(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…

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.

It was a vicious decision to be sure. On one hand, you have yourself the downtown buzz glaring at you, bands everywhere, interesting people, all cruising around darting their eyes and swaying their skinny hips. And in this downtown area last night were some amazing shows.

On the other hand, you had the goddamn Playboy Rock the Rabbit Party. Ummmmmm.

Having almost always been a man who covets the rock over the flesh, I endeavored to resist the pull of silicon and glitter (although I’m pretty sure I wasn’t on the list anyway, but that’s neither here nor there…), so I hoofed it down the thoroughfares, saw Matt Pinfield’s shiny dome broadcasting for DirectTV on an elevated hydraulic crane stage and checked out the Weakerthans at the Cedar Street Courthouse. Seriously, this was the best decision I’ve ever made about anything. The place was sweaty and packed (Austin’s morning breezes and chilliness had long since been replaced by punishing humidity) but seeing John K. Samson’s expert songcraft, along with the rest of the band’s superb set was great.

This was all after catching DJ Tommy Sunshine at the Alternative Press party on top of some building…

and before I capped my evening off with fucking HIGH ON FIRE.

Dude, if you’re not here right now, I don’t like you.

Among the many freebies at the SXSW Austin Convention Center, there’s one stand that towers over the others in terms of importances: free smokes care of American Spirit. Helping singers attain that delightful rasp and writers calm their fried nerves, American Spirit has been lacing up anyone who ventures onto the 2nd floor smoking patio.

They were certainly one of the highlights of my 2006 SXSW podcasts (available for your listening pleasure at Synthesis Radio. Hi Dain! Sweet plug, eh? Balls!), and are continuing to help me through my nights and make me feel like a coal miner in the morning. (I mean that in a good way.) After last night’s chain smoking mania I’ve switched to their Ultra Lights. Hopefully, less phlegm gems that way.

Did You Know: American Spirits don’t have preservatives, so it’s best to keep them in the fridge after you open a pack. I had no idea. Kinda makes sense, but honestly, I don’t see myself crowding my condiments with cigarette packs.

Did You Know: You shouldn’t pack your pack. They come pre-packed, so by tapping the box it’s actually going to make the stick harder to light. Did not know that, but I suck at packing my smokes anyway. They also have 25% more tobacco than other “king sized cigarettes.”

Did You Know: They are the only American cigarette that has “no chemicals,” as they say. (Fishy. Isn’t nicotine technically a chemical? Any chemists out there please set me straight if I’m wrong on this.)

Did You Know: Smoking is still really shitty for you. No way around that. But at least here at SXSW, that cancer is free and they’ll give you two packs if you talk them up, four if you mention that you’re about to blog about them…

Here’s to slow, delicious suicide: