For the second year in a row, Playboy and C3 put on a late night party at SXSW, and for the second year in a row, I was lucky enough to attend.

While last year, the party was housed in a giant warehouse-type thing in the middle of nowhere, this year’s event was right downtown at a giant warehouse-type thing at the corner of 3rd and San Jacinto. The line circled the block and even the media entrance was swarmed by 11 PM.

Inside, there seemed to be a new adventure tucked into every corner: free barbecue; free drinks; a room full of Port-A-Potties that also housed a Rock Band hooked up to a television the the back of a car and a well lit area with a backdrop for crucial drunken photo seshes. The people were fascinating to watch:

• There was a surly red-headed bartender. She admonished people for taking too long to order their drinks; allowed her “regulars” to skip in head of the line; and when a particularly douche-y party goer knocked over her stack of plastic cups, she fixed him with a steely glare and lectured, “Really dude? Really?” Yeah, dude. Really? One day I’m going to marry that girl.
• There was a couple–or just two like souls who found each other in an instance of pure serendipity–who boogied toward the back entrance. He was dressed in a low-cut, V-neck, red velour with white racing stripes. His humongous, curly hair was accented by a white headband, and his face wore one of the sweeter ironic moustaches I’ve seen during the trip. She was wearing skin-tight striped hot pants that could barely contain her luscious booty. Their choreography consisted of moves that my have been stolen from the Torrance Community Dance Group, and they were pretty darn fabulous.
• And I think I saw Elijah Wood.

There were bands, too. The Heavy played some songs, and they were kind of whatever. MGMT gave me a headache, but not in an awesome High on Fire sort of way. Justice started off at a throbbing cacophony and just started cranking shit louder and louder until brains started frying. That’s when shit really started going off. Moby played a DJ set, but I missed it (I’m kind of bummed about it now since we’re totally bros now), and by the time I got back (around 3:45 AM), the venue (slowly clearing out) was pumped so thick full of smoke (and I was so pumped thick full of whiskey) that my eyes started tearing. Cutting through the haze was difficult, but there were a ton of people on stage, how many, and who was actually DJing, I couldn’t tell. It looked like a lot, and they were back lit, which made it kind of creepy.

Luckily, they were still serving whiskey, and back by the photo sesh area, a woman with sweet guns (in addition to other things) interviewed Spencer. Swag included: a wristband, guitar pick, free magazine and a couple other things I’m not allowed to mention because they may be incriminating. Good time had? Oh yeah.

“My balls bring people to a magical happy place.” Whether from just the pure joy of being in the proximity of my balls (as in the case of a few lucky ladies with low standards) or in the case of James Barone, out of pure shock (recoiling into his safe dreamworld of elfin maidens and harmonized guitar leads to preserve his last bits of sanity). Last night, passed out on our floor, a certain Synthesis contributer and current CMJ/Spin cog got the real goods when my family jewels dangled over his forehead. My first teabag experience, one that was preordained by various intermittent text messages of “Balls” over the last year. No skin-to-skin contact was made, but it’s the thought that counts. And for the record, I think it was a certainpublisher who put the idea into my head.

“Spencer! Put your balls on MK’s head.”

“aiight.”

So I think I brought the room to a new low…but with hilarious consequences.

This hotel room smells like balls and sadness, and despite having a well-put-together female room mate, there is only so much manstink a girl can absorb. But anyway, my balls are Sunday’s band of the day.

Also, I;m pretty much sure that I am now a Member of Soundtrack of Our Lives.

Jim Ward of Sparta and At The Drive-In fame showcased his new side project Sleepercar at the Belmont last night. My associate James Barone and I sauntered down just in time to grab a quick video interview with Jim (check out Synthesis‘ YouTube channel for the goods very soon) and to check out the show. Unfortunately for Sleepercar, the venue they were playing was cast in the shadows of both the Chase Tower and the Comerica Bank building, which we should have known would be a sure sign that no one who frequents this bar, SXSW patron or not, was going to pay attention to anything but Red Bull vodkas and looking slick. And I feel bad for them.

Sleepercar is a much more subdued side of Jim Ward’s potent songwriting. Speckled with bits of Americana, roots, folk and country, Ward augmented his usually edgy rock experiments with bits of harmonica, and beautiful melodies. Maybe it was just that nobody knew who they were, or that the guy with the nautical tattoos on his hands singing and playing guitar was a part of one of the most influential bands of all time, and is currently in another highly esteemed band. Or maybe free drinks in the financial district just brings out the lame in everyone.

The album drops on April 22nd. Learn about it.

Kudos to you, Sleepercar!

