SXSW (Saturday): Daniel Johnston, Grupo Fantasma
Emo's; Austin, TX
After a two-and-a-half-hour wait in line, my feet hurt, I’m sober, uncomfortable, and a little sticky from the balmy evening. I feel like I’ve just been on a long car ride with my parents. But this time, I don’t get out of the hot station wagon to find Yellowstone Park, but to find tequila and Pabst (thank god). I am awakened by the smell of the lime, my temperature lowered by the icy tall can; I am cleansed by the salt of the rim and soaked in the tequila -- at last, I am cured.
My line buddy and old friend Aaron talks about local internet God Harry Knowles, and I’m inspired to write an experiential review for you, dear reader, about how I’ve waited in this line of lines to see our hero, Daniel Johnston, famous for making the horrifying reality of mental illness seem cool and hopeful.
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- {Grupo Fantasma}
But first, it’s Grupo Fantasma, who sizzle spicily away. Grupo Fantasma is a talented group of guys who play some sorta Latin party dance fun Rio-hotel-bar music. They’re very good at whackin’ the congas and steels drums, but I can’t help but find them a little annoying.
Aaron tells me that Grupo Fantasma publishes huge signs on the sides of Austin city buses with messages like “Saving Money on Gas is Fantasma –Grupo Fantasma.” Ugh. Now, I’m even more annoyed by these pan-Latin yet still somewhat ethnically androgynous Carlos Santana enthusiasts.
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- {Daniel Johnston}
And now the moment we’ve all been waiting for, an Austin institution, fan-tested, documentary-approved... Daniel Johnston opens his set with “Speeding Motorcycle.”
One wonders if these songs come from a place of holy genius or childish madness. At the end of “Speeding Motorcycle,” the crowd erupts and I wonder if I detect insincerity in their cheers and applause. Is it a true love of Johnston’s strange irony and radiant vulnerability that fuels this audience’s love? Or is it pity? Do we love Daniel Johnston with the same self-serving pity coupled with laughing disdain that we lauded upon Wesley Willis? It’s a hard question, but an important one. But, because this is Austin, and because I stood outside with a bunch of nice people who also waited two-and-a-half hours for this, I’m willing to believe that everyone here truly loves Daniel Johnston, who was crucified in mental institutions for our sins.
“Here’s a song from the Songs of Pain,” he says and sings, “Hold me like a mother would. Like I always knew somebody should. Though I know tomorrow don’t look so good.” Wow. I want to cry.
On another song, Johnston sings, “We’re living our lives in vain, and where are we going to?” He is well worth the wait. He is the real deal: a strange, slightly toothless old man who begs a loving audience to put aside their images and their made-up faces and really feel the beauty and magic of being.
Known for demanding that The Beatles reunite and be his backup band, Johnston covers one Lennon and one McCartney song — “I’m So Tired” and “Live and Let Die” — back to back. I’m glad that he represents both Lennon and McCartney individually.
He finishes the set with “True Love Will Find You in the End,” and it’s delicate, awkward, warbling, and divine. As a reviewer, I’m struck dumb. The most important thing for me to convey to you, readers, isn’t my self-indulgent experiential blather, but quotes and picture (my one crappy picture) of this man who I can’t really judge or describe because he knows things that I do not and may never know. He has stood on the edge of the abyss, looked deep into the mouth of madness, and brought back a message of hope. He wishes only that true love WILL find us in the end. For he knows, as we all should, that this is the only thing that will cure us of the unbearable pain of being.
Seemingly ironically, the DJ chooses to follow up Johnston’s set with “Hells Bells” by AC/DC.
