in the week and promptly forgot. Jack Johnson with a Scottish burr. Avoid, but based on the reaction of the teen female demographic, you won’t be able to.

Kings of Leon did their retro-Southern rock thing to an appreciative crowd. We’ve tried, but we don’t get it. We know they’re supposed to have left the Skynyrd trip behind for more complex terrain. And we know we’re supposed to dig it. But we don’t. Granted, we spent the bulk of their set crammed against a tower of amps in and around the photo pit, so the sound wasn’t the best for us, but we’d rather see My Morning Jacket than these guys, even though just typing that makes us feel a little dirty.

Hometown heroes Spoon were next and Britt Daniel and Co. rocked in satisfactory fashion, with a Pamela Des Barres-esque groupie cavorting on stage near the end of the set. Their new material sounds tasty, but we can’t decide why we enjoy Spoon more than Kings of Leon, except that maybe it’s because Spoon seems to take themselves a tad less seriously. Expect the new record to continue in the direction established by Gimme Fiction.

We considered sticking around for The Stooges, but then remembered that there’s really no difference between us seeing The Stooges and our mom longing for another Simon and Garfunkle Central Park show, and we didn’t want to feel quite so old. Instead, we almost ran over to the Bella Union showcase to catch Denton, Texas products Midlake and used our press credential to bluff our way past a very long line.

We are deeply not cool. We know that. Mid way through our thirties, we have even come to accept it. And, Midlake makes the kind of sun drenched, 70s AM radio folk rock we will always love. With ringing harmonies, keys and piano, a blend of acoustic and electric guitars and solidly crafted songs with lovely hooks, Midlake sounds like music that would’ve been playing on childhood late night car rides, us half asleep in the back seat, with mom and dad holding hands over the stick shift, still a decade away from divorce, if only we’d had parents who were a touch more cool.

In a world where America covers Nada Surf and Maplewood, gets produced by James Iha and Adam Schlesinger, and receives support from the likes of Ryan Adams and Ben Kweller, there is surely a place for a band like Midlake, and we are happy to say they were a perfect end to our night.

There is more to come tomorrow; the day includes a bit more music and a SXSW softball game that promises unprecedented levels of athletic ineptitude. If you didn’t throw like a girl, you wouldn’t need to be in a band to get laid. The prospect of watching that horror show is tempting.

We don’t know what we’re going to do. We have many, many photos to process. We are, frankly, spent. .

But, either way, it’s been fun.

Bad Parenting Interlude

So, I'm walking along 6th Street today, in the midst of the SXSW madness, and I'm trying to figure out where I should go next, when I spy a young girl, decked out in full piper's regalia and carrying a set of bag pipes, and I remember that it's March 17.

I stop a man I assume his her father, who informs me she just played a gig, and at his nod, she launches into a vaguely familiar tune, with mournful tones I'm sure I've heard before. Her playing is magnificent. As with the violin, there is no such thing as a mediocre piper. This girl had piper chops.




A crowd gathered as I snapped away, and when I had the shot, I turned to her father and asked for information. I was scribbling her name as she finished playing and was startled to see her rush to her father, sobbing.

I realized I’d just witnessed the Jonbenet Ramsey of bag pipers, and I was torn between wanting to comfort the prodigiously talented child, wanting to deck her idiot father who’d brought her into the madness of Saturday SXSW like a show pony, and wanting to berate myself for my role in the whole thing.

Yet, I’m posting the picture here, because her playing was magical and I hope, someday, she gets to know that.

Music Insanity

Jesse Sykes and The Sweet Hereafter

Hiatus

I'm not sure how much time I'll have to post here over the next few days.



If you're interested in what I'm up to, Ampcamp should have details.

Until next week,

Bill

Easing into SXSW

Headed over to the world premiere of King Corn last night and managed to score a seat through the time honored method of bluffing my way inside (my credentials don't take effect until tomorrow).