I was told that after leaving SXSW 2008, my arm would be a veritable rainbow of various VIP bracelets, “over 21″ Budweiser bands and generally ridiculous pieces of flair. In a friendly contest with the editors of Synthesis, we endeavored to find out who could really stack the most wristband fame. I was shooting for something like 20 wristbands. Little did we know that this year, in an effort (I’m guessing) to save Planet Earth, most venues used stamps instead. So our competition (read: Dick Measuring Contest) was pretty meak.

HOWEVER, there did emerge one winner. And if you read the title of this post, you already know the answer, as if you would’ve ever doubted it. BOOYAH! I win!!!

Final tally:

Ryan Prado: 7

James Barone: 4

Maurice Spencer Teilmann: 3

Video Matt (not pictured): 2

Furthermore, the laminate situation here at SXSW is a fucking joke. You’re told you need to have a swanky little laminate invite, which proclaims that you “MAY NOT ENTER WITHOUT,” but when you arrive to these supposedly private engagements (engagements whose organizers felt the need to actually mail you the laminates for), they don’t even look at them. I could’ve had a bomb strapped to my chest and walked into the Spin afterparty last night, blowing Soundtrack of Our Lives to smithereens. Luckily, they were amazing. So I spared them.

Lest I forget, if you were at SXSW Saturday night and didn’t hit up the Dirty Dog for the Saddle Creek Records showcase featuring Neva Dinova, Two Gallants and Tokyo Police Club, you’re a fucking idiot. Two Gallants is one of the best live bands I’ve seen in forever. Plus their drummer plays rides as crashes and ended their set by taking his “crash” ride off its stand and smashing it against his other ride while playing a finale with his hands a la John Bonham. EPIC.

Since I was nothing but a wee boy, I’ve sat and worshiped at the altar of ALL. And more notably, their second singer Scott Reynolds has been one of my favorite vocalists of all time. So when I was tipped to a showcase on Friday at Headhunters featuring Reynolds and his new band The Steaming Beast, I pretty much dropped everything and walked myself in circles searching for the venue.

This turned out to be basically the best decision I’ve ever made (although upon typing that, I’m suddenly realizing that I’ve said that about a lot of SXSW-related shenanigans). Headhunters was a tiny little dive on 7th and Red River with a tiki ambiance and a small stage at the back. Reynolds stood playing guitar and crooning with his gruffy voice, with a simple ball cap and his trademark bulging biceps (an imposing physique that belies the tender nature of his songcraft).

I was just simply rocking out for a while, bouncing to and fro, one hand in back left pocket, one leg bending at knee to the beat. But then he had to go ahead and play “Traci Hardman’s Cheek” off his band’s new album Adventure Boy, and it all fell apart. Upon the first notes plucked, I felt a wash of heat ascend up from my heart organ to just below my eyeballs. When the first words were sung - “Patent leather shoes, rain that smells like dirt and driveways, how midday’s purple shadows haunt the hills…” - not gonna lie, started to well up. BUT, I was able to hold it back…barely. It’s pretty amazing when you realize that no matter how much music you listen to, a simple song of love or longing can still tug at your heart strings and transform your face into a geyser.

Full disclosure report, live from Austin, Texas. I’m gonna go try and figure out why the Four Seasons charged my bank card for shit I didn’t get… Oh and, try the veggie burger from room service…only 22 dollars. YUM!

“Only two things come from Texas, son, and that’s steers and queers. And I don’t see no horns on you boy.”

Texas is a land of machismo. Oil wells. Cattle. Cacti peppering the dusty plains, where men chew gravel and spit out asphalt. Or maybe my mom just watched too much Dallas when I was a kid. I don’t know, but I certainly have an impression that it’s a manly state.

Still, the place is not without its more leftist lifestyles, including a healthy contingent of homosexuals. When I noticed the Gay Flag on a bar a block away from the hotel I thought, “well bless their hearts. The roughnecks haven’t driven the gays from the streets of Austin.” And yes I know Austin is the most liberal places in the state, but still.

The thing I noticed most about this gay bar was that it was full of regular old people watching rock ‘n’ roll bands. And that’s what Austin gay bars have in common with the countless UT frat bars that line the 6th street corridor: during SXSW their clientele is pretty much the same: industry people and hardcore music fans getting fucked up and watching hundreds of bands. Together. As One. Ommmmmmm…..
Rock Music: the great equalizer.

(UPDATE: I apologize for the brief all-caps diatribes about broken cameras and hating internets, which I have since deleted. I was drunk and shit was not uploading and Brit and Matt were telling me to hurry. It was an intense and frustrated moment. No offense intended.)