SXSW (Friday): Beach House, Mi Ami, P.O.S., Silver Apples
Various; Austin, TX
After waiting for an hour to see The Sonics, Emo’s ended up filling to capacity long before my queue moved an inch. As a part of my contingency plan, I headed to Cedar Creek Courtyard to see {Beach House}, thus ensuring that all my disappointment about missing The Sonics would be increased tenfold by Beach House’s aching dreariness. Right off the bat, they aimed for the Charlie Browns by opening with “Gila,” which succeeded in not only amplifying my dismay about The Sonics, but also about the general direction of my life as a whole. Should I just stop kidding myself about getting a job and go to grad school? Have I let anyone down recently, and if so will they come seeking retribution? How many years did I shave off my life this week by living on a diet based solely on sausages and beer? But as the show went on, my worries went by the wayside, and Beach House actually got pretty upbeat. Victoria Legrand’s normally shaky voice/synth combo stiffened up a bit, and Alex Scally’s guitar went down a tick on the eeriness scale. It also helped that their live mix isn’t nearly as low as on their records. Coupled with a clever selection of tunes mainly from their self-titled debut with a few Devotion highlights sprinkled in, Beach House turned what I thought would be a sulky frown parade into an impressive live performance.
I swung on over to the Touch and Go/Quarterstick showcase at the Flamingo Cantina for D.C. to San Fran transplants {Mi Ami}. Although they appear to be a standard punk power trio set piece of guitar, bass, and drums, in reality Mi Ami is a one-man show. Daniel Martin-McCormick (a member of Black Eyes along with Mi Ami’s bassist) dazzles with lightning-quick transitions from reverb-drenched dubbery to Bad Brains-style shrieking and shredding. His astounding falsetto makes Trail of Dead’s Keely sound like Tom Waits, while his fretwork ate through my ears like termite through a Dixie cup. The drums and bass competently kept pace with Martin-McCormick, but it would be all the same if they weren’t there in the first place. This is Danny-boy’s show, and he fucking punishes it.
I’m fairly ignorant to the ways of live hip-hop, so last night I sought to educate myself by going to see Minneapolis’ {P.O.S.} at the Independent Label Group showcase. I like his new record Never Better, even if I haven’t properly digested it yet. Still, walking into the show I felt like I knew his work well enough to know what to expect. The show that transpired was 10 times as raucous as the one I had envisioned. First of all, I don’t think even P.O.S. had expected such a huge turnout of devoted fans who sang along every word. P.O.S. would crank them out quick and hard and the crowd would send him the same rhymes flying right back at him. P.O.S. wisely used the dedicated company of fans to his advantage, spellbinding the audience with countless hand-wagging instigations and by dropping line after line out of his rhymes only to hear the crowd fill in the blanks. Besides being a master showman, P.O.S. keeps his raps on task with solid beats and intricate rhymes. Damn, I need to get my ass to more hip-hop shows.
As far as I’m concerned, Europe receives too much credit for their part in pioneering electronic music. Granted, from Kraftwerk to Eno, the continent did have a lion’s share of trailblazers, but before any of them had so much as smelled a synthesizer, Americans like {Silver Apples} were fashioning a whole new breed of electronic experimentation as early as 1967. Last night, Silver Apples’ inimitable Simeon, who came out of retirement in 1996, played a set for the Ponderosa Stomp Revue at the Continental. Classics like “Misty Mountain,” “Lovefingers,” and “Little Things” sounded just as bizarre in 2009 as I’m sure they did in the ’60s, as Simeon coaxed the most unusual pulsations out of three simple boxes and a tiny synthesizer. In the ’60s, Simeon cleverly dubbed his cadre of self-made electronic instruments “The Simeon,” and I had always imagined it as a gigantic series of colorful tubes, not unlike a hamster habitat or the internet. Instead, there were just three little boxes and this strange, skinny man singing Tolkien-esque lyrics while a hundred or so drunks looked really confused. I wouldn’t classify his performance as particularly exciting (knob-twiddling and button-pushing electronica shows rarely are), but as a big Silver Apples fan I couldn’t help but just geek the fuck out when he played “A Pox on You” or closed with “Oscillations.” Although four decades have passed, Simeon’s voice and prowess at electronic canoodling has not suffered one bit. He sounded identical last night as he did on Silver Apples’ self-titled or Contact, and even though a little bit of improvisation here or there would have been a welcome change to the same old groove, it’s still a joy just to see how Simeon actually made those sounds so many years ago.
