Day One Music: Star Search

Swearing at Motorists

::	MUSIC DAY ONE: Star Search By Terry Sawyer

Some people say that having a positive attitude is everything in life, but I’ve always thought that cliché was uniquely American one, a symptom of our collective addiction to useful lies. Though there is something to be said for easing the edges off a situation by putting a different spin on it, like when you fall in love with someone and take them for what their worth rather than what you thought you wanted. So this year, I decided I would attend South by Southwest in detached analytical mode, not taking personally the corporate rape of indie music masquerading as some kind of American Idol for unknown artists, who supposedly might get discovered if some soused Melody Maker writer wanders in because he’s too blotto to find out where Modest Mouse is playing. And, despite my gnawing guilt about its implications, I decided to accept my status in the caste system and all that it entails, which meant signing an agreement that I would never let one of my blood kin marry someone who had only a wrist band. This year would be all about connecting with editors and writers that I’ve formed some kind of relationship with and seeing good music with blinders up to avoid the violent urges that come from being in the room with that many people who refuse to turn their cell phones off for a concert because they can’t possibly take a break from their artificially inflated sense of importance.

Here’s my promise to be straight edge for the rest of the festival. I spent the entire day drinking and smoking at the day events, forgetting that I just turned thirty and probably couldn’t sustain 12 hours straight of non-stop liver damage. But I did get to take in the pared down rock and roll bravado of Swearing at Motorists, an Ohio band that mingles in Guided By Voices circles and has certainly picked up much of their broken liquor bottle rock aesthetic. After that, it was clear onto the other side of town to take in my booking agent friend’s party. Actor, and frequent Kevin Smith collaborator, Jason Lee, was there. I wanted to tell him really badly that his ass looked mighty good in them cords. Quickly, I called my parole officer and he walked me through my breathing exercises. It did highlight one of the recurring conflicts I have during SXSW. If you see someone “famous” should you go up and say something to them, maybe ask them how the festival is going and pretend it’s for the sake of your article or should you just let them go with Allah in peace and imagine what it would be like for you if you were famous (which I do on a daily basis). I decided to err on the side of leaving people the fuck alone so that they too can go on about their night in qualified enjoyment.

Since there wasn’t anyone I really felt like I had to see that evening, I decided to just bounce with my friend Laura from venue to venue, surrendering to the ADD paradise of having that many bands that closely together in bars you can just waltz in and out of. I also figured that this was the best possible way to stumble across some undiscovered rough diamond. The closest I came was a friend’s recommendation that I check out the band, Vietnam. If the Jesus and Mary Chain or Spacemen 3 had decided to channel Bob Dylan, then they’d probably end up somewhere within striking distance of Vietnam’s sound. If they don’t end up being shamelessly praised, it will probably be because of the canonic untouchability of Dylan’s nasal strain. Unlike John Lennon or Lou Reed, I think people get panned for sounding like Dylan because his voice is considered to be more uniquely unsuited for rock and roll and therefore, something that requires tons of affectation in order to approximate. I have no idea how much the leader singer actually sounds like Dylan naturally, but it sounded good and I’ll leave it at that.

Of course, while having a badge drastically increases the likelihood that you will get to see a band, you can almost flat out forget getting in to see someone who has already received tons of lathering praise. I wanted to check out Nellie McKay, the eclectic wunderkind, who just put out a double album of standards, trip hop, and the kitchen sink. At the tail end of the line for people with badges, I gave up when I realized that I either wouldn’t get in or I would get in for one or two songs, I made the kind of cold calculation that a long line is likely to induce. She wasn’t worth it. I later found out that the real reason that venue was so packed was that frenchie actress Julie Delpy had just finished her set and of course all those male music critics were there to catch a glimpse of the buzz surrounding her groundbreaking foray into acoustic singer-songwriting. It’s a good thing Jennifer Lopez sat this year out.

Matt Nathanson Photo credit: Attila Hardy/Dreams Awake Music

Matt Nathanson was in the middle of berating a crowd member for being “elitist” for not liking White Snake when we walked in. Surely, any form of elitism would be the enemy of Nathanson’s music, especially the lesser forms which some people simply call discernment. He belted out Goo Goo Doll balladry which sounded squeamishly middle-aged, completely robbed of insight and emotion. If I’m not mistaken at least two songs mentioned “my heart” or “the heart” or some variation thereof which would indicate he was a rocker who wants you to know he’ll be the one to sleep in the wet spot. Our random bar hopping seemed to be about the curse of the singer songwriter since our next unlucky find was Waylon Payne who announced his recent contract with Universal before launching into what amounted to a critique of major label A&R scouts. Our third guy with guitar was David Dondero, a man who clearly had chops, and someone who would have sounded much better in a more intimate venue with good lighting. He did a song about getting robbed by a tranny hooker and I made a mental reminder to check him out another time when I could actually hear him above the din.

At the end of the night, my head was shot and I doubt that the last few beers did anything other than mercy kill the last few working cells in my liver. But at least I got to finish the evening with an Austin band that I’ve always wanted to see but have not yet been able to. The Tuna Helpers dress like they’re auditioning for a Tim Burton film and they are almost impossibly bizarre. They use satanic puppets to sing some songs and the rest of the time they make gothic pop insanity covering such under explored subjects as changing an adult’s diaper. Though it was a sliver of stage and a cramped crappy venue, they made the case for checking out the local color and taking a chance on a band wholly outside the ear shot of the chattering class.

So how does an underground sensation muscle their way above the fray and get heard at SXSW? I have no idea, especially since the bombardment of fliers and street teamers makes each successive pitch to see a show more and more like the adults in Peanuts cartoons. Here’s a money saving hint for some of those band members out there trying to promote their way into certain recognition. SXSW gives each person with a badge a bag of approximately forty pounds worth of promotional shit. If some writer wasn’t already planning on seeing your band, a sticker is not going to be the tipping point. Instead, you should just see if you can get Julie Delpy to play the triangle during a few of your songs.