7 Days of SXSW

In between writing lengthy diatribes about the state of metal and goats and so on, I sometimes go out to concerts and cavort among the hoi polloi. This year, I decided to hit the infamous South By Southwest Music Festival in Austin, Texas, to see what all the fuss was about. After a grueling week and 24 hours of fever-dream sleep, here’s what I can remember.

. . .

MONDAY, 3/12:
The day begins with record shopping at End of an Ear Records, a crunchy off-road shop outside of downtown with an excellent selection of punk, metal, and experimental rock. Right off the bat, I am home—there’s a cheap vinyl copy of Susperia’s Predominance, here’s the new Weregoat album, here’s some record by a band named Leathervein, the cover of which is a wild-eyed hesher playing his atomic cock as a guitar. I end up spending over 60 bucks on records that will be, more than anything, a huge hassle to get home. Then, it’s off to Habanero Grill to eat perhaps the best—and spiciest—Mexican food I’ve ever had in my entire life. My future seems to be intestinal discomfort.

That night, my host and I—my high school best friend, a UT student who will I will refer to as the Old Man—go to the rodeo. That’s right, for 25 bucks, we get to wander between carnival rides, listen to alternately-blaring country music and hip-hop, and finally watch a series of people get thrown from large animals. The rodeo itself is an awesome blast of stupid Americana, from the laser- and Kid Rock-filled intro to the calf wrestling competition. It does raise certain questions—is it necessary to wear a cowboy hat? Doesn’t that shit hurt the cows? Has anyone been gored by a bull on this very sand?—but we soon learn that trying to make rhyme or reason of this nacho-fueled hootenanny is foolish. We leave before the country concert.

The night ends at the Spider House, where we catch the Fleshlights and Thee Oh Sees. The latter is typical indie rock, certainly not worth the extended and drunken conversation I have with the doorman about capacity (thank you, Tecate bombers). The former, however, are an awesome indie punk band with a good mean melodic streak that makes me think of my old loves like the Misfits and the Dead Kennedys. (Later in the week, I will explain what a ‘fleshlight’ is to the Old Man, and he will be unhappy he ever asked) Sweaty and hammered, the Old Man and I wander home to slug Negronis, eat bacon, and watch Ghostbusters until we black out.

TUESDAY, 3/13:
There are only two things that can cure this hangover: Whataburger and reefer. After obtaining the former (with the biggest fucking Dr. Pepper I have ever laid eyes on), we traverse into outer Austin and are hooked up with the latter. Now wonderfully bleary-eyed, we head back into town and await nightfall, or as it’s known in the dark language of the Devil, “take a goddamn nap”.

The bus takes us through downtown—my, what an obnoxiously huge capitol building you have, Austin—and on to Emo’s East, a massive high-ceilinged venue packed with metalheads. Immediately after crushing a few Lone Stars, I find metal maven extraordinaire Kim Kelly, whose tipsiness betrays her sense of balance. The crowd is a weird mix of crusties, heshers, hippies, and a large number of notably non-metal chicks. A half pipe dominates a portion of the venue’s floor, and watching scrawny dudes in oversized T-shirts whip up and down a curved wooden ramp as stoner metal blares brings a nostalgic warmth to the heart of the Casserole. The backyard smoking area is overflowing with curly hair and scraggly beards.

First up is Iron Tongue, featuring Rwake frontman CT, and they are surprisingly more mellow than I expected; having once shared a stage with these guys, I really enjoyed how strung out and pained they were. Now, the band is far more stoner rock-oriented, erring on the side of big riffs that swing rather than stomp and vocals more hard rock than sludge metal. Still, the band puts on a solid show, and the crowd is nicely responsive to their brand of face-kickin’ weed-worship. Up next are The Star & Dagger, who I’ve never heard of and whose merch tries harder to look like it’s from the ’70s than to look cool. Similarly, the band plays entirely boring and predictable ’70s hard rock fronted by three women—a motionless guitarist obscured by her frizzy hair, a slender denim-and-spandex-clad singer who doesn’t know what to do with her hands, and . . . Sean Yseult from White Zombie (oh, I get it, now). The band seems to play forever, which is a shame—after returning from two cigarette breaks to hear this shit, I want to execute everyone in this room.

High On Fire close the show, though, and they are just fucking wonderful to behold. Matt Pike is fatter than ever, his guitar over his beer gut like an egg wearing a sombrero. The band tears into one classic after another, from “Speedwolf” to “Anointing The Seer” to closer “Snakes of the Divine”, with a ton of thrashing new material tossed in the middle. Sweat flies, fists pump, moshers crash into each other with reckless abandon. For “Snakes”, I even run up front and get into the fray a bit, hoisting surfers, elbowing shirtless dudes, and screaming at Matt Pike like a madman.

Outside, we wait for our bus for 30 minutes before realizing that it’s heinously late due to all of Brooklyn and most of Portland residing in Austin this week. Thankfully, we catch a lone cab rolling down the endless highway like a tumbleweed, and make our way back to Hyde Park.

