SXSW Clips: It's ... Computers

[Music Festing] My friend Chris took a bunch of cool video footage of various SXSW performances with his fancy schmancy camera. He won the technology race, with me trailing a distant 3,092.

Check it


(Jamie Gadette)

SXSW '08: Day 4

[Music Festing] I decided to wrap up my SXSW experience at Waterloo Park Saturday for the second annual Mess With Texas party, a free event open to the public featuring three stages of music, comedy and musical comedy. I stood, unwisely sunscreen-free, for three hours at the Super Deluxe stage to laugh my ass off with comedians Eugene Mirman, Brian Posehn (who lost his voice and had Mirman translate his set), Human Giant, Paul F. Tompkins, Leo Allen (whose vegan jokes received an icy reception. Come on! Baby Sauce is funny), Hard N' Phirm (who reminded us in a stirring power ballad that "anything is possible ... unless you're a girl") and others.

At Waterloo, I also caught Grand Ole Party, a San Diego trio with a killer female vocalist/drummer whose soul-punk delivery got half of the hungover, heat-stroked crowd to at least attempt to boogie. Atlas Sound followed shortly thereafter and though I was never a fan of Bradford Cox's former project Deerhunter (seeing him throw a hissy fit at last year's SXSW soured any interest I might have had in the experimental indie rockers), they absolutely entranced with cool atmospheric compositions that tempered the blazing afternoon sun.

I later ditched the windy Waterloo dustbowl, passing up a chance to see The Breeders (who are coming to The Depot May 27) and Thurston Moore to watch a deceased legend on the big screen. I joined SLUG's Angela Brown and Rebecca Vernon for a screening of the Joy Division documentary Closer at the Alamo Ritz, a former concert venue turned pool hall turned cinema pub (sort of a cross between Brewvies and The Tower). Angela's SXSW buddy Chase recounted stories of getting maced in the pit now outfitted with cushy front tier seats. Things change, he said with a shrug. At least it didn't meet the fate of another Austin venue which now operates as a credit union. And at least it's not just rotting like our dead Zephyr.

Closer helped put SXSW into perspective. "One of the last true stories in pop," the journey of Joy Division is absolutely rooted in context. Without the bleak, economically depressed confines of 70s-80s Manchester, the boys to men who formed the band might have simply ended up selling life insurance--or working at a credit union. Instead, they did the only thing that brought them any kind of vibrancy. They made music. At first badly, then well, then ground-breaking. Their sound enjoyed a completely organic evolution free of today's pressure to sell out and conform. Toward the end of Closer, the filmmakers toss in images of Joy Division's posthumous branding: the iconic cover art of Unknown Pleasures, for example, now affixed to skateboards for mass distribution.

At SXSW, no surface is safe from sponsorship logos. And the communities that informed featured acts' sounds are largely forgotten in the crazy kaleidescope of Sixth Street. Watching 1,500 groups perform at foreign venues lends a disjointed quality to the festival. Most of the time you walk into a bar not knowing the band's history. What's their hometown like? Is it industrial and depressed like Manchester? Wide open like the cornfields of Nebraska? Does each member play in five other bands like a typical Salt Lake City group? It might not seem important, but sometimes it helps to understand what a band is going for. It helps to read between the lines. Consider the fact the Joy Division's bi-polar, epileptic lead singer left pretty obvious clues about his clinical depression in his dark lyrics before he hung himself in May 1980.

Imagine seeing Joy Division as an unknown at SXSW. Would you stay or walk away (in silence) to catch the next group over?

Of course, like speed dating, there's something exhilarating about seeing 30-40 bands in four days. You get a good idea of what's out there. And who knows what might have become of Joy Division if they'd made their first U.S. tour and maybe heard something that changed the way they thought about music.

My night ended on a bittersweet note when a bartender gave my debit card to a woman named "Janine," which I suppose sounds very similar to "Jamie" in a loud, crowded bar. Sadly, "Janine" apparently skipped town. But I still had my ID and a coveted badge so I went across the street to see Jason Collett at the Parish. The Broken Social Scene guitarist did not disappoint. Turns out his band is equally talented, especially the lead guitar player. Wouldn't be surprised if he came out with his own project any day now. You can read my review of Collett's latest album here.

Oh, and I found this footage from the Muncipal Waste show on Day 3. Now you know what a Wall of Death looks like.



(Jamie Gadette)

SXSW '08: Day 3

[Music Festing] Sometimes you have to travel out of state to discover what you missed you in your own backyard. Friday's SXSW experience reinforced my belief in Salt Lake City's music scene as local trio Iota emerged as one of the week's standout acts during a showcase for their label Small Stone Records.