SXSW (Friday): Parenthetical Girls, Future of the Left, Trail of Dead, Third Eye Blind
Various; Austin, TX
At SXSW, you shall never want for geeks or snobs, but I doubt you will find them in more abundance than at The Onion/A.V. Club/Decider Par-Tay. Held in the afternoon at the Radio Room, I only managed to catch a couple bands, the first being {Parenthetical Girls}. Another hapless victim crushed by the gears of the SXSW hype machine, Parenthetical Girls were dull, dull, dull. Comprised of a violinist, vocalist, drummist, and synthesizist, Parenthetical Girls sulked their way through a room-clearing set of forlorn tunes. As obvious enthusiasts of Morrissey’s and The Arcade Fire’s worst qualities, most of the crowd chose to emigrate to Ra Ra Riot on the decidedly more upbeat outside stage than stick around for this mopefest. Perhaps if Parenthetical Girls played closer to the evening, or better yet closer to a Noam Chomsky lecture or a television stuck on C-SPAN 2, the mood would have been more appropriate -- but come on, this is The Onion, dammit! Bring on the fun!
The powers that be tried exactly that by trotting out some hapless comedian after Parenthetical Girls. I can’t recall the comedian’s name, but god bless whoever he was for trying his best to follow the most dour opening act in history. Rather than catch the ass end of Ra Ra Riot after the comedian, I stuck around inside to see {Future of the Left} again. They were just as intensely affable as they were last time, when perhaps I was a bit too unfair to compare them so much with mclusky. I reckon that’s just residual bitterness on account of major mclusky withdrawal, but one of these days when I grow up and get over the fact that mclusky are no more, I’ll be able to enjoy Future of the Left for what they are. That day is not today, though.
I sauntered outside for a trip into my past with {And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead…} I’ve basically ignored every Trail of Dead release since 2002’s Source Tags & Codes, so I wanted to see if I was missing out on any mind-blowing new material. It turns out I am not. Gone were the ripples of melody and tidal waves of confrontational sonic blasts I had so enjoyed so much in high school, replaced by what appeared to be just a normal hardcore band. Conrad Keely can still belt out a raw one with his often holstered but still sharp falsetto, but other than that, the songs didn’t hold much water. Victims of the hype system before it was even fashionable, it’s hard not to watch Trail of Dead without expecting the life-altering experience promised by so many others. But once Trail of Dead is stripped of all the excess pretensions heaped upon the band through no fault of their own, what’s left is just a pretty okay punk band, and that’s the way it should be.
So, I saw {Third Eye fucking Blind}. Two British gentlemen, who obviously knew long before I did that this was to be the funniest decision either of them would ever make in their entire lives, dragged me to the convention center for what was to be the funniest decision I would ever made in my entire life. The queue for the show was enormous, which only fueled the fire of perhaps Third Eye Blind’s most pathetic characteristic – they still think they’re famous. Most people at the back of the crowd were there for the same ironic reasons as me, but a loyal contingent of Third Eye diehards encouraged the fantasy by sincerely dancing and singing along with every stupid song. Actually, probably Third Eye Blind’s most pathetic hallmark is that lead singer Stephan Jenkins is somehow under the impression that he’s incredibly witty. And why shouldn’t he think that? He croons in one song, “Are you real to me, or are you just non-dairy creamer?” A positively cutting remark with smacks of Wilde. In another song, he laments about how his ex-girlfriend loved her shower massager more than she loved him. Ah yes, an eternal subject that flourishes with the romantic grace of a John Donne or perchance a Bret Michaels. Still, for all their clueless attempts at poignancy, I heartily admit to singing every fucking word of “Jumper,” taking me back to those salad days of Catholic grade school when my only worries were choking down my Lunchable and getting called “faggot” a lot. I do not miss the past.
SXSW (Friday): Hungarian Indie Rock/Islamic Metal and Rap
Club 115; Austin TX
If you really work it at SXSW, you can walk five square blocks and see the same handful artists about 10 times a day. Despite the fact that I had declared Friday night as the most consistently good night of this festival week, I figured I would go see something that I will never see again in my life: a showcase featuring two popular Hungarian "indie" bands, an Iranian speed metal act, and a Palestinian rap crew.
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- {Supersonic}
I strolled into Club 115 and first checked out Supersonic's gig. If the name weren't enough to give it away, Supersonic were a tad trad-rock in their approach. At least the Budapest quartet think big: Oasis and U2 can be heard in their stadium-sounding rock. And it is done well, in spite of its somewhat derivative nature. After a long and confusing soundcheck, the band revved into gear and singer Balazs worked the front of the stage and his tambourine with the sass of a less ambivalent Liam Gallagher (he was noticeably happy to be playing here), and despite hitting the stage early, they made a few fast friends who could barely contain their excitement with meeting the band.