WEDNESDAY, 3/13:
“I might leave you to do your . . . metal thing on your own tonight,” says the Old Man as we arrive at the Scoot Inn, which appears to be a Frankensteined collection of shacks and fences. (are . . . are Saviours playing somewhere around here? I hear “Crete’n”.) It’s obvious that being molested by perspiring dirtbags isn’t big with my companion, and that’s fair—though why we’re seeing Fear and the Cro-Mags is beyond me. At the end of the afternoon, though, what does it matter—what fun! The Cro-Mags are all raging muscle and pounding fists, and Fear are the most amazing group of old-school hardcore dudes in existence. Highlights include “New York’s All Right” and the inevitable “I Love Livin’ In The City”. Once done, I part with my friend and walk across the train tracks and over to 6th Street.
Three things overheard walking down 6th Street in Austin:
“Josh, I know where we’re getting cocaine tonight.”
“Of course I’m pissing myself! I’ve been pissing myself all month, I’m trying not to!”
“Do you like brown vaginas?”

Such is my preview of the insanity that is downtown Austin’s 6th Street during this fine gathering of musicians and fans. The four or so blocks of 6th that have been barred off from traffic are packed with hipsters with board shorts and soul patches, girls in short shorts with back patches, and a serious contingent of thugged-out black dudes in low-hanging jeans and bling (I never pegged SXSW as having a lot of hip-hop, but a poster tells me T.I. is playing, so hey, what do I know). After securing my two stops for the night, Barbarella on Red River and the Dirty Dog on 6th, I bounce from bar to bar pounding Fireman’s Fours until I’m shambling drunk and in need of having my aural ass kicked. Somehow, I manage to claw my way out of Lovejoys, get a cardboard-ish slice from Hoek’s Death Metal Pizza, and make it back to Barbarella without sexually harassing anyone.

After standing in an endless line stretching into a back alley, I enter the MetalSucks South By South Death showcase, where I’m actually, surprisingly, no-shittingly, on the list (for those of you who have never been a journalist, here’s how it goes: the first five or so times you show up to a show and are on the list lulls you into a false sense of security that is then shattered when you’re unable to make it to your favorite band’s show because you didn’t contact a publicist in time, and so you spend your life a vagabond, always unsure if you’re actually on the list, terrified you’ll only be granted free entry to see In Flames and perhaps Devildriver).

Monstro have just finished, and two tall boys later, Holy Grail come on. Ah, Holy Grail, tenders of the fire, your hyperactive power-thrash stylings wrap a leather gauntlet around the soul of the Casserole. Vince Neilstein of MetalSucks takes a moment to say what’s up, and we briefly smile and greet each other before both turning our grins back to the simmering cauldron of kickass that is the Grail. The crowd is swimming with press; Rob from Metal Injection brushes past me repeatedly as he charges to the stage to get photos. Who knew he was such a towering dude?
Next up is Black Tusk, who sounds like how I feel—wasted, furious, bloodthirsty, and just overjoyed to be here doing this. They grind out about 30 minutes of Satan-worshipping sludge-stomp, before leaving us to Intronaut, who, lengthy soundcheck notwithstanding (“Sorry, guys, we’re all progressive and shit, so we need to make this sound good.”) are absolutely awesome, their acid-burned soundscapes breathing a Lovecraftian atmosphere of cosmic harm about them, even though they appear to be just good ol’ boys. Nachtmystium are next, and their sweaty brand of cocaine-fueled black-and-roll is a welcome change of pace. Blake Judd, lead singer and guitarist, looks like he’s going to die the entire time. Since I got to catch High On Fire the night before, I bail beforehand and head over to the Dirty Dog to catch the end of the Corrosion of Conformity show, only to later realize I missed Darkest Hour, to whom my youth requires me to give respect and cred.

The aforementioned Ms. Kelly has warned me that CoC’s show is badge only and she’ll have to sneak me in, but seems that a green picture of Abraham Lincoln and various uses of the word “brother” in conversation with the bouncer is enough. I arrive in time to catch Black Cobra, who are punishing albeit a little straight-forward for my tastes. The crowd here seems older, more haggard and hairy, than those in attendance for the MetalSucks showcase, but one only needs to hear the band rip into “Deliverance” to tell why. Drunken hip-swinging and head-banging abound; the place is a giant beard full of the meanest, drunkest chiggers you’ve ever seen. But soon, two in the morning rolls around, and the gear and merch is packed up and carted off. Outside, some sort of machine beams emerald lasers across the sky of downtown Austin, little comfort as a line of mounted police sweep the streets screaming at hapless pedestrians to get up and go home.

Cramming into the 481 is a Sisyphean feat, but somehow I manage to sardine myself in, and get back to Guadalupe without incident at around 4:20 in the morning—which, obviously, is pretty perfect timing.

