“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.

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!

(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…

I awoke to try and get some work done down in the plush lobby here at the Four Seasons hotel, bar, grill and bath house, when I happened upon an absurd amount of people milling about. I thought it might just be another wave of tanned and fattened Hollywood hipster types (which makes up roughly 98 percent of the temporary populace of this gem) fresh off the plane, but it turns out that while we were all up in good ol’ room 508, the BMI Showcase was happening down on the grassy knoll banks of what we finally found out is called Ladybird Lake. An ocean of people were down, wincing in the sun, drinking free booze, enjoying free breakfast buffet (the good kind) and watching Kaki King perform. Wish I’d have known so I could take some pictures, but the point I’m trying to make here is that THERE ARE TOO MANY PEOPLE! I know my last blog said something about if you’re not here, fuck you, or whatever, but seriously, some of you should get the fuck out of here. I can’t breathe…

All I’m sayin’ is that if there’s a walkway, don’t stand on it to chat with your friend about your new rad tat or compare the jeans you got for free from the Fader Fort; there are people behind you, baking in the heat and trying to get water. I saw five waiters become forced to spill their trays of glasses due to beligerent scenesters (who, um, by the way…what are you doing at the BMI showcase. That’s a real cred stacker…). Me, I think I’ll stick to downtown…

Plus…you should eat here if you’re downtown. Cheap, but quite delicious.

And don’t ever eat the pizza here. Ever.

There’s something I like about Central Time. Being two hours ahead of the time zone we normally exist in for some reason feels right. So we’re sitting here in the lobby at the Four Seasons (which is quite comfortable I might add) finishing up some video editing from last nights opening pregame SXSW foray while ZZ Top’s Billy Gibbons is behind me chilling at the bar having a morning beer.