“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.)

“What am I going to see tonight?” It was a tough decision to make, which is what happens at SXSW every night. Friday’s question was, “Do I go see NERD or The Clipse?” I ended up going with The Clipse and I’m glad I did since they completely killed Emo’s. Cool Kids, A-Trak and Kid Sister. More photos of the rest of the show coming later - the whole evening was EPIC.

More sick photos after the jump. (more…)

(this is a long post, I know, kiss of death for a blog. But just go with it, alright?)

Ice Cube was sitting in the lobby when James Barone and I returned to the Four Seasons Hotel. We had failed miserably at finding an after-party with booze, and resigned ourselves to just chill in the room. After a delicious $35 pizza, James was getting a bit stir crazy, so we decided to venture on down to the dock on the river behind our hotel for a bit.

There were four people already there, and it being a small dock, they invited us into their conversation. Nice young British folk…well, that is, James from Does It Offend You, Yeah? and Jill were great peeps, their two friends were respectively indifferent and a bit douche-y. Keeping true to James’ band’s name, the order of the evening was saying affably rude things to one another. We chatted politics and race relations, cracking wise and calling each other out for our countries’ respective blemishes. It didn’t hurt that Brit James was ornery and bristlingly charming. And apart from being smart as a whip and wicked funny, Jill was incredibly gorgeous. Quite a pair of legs there.

Synthesis James was quiet for the most part, interjecting comments here and there; myself, I tend to be more talkative, and of course I was witty as all get-up. We chatted it up, their friend called me “pedantic,” I told him he’s “a bit of a cunt,” it’s pretty good-natured ribbing all around. After bumming a few of their cigarettes (I relished using the term ‘fag’ in the British sense of the term), another couple wandered over to the dock and asked if they could join us. They introduced themselves, common ‘merican names that I couldn’t quite hear. The Brits recognized the dude from the night before and our group grew to six music geeks, smoking and drinking wine at 4 in the morning.

I know the recent arrival from somewhere. But there are only about a dozen man archetypes here. You can’t throw a rock without hitting some bald, skinny white dude with glasses at SXSW. He’s cool and low-key, and says a few funny, self-deprecating things (“humor is not my strong suit”) before going into a story about how earlier he was interviewing Steve Jones from the Sex Pistols for a radio show. Jones is apparently a world-class whistler (“with theremin-like vibrato”). During their conversation Jones mentioned off-hand that “Hitler wasn’t really that bad a guy.” Then he played a blues song. Pretty weird/funny story. At this point I start to think to myself, “You know, come to think of it, glasses-bald dude looks incredibly like Moby.”

Yep. It’s totally Moby.

As it turns out, Moby is a really, really nice guy. Smart, too. Some people talk a lot of shit about Moby, about how he’s a wussy, a vegan weakling, or whatever. I say fuck that. Moby is down. Way down. I exchanged few words with him as he sat across from me in the circle, but he was cool, man. Still don’t care for his music much, but cheers to him anyway.

I sensed that James Barone was getting antsy and ready to leave, so we got up, and I wished them a good night: “Alright, I’m turning in. It was really nice to meet all of you…” I paused, looked at the douchy-dude. “Except you. You’re a bit iffy.” We left to the sound of laughter and the smell of wafting smoke.

Not that I care or anything, but the Four Seasons lobby is like the lion’s den of celebrity-dom. Roll call thus far:

Billy Gibbons

Billy Bob Thornton

Lyle Lovett

Lou Reed

And just added to the list as of 2:00 AM this morning, ICE CUBE.

People who stay at the Omni or Embassy are BLOWING IT.

End Transmission…

First off, if you’re unsure of what “The Wolf” is, perhaps a brief explanation is in order. “The Wolf” is a term used to describe the rash resulted from sweating between your thighs after walking around for an entire day in sweltering Texas heat (or anywhere else for that matter). I have experienced “The Wolf” more times than I’d like to, but almost always due to attending a music festival. Simply having an irritation is one thing; it’s not until “The Wolf” starts “Howling” that shit hits the fan and you had better figure out someplace to hole up (or find some sort of deodorant solid to soak up the beads of sweat dripping from your nether regions).

ANYWAY, my “Wolf” was “Howling” something fierce yesterday during my many treks in wrong directions for interviews that didn’t happen, searching for food, etc. I resolved at around 7 PM that no show I would actually want to go see was going to happen, as lines were simply too big to manage. So I decided to go to literally any bar/venue that would have me to check out any band who happened to be playing, SXSW sanctioned or not.

First up was Hank IV, whose name alone probably brought in a majority of their crowd (the band is of no relation to the legendary Williams clan). What followed was a sassy romp of late ’70s punk rock and surly country blues, capped by Bob McDonald’s insane stage presence. He looked like a 40-year-old accountant cuttin’ loose at the bar with his suit friends, sucking his finger and hobbling around with an entire leg cast for a seemingly unbroken or uninjured limb. RAD.

After that, it was off to Spill for the Texas Rock Fest, supposedly a nine-years running anti-SXSW showcase. The band Murder My Sweet played. They would have been AWESOME in 1991. Unfortunately for them, copying Layne Staley or any band from Seattle is a complete turn off. Super hot singer though.

Then off to the rooftop of Maggie Mays…

to watch this band (who literally no one knew the name of). Shame too, because they rocked AND rolled.

The rest of it is a bit blurry (roughly 8 double Jack and Cokes downed at this point), but stay tuned for the continuing adventures of Guy Who Can’t Get Into The Shows He Wants To See…

… and the award for this year “best sign (in a cab) goes too: