Not having a camera during a music festival can be a real drag. I made the best of what I had by utilizing my previously unused camera phone, but I’ve been a walking disaster since last week, and today I managed to break my cell phone as well. I fully expect to break my guitar at my gig tomorrow. Over my own head. Tired…still so incredibly tired….

SXSW is different for all types of attendees, and after attending as a music journalist for the last three, I really am looking forward to being a spectator or band member next year. While ‘08 was my best South By Southwest music festival yet, it was also been a draining one. Interview after interview, broken up by meeting with publicists and filming shows, it feels like I hardly saw any music; Incredible, given the 1,800 bands and 70 venues that buzzed and clattered as I made my way to the next assignment. I think i saw 5 bands total that I was not actually working on in some way.

That’s why on Saturday night, I cut loose loosey-goosey. Bonkers mad drunk. I managed to worm myself and Brit Unicorn past the lines to catch Two Gallants and a bit of Tokyo Police Club (where double Stoli Redbulls were $8, $14 and $12 depending on which bartender you wound up with) before heading to the Promised Land where American Spirit Cigarettes were being given away two packs at at time and free vodka flowed like the whores out of a crumbling Babylon.

I am a people person, and instead of badge-snooping for Spin hotshots and BBC personalities who I heard were in the herd, i ended up doing what I do every SXSW: finding a group of Austinites and shooting the shit about music while getting pissed. I remember Colin having a sweet handlebar moustache, some girl with a big booty named Ann freaking me, and encouraging some random dude to sign his name on my arm, all while spouting Bill Hicks quotes and being affable drunk Spencer.

Then I noticed Sweden’s Soundtrack of Our Lives setting up. It would prove to be the most epic set I had witnessed at SXSW, if not ever. Okay, so my cameraphone is less than ideal, but I did get a few snaps as I was right up front, thighs against the stage.

Pretty much stationed right underneath Ebbot Lundberg’s impressive rock tummy. Restrainign myself from reaching up and patting it.

I felt the show so hard, hanging on Ian Person’s unbelievable rock moves. Inspirational. He’s got moves like my dog’s got fleas. How is it that Scandinavian rock bands know how to rock about 100 times harder than most American and British rock bands? I was awestruck with TSOOL’s set, a heady brew of psychedelic trippiness and kick-out-the-jams face melting. Honestly, I’d seen the band at Curiosa from about 50 yards back, but being right up front was way more than 50 yards better. Don’t do the math.

My video camera was on the fritz. My digital camera was broken. My brain was scrambled and my hands were in the air, making continuous rock gestures. I spilled drinks on the leather jacket-clad rockers behind me. I grabbed random drinks off stage when mine was empty. The rock took over and I became my alter ego. Before I knew it, Buck Knuckle leaned over to Synthesis editor James Barone and said something like “I think this is their last song,” before grabbing the monitors and hoisting myself onstage, making a mad dash for the free tambourine over by Fredrik Sandsten’s drum kit. I smacked that damn instrument for all its worth, and when the song was over I escaped into the VIP section to retrieve another drink, getting nods of approval from, well, the VIPs I suppose. I doubt I was nonchalant about it. One guy did say something about ‘thanks for runing the show,’ but envy-green wasn’t a good color for him. “Mmmm, how witty, you must be a writer for Spin, mmmmm…” I condescended back.

The Soundtrack of Our Lives set was then over, but the band decided on an encore and made their way back out on stage, with Ian and Martin beginning the song in a soft manner. (For the record, I am not a TSOOL expert, so I have no idea about track names and was too drunk to find out or care. I just know that I felt the rock like never before.) As Frederik began clicking his sticks to a Latin-flavored rhythm, I had to get back on stage, knowing full well I was pressing my luck.

But I had plenty of luck to be pressed. I sauntered back on stage and grabbed the free tambourine again, making eye contact with their mildly concerned drummer. It wasn’t the easiest rhythm, so he began mouthing me the hits. I followed him, and once I had it down Frederik pushed the overhead mic over to me to play into. From then it was on. My hand was so bruised because, well, drunken tambourine players show no mercy. I shook that thing in the way you should NEVER shake a baby. I was throwing high kicks in there, earning a shit-eating grin from the Townsend-dressed Mattias Bärjed who i was situated behind.

I don’t think I was too off, either. Of course, given my state I can’t be certain. All I know is that for two songs I was a member of The Soundtrack of Our Lives for the closing set of SXSW 2008, and it felt perfect.

Of course by then Ryan, who got great shots of the band earlier in the set, had taken off. So I have no photo evidence of my moment in the sun. If anyone was there at the Soundtrack of Our Lives Saturday late night Spin/American Spirit party and got photos of the band with that random long-haired dude who decided to jump up on stage and play tambourine, please, PLEASE send them to:

gorgeousarmadapresents (at) gmail [d0t] com
myspace.com/gorgeousarmada

I’m trying to find new ways to both stoke out my bandmates and make my mother feel mortified. Thank you.

I was pretty clear on what I was about to write until I got back on the dock and realized that my 24 hour $11 internet connection had prematurley expired, so we are free balling this one.

First and foremost, however, BALLS. Bollocks, if you will.

Sadly, Jill (whom I mentioned from a previous post) never made it to the dock for our tentative cigarette/wine date. The pleasant news, however, is that following Saturday night’s Spin/American Spirit SXSW after party featuring my new band I’m in, Soundtrack of Our Lives (I hope to get more into that bit later…), I ran into Karen (formerly indifferent) and Al (formerly cunt-y) outside the venue. Karen was far more warm, and Al was absolutely chagrin about his behaviour the night prior (”U” intentional, they’re from the UK, after all). Al was sweet, sheepish and apologetic for his caustic discourse. I gave him a bit more good-natured ribbing and once Jill appeared from the closing venue, we all walked back to the hotel together, quickly figuring out we were staying on the same floor. I was drunk….very drunk….and decidedly less charming than the previous night. Still, Jill asked if I was married, so I took that optimistically as a good sign. We made tentative plans to repeat Friday’s late-nite dock circle.

I feel a bit sick at the moment. My Synthesis compatriots have left me by myself on the dock hours ago, a slave to insomnia and the hopes of a brief snogging encounter with one leggy British heart-thief. Regardless, I still just had a rather cathartic ending to my SXSW, 2008. No, not the bats underneath the bridge (though they were pretty spectacular), but the crashing destruction of a former life.

Way back when, I used to own and operate a car windshield repair service, GlassMan out of Sacramento, CA. I fixed rock chips and installed new windows on cars and trucks. As I lay on the hammock behind the 8.5 Weeks Hotel (formerly the 4 Seasons Hotel…we really trashed the joint and brought the place to an all new low) I watched on as a dozen men manipulated a 15′ x 12′ glass window to its new home. As I chatted with one of the glass workers operating away from the action, I heard the thunderous and sadly familiar roar of hundreds of pounds of glass shattering to the concrete. Though unfortunate for the glass company, that Shiva-approved demolition of clear, perfect glass proved to be the perfect capstone to the most prolific (personally) SXSW I’ve had the pleasure of participating in. And that shattering destruction wasn’t even caused by me, though I had momentarily considered launching my mostly empty bottle of Japanese plum wine through its flawless double-planed beauty.

Victory or Death my friends, victory or death. I am sure I had more to talk about, but the post is long and mainly without original pictures…fucking broken camera.

Oh, and for the record, Shannon at Touche bar on 6th street is the radest provider of libations I’ve ever met. Sorry Duffy’s, you’ve been served. /pun

OOOh, I just saw a bat………. And I just puked. First time during sxsw08. Glad Jill didn’t make it after all to see me in this state. Drunkorexia!!!!!!!!!!!!1!111!!!!danieltaylor!!!111!!!

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.