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- {The Moog}
Budapest may be close to 6,000 miles from Austin, but to think it is a cultural wasteland would be a mistake. While The Moog went to great lengths in making themselves presentable in an English dandy sort of way, their music plays around the same park as popular "alternative" U.S. acts like Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, and Green Day, but more melodic and less pretend-dark-and-disturbed (I won't include Green Day in that last statement; they know a good melody when they steal one). With Buzzcocks-sounding intros and fuzzy pop bodies, the band displayed confidence with each song they performed, and although they write a decent but generic brand of pop-rock, it would sell millions if marketed properly. More important than anything important like their music, they have a Fucking star with a capital F in lead singer Tonyo, who struts, preens, and confronts with the best of them. If The Moog were based in L.A., Tonyo would be sharing face time on mag covers with Mssrs. Wentz and Jonas. That's not speculation; that's fact.
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- {TarantisT}
While the Hungarian bands did not exactly break my realm of expectation, neither did TarantisT, but that is only because I saw precisely what I expected to see: a loud, fast, great thrash trio. You think you've had travel hiccups? TarantisT's story is one of struggle and ultimate triumph, with the bonding power of music. The Tehranian speed metal godz were booked to play Austin two years ago but were denied travel visas. Last year, they got their travel visas but were told they had to apply for a special travel permits from Dubai. They did, and they arrived, one day AFTER their scheduled show at SXSW. So, they did what any desperate band would do: they came over anyway and stayed in the U.S. playing some shows until the Iranian army threatened imprisonment if they did not return to their homeland. Throw in a few more visa problems along the way and, long story longer, TarantisT made it back to Austin to finally play a show at SXSW. Having only enough time to rehearse a small handful of songs with a quickly-assembled lineup (again, army, visa, and availability problems), the band nonetheless snapped the eardrums of every patron in the small club with rapid shots of thrash. The crowd treated the band like heroes, and bassist and singer Arash Rahbary had a grin on his face most of the night, except when he was screaming out evil in a deathly serious fashion. The smile returned often though, even when brokenly belting out the universal call-to-arms, "Is the pit ready?"
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- {Palestinian Rapperz}
There is no real sense of mystery to a band called Palestinian Rapperz, is there? Well, yes and no. For starters, there wasn't the plural Rapperz on stage tonight, only the quick-tongued frontman Mohammed Al-Farra. Rapping in front of a makeshift band of local musicians who provided suitable funk backing, Al-Farra delivered socially relevant and intensely personal rhymes. Punching a keffiyeh-covered fist in the air for a good chunk of the set, the Rapperz' leader held court on political hotpoints and goaded the audience into joining in the celebration. A keffiyeh-clad female guest jumped up on stage to trade off with Al-Farra during a track that the two of them, plus band, wrote and rehearsed in a few hours earlier in the day. Musically, the band played up catchy backdrops for Al-Farra's lines using a standard setup of guitar, bass, drums, and organ -- and while effective, it was rather run-of-the-mill. Lyrically, though, very few true gangsters can compare their thug lives to writing abut Israeli occupation, war-torn home neighborhoods, daily survival, questions concerning the state of human rights and racial stereotyping. Judging by the crowd of Americans completely losing their shit and chanting back pro-Palestine slogans, I wouldn't be surprised to see a few more people wearing the keffiyeh. If they do choose to take a side on this slippery social and political statement fence, hopefully it will be after lengthy conscious deliberation instead of wearing something as a meaningless, empty-headed fashion accessory.
On Friday, there wasn't a lot of things I haven't heard before, but that is the case with most bands from anyplace you could name. At least tonight, the song may have remained the same, but the story was always different.