THURSDAY, 3/15:
And on Thursday, nothing happened. The Old Man and I got Taco Shack and did some work at home. I tossed on a less-than-slimming collared shirt and we went to a dinner party of some family friends of mine, which was all tacos and cookies and Mexican beer. Then we drove home, had a couple at Nasty’s, and watched The Third Man.

Perhaps I’m a chump for not tagging on another day of concerts, but you know what, fuck that. The best part about a musical festival without a campground is that if you want to skip a day, you can. I’m sure I missed some awesome bands, but whatever, I needed a sick day.

FRIDAY, 3/16:
In the early afternoon, Grim Kim and I get sweet potato fries at a chi-chi café along the side of the road while Zoroaster, her ride to the next stop along her tour travels, deals with van drama. For some reason, through the guts-punishing Mexican food and the gut-enlarging barbecue, I did not know I wanted sweet potato fries, and every bite puts me in a better mood. By the time Kim is on the road and I’m finishing my last fry, I am entirely rejuvenated. Fuck my hangover, fuck sobriety. Let’s go out with a bang.

My return to the Scoot Inn is awesome from the get-go. It’s still early, and no one’s here, so I can grab beers and swerve around the venue, taking in its many shack-like features and potable specialties (they got PBRs, and Lone Stars, but if I have another Lone Star I might defecate napalm). Enabler come on and play a pretty mean set of repulsive blackened thrash, and KEN Mode surprise me with their violent and off-kilter sensibilities. During their set, I repeatedly found myself nodding and thinking that this is the kind of metal band I would enjoy being in, this weird creepy little entity. Narrows are good, respectable and mean-sounding, but by now I’m getting a little tired of the hardcore thing, the Chug & Breakdown show, and I want something more, something meaner.

Then All Pigs Must Die take the stage. It is impossible for me to express how much I love this band, so let’s just talk about what happens.

“The Blessed Void” starts, and all is whirling hair and bodies slamming into me from all sides. Guitars like red-hot factory gears running on overtime swarm into the air, circling and descending into the crowd with their glittering claws. Vocalist Kevin Baker stands on the partition between the audience and stage, dangling ape-like from a banner overhead and singing directly into the faces of his front-row audience. Soon, I can’t take it, and violently headbang over and begin singing along to every fucking word. Sweat gushes down my face. Someone hits me in the back of the head. Someone elbows me in the face. All is Pandemonium. The lion eats her young. “God Is War” and “Death Dealer” both leave me screaming until I feel my throat bleed. I claw at the air and scream bloody murder in the hopes that the Devil can hear me. It’s hard to describe, this Dionysian frenzy, this building and then infinitely-expanding well of energy and rage that overflows out of me every time I see this band. It is the sensation of knowing that someone is speaking for me, that there is an entity out there that seems to express my most nebulous and uncontrollable beliefs, the great cyclone of blood and panic at the center of the engine on which I run. The band closes, and the crowd disperse swiftly. I have two cigarettes and a beer, and then have to sit down.

Ringworm are heavy as fuck, and Black Breath bring that first-class primo Stockholm thrash just as I hoped they would, but I’ve definitely blown my wad early on All Pigs Must Die, and I hang back and headbang. Black Breath are especially awesome, old and new material alike leaves me grinning. I bite and buy a Sentenced To Life T-shirt; the album is looking good as an Album Of The Year candidate. A blonde woman compliments my Butchered At Birth back patch, and it turns out to be Kelli Malella, VP of Publicity at Metal Blade, who I’ve done many shady journalistic deals with, and who is joined by a violent drunken Charlie Brown impersonator (yes, this happened). We all have a belly laugh. Riding a wave of towering music violence, I sail from the Scoot to 6th, where I do the long walk down to the 481 stop, ducking and weaving between the jocular and shit-hammered crowds of hipsters that fill the streets. Thankfully, the bus comes quickly, and I manage to grab a seat before anyone.

When I return to Brooklyn, it is impossible to turn or lean my head in any direction due to the violent swelling left over from headbanging to All Pigs Must Die. My throat is sore, covered with white spots, suppurating phlegmy pus. My sweat-soaked denim vest, and every other item of my clothing, are compacted into a lasagna (or, one might say, a fucking casserole) of male exertion within my duffel bag. My brain aches from too much stimulus. My liver looks like a fucking mustache.

And yet, it’s good to know such a thing as SXSW exists in America, and that it has so much metal, and so many different kinds. Upon return, I took solace and comfort in the fact that if I so desired, SXSW would be there for me to see and take in, similar to Wacken. There is a great live tradition in place out there, and all it requires is the forethought and sobriety I didn’t have to make it enjoyable. And knowing this, that it can be accessed by a mook like me, lets me know something else about myself: that I’m never going back. If it’s there, I can take it or leave it, and leaving it seems like the best course of action. Fuck you, SXSW, you beautiful succubus. Fuck your Lone Star and your hipsters and your night buses roaring across gridless city blocks. You made me sick, you took my money, you left me for dead. Not you, Austin, you’re all right. But SXSW, don’t call me back. We lived our little drama. Never again.