I can't say enough good things about this quirky little documentary. In brief, it builds on the Fast Food Nation concept and takes it, almost literally, to its roots. It would've been interesting if it was just about the politics and realities of food production in the United States, but it combines the polemic with a personal story and connection that really brings the film to life.

Highly recommended when it comes your way (they don't know if they're going to have a theatrical release, but the film will air on PBS.)

Catch the trailer here.

SXSW Mini Thought Number Two

My distaste for aging rock stars is well documented (scroll down a bit), and I was all set to take a pass on the Stooges at SXSW, but then I read their concert rider, and I think I might just have to pop in for a set.

Big Gay Repbulicans!

For those of you who pay less attention to the left wing blogosphere, a bit of background may be in order...

1) Last week, she-demon Ann Coulter decided to refer to John Edwards as a "faggot" at a Conservative conference.

2) At the same conference, Matt Sanchez, a Marine reservist who also happens to be something of a cause celeb for the Faux News brigade because of his alleged standing up to alleged taunts from his Columbia University classmates who allegedly took issue with his right of center stance on the issues, received the very first Jeanne Kirkpatrick Academic Freedom Award for bringing light to the alleged intolerance on our nation's college campuses.

Isn't bashing Political Correctness on Campus a bit 1994? ed.

3) Whoops. Turns out that Cpl. Sanchez also has a bit of um, well, ah, hmmm, yes, a past. Google it yourself if you must; this is a family blog. But, in layman's terms, a few years back, the good Marine was pursuing a rather different vocation, one that involved him having sex with other men on camera. And, in an ancillary career, he also had sex with other men for money.

4) Cpl. Sanchez has been spinning himself silly since the story came to light, suggesting he’d seen the error of his previous ways, that the incidents were well in his past, and that even with everything that’s happened, it’s been his new friends on the Right who have been nice while the lefties have been all mean and intolerant, because that’s what lefties do.

Ok. That should do. You have the salient facts.

Today, in a sign that even those who are damned may one day find redemption, Alan Colmes, who has reserved himself a special place in hell for giving left wing cover to Faux News, was actually a journalist when he had the Republican, Marine, Gay Porn Star and Hustler on his radio show. Here is the audio:



That was fun, wasn’t it?

Where in The World Is Irving? He's in Marfa!

A few days ago, Corie wrote the following:

P.S. ART PROJECT ALERT! As if I don't have enough projects up in the air right now...why not one more? This one is called Where's Irving? A Collaborative Study of Cat and Landscape © .

Detail #1: group picture book project.
Detail #2: mixed media/collage and/or photoshop.
Summation: I provide the Irving, you place him in your landscape.*

Drop be a note for details.

* No, you will not receive a cat in the mail.

Behold my first clutzy attempt at placing Irving in Marfa, TX.



Who knew the big guy enjoyed contemporary art?

SXSW Mini Thought Number One

The Austrailians and the Scots are currently tied for the best press organization. For the last two weeks, my email has been full of releases about Scottish and Aussie bands no one's ever heard of. I suppose I'll have to check something out when the time comes.

I Suspect This is Okay Now...

Given recent events in the indie music blogosphere, I'm wagering it's fine for me to formally announce that in roughly 12 days, I will begin covering South By Southwest for Ampcamp.

What does it mean?

It means that for about six days, I'll be seeing more live music than most people see in a year. It means that I'll be musing on that experience in both text and images over at Ampcamp . It means that I'll have a nifty badge around my neck that will allow me access to shows while the rabble with wristbands waits outside in the balmy Texas spring. It means swag for me and, hopefully, quality content for Ampcamp.

It also means that some things that would normally appear here are going to find a home at Ampcamp.

I'm sure my tens of readers will follow me.

And, if you do click through, buy a record or ten while you browse. The prices are among the best on line, the shipping is dirt cheap, the stock is quality and at least two of the people behind the site have MFA's in poetry. As a result, every album you buy there helps at least two people from asking, "Do you want fries with that?"