While familiar with their recorded material, I’m now pretty embarrassed to admit I’d never seen them live before two-thirds of the group took the stage at Austin’s Room 710 for an 8 p.m. time slot. I say two-thirds because current drummer Andy Patterson ran into a bit of random legal trouble traveling back to Utah from a Denver show earlier this week. Unable to join the rest of his band mates in Texas, Patterson sent warm wishes via text while Iota’s Joey and Oz recruited label mate Sasquatch’s drummer to fill in at the last minute. He practiced with them for the first time about six hours before their SXSW gig, which in most scenarios would result in one hell of a sloppy set. Iota proved themselves to be pros, easily adapting to the unexpected lineup shift with impressive ease.

They ripped through a handful of extended stoner-rock jams with bluesy overtones while a crowd half-filled with Salt Lake City locals (it was a small audience—8 p.m. isn’t the most coveted time slot, unfortunately), cheered, nodded their heads and, in the case of one Xur member, raised his PBR can like a fist of solidarity. Iota succeeded largely by avoiding masturbatory noodling, showing off their killer skills without too much noodling around. In fact, Joey and Oz evidenced tremendous chemistry, playing off each other, at times facing off with dueling bass/guitar.

At the show, I met up with former SLC musician Mike Incze (Sherlock, Victrola, V-Vast) who now lives in Brooklyn. He came to SXSW to play pedal-steel with NY band The End of the World whose final showcase goes off tonight at BD Riley’s. Mike and I left Iota for Bourbon Rocks to check out the Sub Pop showcase. We arrived just in time for Pissed Jeans, a Portland trio with destructive and deconstructive punk leanings. The lead singer lived up to his reputation for not giving a good goddamn about appearances or socially appropriate behavior—a welcome stance after a long day of standing around with one too many pretentious, self-absorbed hipsters, heads up their asses and Blackberries.

Canada’s Handsome Furs performed next and made good on their stunning debut Plague Park. The husband-wife duo (Wolf Parade’s Dan Boeckner and wife/artist Alexei Perry) threw themselves into every pulsating number, with Perry navigating the sprawling mass of drum machinery and Boeckner reclaiming his throne as one of today’s most compelling vocalists. Sounding both hollow and passionate, he smeared a thick layer of romantic gloom over tales of decaying cities and greed (dedicating “Legal Tender” to current buzz band Vampire Weekend. Hmm …). Handsome Furs killed with cunning wit and searing passion, tossing out several new and improved songs off their forthcoming follow-up to Park.

After that rush, we ran to Red 7 for the tail-end of hyped underground emcee Dalek whose industrial beats carried the same eerie vibe of a Doomtree track. The night topped off at the Billions Booking showcase with Devotchka and Constantines. Devotchka, currently riding a wave of overdue critical acclaim, maintained the lively gypsy roots that have always helped them stand out. Only these days the multi-instrumentalists—several audience members marveled at what they now know is a theremin—are much more polished (though not at all too slick). Nick Urata rummaged through the depths of his soul—and an onstage bottle of wine—to deliver material off their new Anti release and a few older numbers including a hit off Little Miss Sunshine in his haunting, sometimes anguished voice.

Canada’s Constantines (what did I tell you about this country? Love ‘em!) absolutely brought down the house and for the remaining few who managed to stay standing for the 1 a.m. set managed to raise the bar even higher than the one they set on stellar albums. Looking quite a bit younger than I expected—especially the singer whose voice can be hoarse and gruff with traces of a long storied life hanging to the chords like tough bits of grit—they ripped through songs off Tournament of Hearts and Shine a Light plus a few new tunes from a highly anticipated forthcoming release. They finished up with a cover of AC/DC’s Thunderstruck, which pretty much sums up how I felt as we cleared the bottle-strewn room. RAWK! (Jamie Gadette)

SXSW '08: Day 2

[Musicfesting] "We are family!" Sister Sledge's hottest hit ran through my head last night as Doomtree brought the noise to SXSW. The Minneapolis hip-hop collective--entire crew assembled out of state for the first time ever—is the very definition of family. Watching them perform, you understand they’ve got each other’s backs. They’d throw down for each other. Die for each other. At Austin’s Marq Cocktail Lounge, they delivered beats and rhymes for each other. Fab Five Freddy (!) randomly stopped by and asked Doomtree if he could introduce them. What?! Like any self-respecting hip-hop head would turn him down!

Mike Mictlan (with Paper Tiger) then kicked things off a little after 7 p.m. with a lively set of tight tracks from his forthcoming album Hand Over Fist, trying his best to warm up the crowd—still frigid from too little liquid courage. Mictlan repeatedly encouraged his timid audience to show some love by flashing the Doomtree sign—hands spread, crossed like wings. Broken wings. Cecil Otter followed, looking all dapper in a black fedora and cuffed jeans. A smooth operator, no doubt, his flow had an enticing and unsettling effect—like you’d take him home but sleep with one eye open.

Dessa stepped up after Otter and absolutely blew away the now-ample Marq audience. Tall and striking with skills to burn, the sole female Doomtree member exercised impressive control and restraint with material that could very easily spin out of control and over the top. Her set proved that, above all else, Doomtree are survivors. They’ve clearly seen hard times and are all the stronger for it. Even though Dessa probably could have beat down any one in the crowd, she revealed past weaknesses and insecurities. She confessed a need to use the mic stand as crutch when singing (not rhyming or slamming poetry), and hopped up on the bar to sit down for an absolutely gorgeous ballad.

Sims successfully bridged the audience/performer gap by forming a circle around him in the middle of the room. Suddenly wallflowers found their groove, started to bounce and throw their hands in the air “like we don’t care anymore.” His best number was a little ditty he once wrote in 10 minutes and initially deemed sub par before friends proclaimed it solid gold. P.O.S. took Sims’ lead, reforming a circle. By now the crowd was pumped and completely stoked on Doomtree.

Since the showcase was open to the public and not well publicized (apparently added to the festival at the last minute), the majority of the crowd was made up of Austin locals who likely learned about the event on MySpace. Gotta love the Internet. Or not. It’s kind of a double-edged sword. P.O.S. started with a disclaimer: “Most of these songs are new ones” off the forthcoming album (highly anticipated follow up to 2005’s Audition) tentatively (hopefully) coming out this Fall. “So if these songs end up on YouTube tomorrow … ah, I probably won’t do anything.” But the implication was clear—leaking material is not cool, man.

P.O.S. (with Turbo Nemesis on beats) tossed in a fair share of older favorites including “Stand Up (Let’s Get Murdered),” “Paul Kersey to Jack Kimball” and “”Half-Cocked Concepts.” Staying true to his genre-bending style, P.O.S. just keeps getting faster, stronger—deftly manipulating whiplash tongue and wit. I checked out three hours into the showcase—hunger and metal called—but I can safely say Doomtree’s producers (including Lazerbeak and, I think, MK Larada) continued to blow away their diehard fans (old and new). Do yourself a favor and look them up.

I met up with SLUG queens Angela Brown and Rebecca Vernon for some metal action at Emo’s Annex. Richmond, Virginia’s Municipal Waste made good on nearly every metal cliché, with a man dressed as a wizard—pointy hat, fake long beard, wooden staff—who occasionally came onstage with the band’s “Inebriator”—a tricked-out beer bong with a grisly skull cup—to quench worthy fans’ thirst. Another member of the band’s entourage climbed up on a raised speaker, shimmied into a plastic garbage can and threw himself onto the crowd. But the thrashing mosh pit wasn’t enough for Municipal Waste’s lead singer who demanded the crowd form a “death wall” and charge at each other from both ends. They, of course, complied. Top that off with songs about terror sharks and “beer” pressure and what else do you need? The best part about metal—besides the noise—is its exaggerated theatrics. You’ve got to love the drama.

Oakland’s High on Fire wrapped up my evening with some of the loudest shit I’ve ever heard (besides, strangely, Jeff Beck at Kingsbury Hall!). The shirt-less lead singer/guitarist summoned Luficer for killer beastly vocals that sounded otherworldly from the sidelines. Then again, perhaps I wasn’t the best judge of sound quality at the point. I left before their last song and realized too late that I should have worn earplugs. It’s not a good sign when you can still hear the band loud and clear four blocks away from the venue.

Here’s to more metal (with Salt Lake City’s Iota!) and other assorted musical shenanigans today/tonight! Stay tuned … (Jamie Gadettte)

SXSW '08: Day 1

[Music Festing] Depending on whom you ask, City Weekly either came to its senses or lost its mind when the paper decided to send me to Austin, Texas for the annual South by Southwest music festival. Ace CW marketing director Annie Quan is here as well, scouting out the territory for reasons I’m not privy to disclose. Let your imagination run wild.

We arrived yesterday on Delta’s one direct flight to Austin. SLUG editor/publisher Angela Brown joined us on the cramped commuter plane as the ridiculously small vehicle floundered about through troubling turbulence. Paranoid and superstitious as always, I imagined the next day’s headlines describing the fiery plane crash that engulfed several young members of the Utah media. Fortunately, infamy escaped us and we landed just in time to grab a bite and hit downtown Austin for music, music and more music.

Wednesday was the only day I didn’t map out beforehand. With roughly 1,500 bands performing four days worth of showcases, it can be difficult to decide which one merits your attention. The sheer volume of festival-worthy acts necessitates a certain amount of humility on the part of featured musicians. Badge holders stand before the stage often with an almost confrontational look as if to say, “Show me why you matter.” This can be frustrating even to bystanders like myself who, during Hopewell’s set last night for example, have to put up with nerdy pricks leaning against the wall (arms folded of course) announcing that they are just “waiting for these guys to finish whacking off before Witch plays.” Of course, they were referring to the stoner metal band currently featuring J. Mascis on drums but judging by their posturing they probably only give a shit because some hip blogger told them that Dinosaur Jr. is God.

Hopewell ignored the crowd and got down to business. The seasoned Brooklyn professionals segued seamlessly from one Eastern-tinged rock number to the next, the guitarists thrusting their instruments in unison while the keyboardist tickled some classical shit on the ivories. Sure, the lead singer—dressed head to almost toe in bright white—looked like a tampon, but man he got killer tone out of his (what else) white guitar. And, dude knows how to work an effects pedal.

Speaking of effects, Wednesday’s absolute knockout, standout manipulated their instruments with a slew of pedals, boards and thingamabobs (hey, never claimed to be a techie). Brooklyn’s Dub Trio came to Salt Lake City on Feb. 19, but I missed them because I am lame. Someone up there must have my best interests in mind for a second live show to land in my lap—truly ear-splitting, mind-blowing greatness. Dub Trio is on Ipecac Recordings, home to the deliciously wicked musical misfit Mike Patton, and the next generation of forward-thinking label mates is doing him proud. Dub Trio is more metal, less dancehall reggae. They incorporate dub, using it to break up otherwise relentlessly driving riffs, letting it all hang out before snapping it shut, recoiling into precise rhythms. The band—robotic drummer and all—is a machine. A sex machine, that is. The whole experience honestly sort of turned me on.

The night ended with a set by San Francisco’s Von Iva, an all-female trio fusing organic and electronic elements into a—to copy a line from one of their songs—“soul-shaking, love-making, body-manipulating” blitz. Pulsing, throbbing, oozing sex, the lead singer Jillian Iva shimmied and strutted, climbed the walls and shouted to the rafters. It would have been a whole lot cooler without the pervy old dudes leering at her from the front row. One aqualung kept taking photos of the trio while they were setting up. Another almost lost his shit when Jillian stepped from the stage and straddled his shoulder, forcing him to carry her as long as his little limbs could hold up.

Tonight, I’ve got my sights set on Bon Iver, Black Mountain, El-P, Pink Nasty, Constantines, Ra Ra Riot…but who knows how the night will end? Stay tuned. (Jamie Gadette)

SLAM!

[Local Music] While most of you are undoubtedly counting down the hours to Turkey/Tofurkey Day, I've got my mind set on January when City Weekly will put our revamped SLAMMYs plan into action.

In years past, we wrapped our local music issue around the South By Southwest music festival, sending down the winner of our battle of the bands competition to Austin where they performed in a showcase and (ideally) networked with "pretty big deals."

This year, festival organizers cut down our privileges, granting us fewer all-access music badges and one or two wristbands for the musicians. This came as no surprise to us as City Weekly was one of the last few alt-weeklies to hook up local groups with a show in Austin. Rather than throw a fit, we went back to the drawing board and instigated changes that should have been made long ago.

First, we decided to turn SLAMMYs into more of a showcase rather than a competitive forum. We also did away with applications, choosing instead to nominate bands that we feel best represent our local music scene. The nominating committee included myself, Bill Frost, several freelancers, record store owners and radio hosts whose tastes range from metal to country to blues and (nearly) everything in between.

Nominated acts will perform in one of three genre-appropriate showcases in January where audience members can vote for their favorites on-site or later online. There will no longer be a Band of the Year. We really want to emphasize the showcase aspect of this endeavor. We want to support local bands and expose readers to talented artists. When the lineups are announced, if you don't see your favorite band listed, go ahead and write them in! We encourage you to do so. We do not, however, encourage you to complain after the fact.

Be the change you want in the world, and all that. Here's to 2008! (Jamie Gadette)