SXSW (Friday): Touch & Go/Quarterstick Showcase
Flamingo Cantina; Austin, TX
I was so excited to see Crystal Antlers. First, I went to Emo's and noticed the very young crowd around me. I decided to look at the opener list and thought, “Loney Dear? That doesn't go so well with dark noise rock.” THEN I realized I'd read my pocket guide too quickly and ended up at the wrong Crystals show. I wanted Crystal Antlers, not Crystal Stilts. Luckily, this is not CMJ, so I didn't have to take a half-hour subway ride and simply walked up the street to Flamingo Cantina. Oops.
- {Mi Ami}
As you know, many mourned the demise of Touch & Go's distribution arm, which served great indie labels like Kill Rock Stars, Merge, and Suicide Squeeze. However, the label itself is still alive and well, as evidenced by the rock-solid wall of brilliantly chaotic music I heard last night. I arrived in time for Mi Ami, a punk/noise trio from San Francisco made up of two-thirds of Dischord's Black Eyes (Daniel Martin-McCormick on vocals and guitar, and Jacob Long on bass). Their real secret, however, lies within drummer Damon Palermo, who, along with Long, brings structure to the psychedelic primal whirlwind created by Martin-McCormick's high-pitched, delightfully crazed wailing and gorgeously fractured guitar arias. Martin-McCormick positively sashayed across the stage in bare feet, and the overall result was deliciously hypnotic.
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- {Sholi}
Sholi continue the trend of ridiculously talented drummers, playing in towards each other rather than to the audience for the majority of their set. “I hope you guys still have some small amount of room left in your brains for music this week,” says singer/guitarist Payam Bavafa. Somehow, though, Sholi's pleasant harmonies and pretty guitar lines seem a little too easy and predictable after witnessing a steamroller like Mi Ami, though it seems like drummer Jonathon Bafus is trying to derail this train in the best way possible. Finishing up with a ’70s cover of a band whose name I can't make out, Bavafa's gentle croon fits the song's mood perfectly, punctuated by vibraphone. This set calmed me down too much, so I eagerly await the next.
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- {All The Saints}
Holy shit, I got what I asked for. All The Saints turn out the lights and turn on a fluorescent floor lamp, illuminating drummer Jim Crook's kit. Almost immediately, I'm lulled into a trance by a dark, repetitive bass line and ghostly, otherworldly vocals howling over impossibly complex guitars. I want to wrap myself in a blanket and listen to this band at a deafening volume. Singer/guitarist Matt Lambert quips, “We were manufactured by Touch & Go. We were once called King Khan & the Shrines, but I was too self-conscious to wear a _____.” I couldn't make out that last word, but you can probably guess what he was getting at, given Khan's getups. My head is absolutely swimming with sonic overload at the conclusion of their set, and I sit motionless as the room begins to fill up for the Crystal Antlers.
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- {Crystal Antlers}
Crystal Antlers drummer Kevin Stuart does calisthenics before their set, which proves to be completely necessary when the band launches into its ’60s-inspired whirling dervish of creepy, sweeping insanity. “Can we get some more Silly String in the monitors?” is a response to the crowd, who lose their shit and, yes, spray Silly String on the ceiling, the band, the monitors, themselves, etc. Somehow, though, this band is not doing it for me the way Mi Ami and All the Saints did. I'm in the mood for dark, brooding, and breathless -- and while the Crystal Antlers are certainly working hard, I can't muster the energy to get as excited as the pulsating room. Don't listen to me, though; I'm an old lady who can't handle 1 AM rock shows, and had I consumed a few Red Bulls, I'm sure I would have been right up front pretending to be in a 1960s spy movie with the rest of the kids.
SXSW (Friday): Insound Day Party
Club DeVille; Austin, TX
How to skip a huge line at a show: pretend you're a roadie and act like you know what the fuck you're doing. Thanks dude, you know who you are.
{The Thermals} are playing a million shows this week, and I made it my business to catch at least one of them. This band changes drummers more often than socks (unless you're bassist Kathy Foster, who went barefoot for this set), and Westin Glass has since replaced Lorin Coleman for the band's first album on Kill Rock Stars, Now We Can See. Club DeVille's outside stage area was completely packed with surprisingly respectful fans who nodded in agreement when Foster observed the crowd and stated, “Headbanging is better than drinking!” IMHO, standout moments were “Returning to the Fold” from 2006's The Body, The Blood, The Machine and brandy-dandy new track “Now We Can See” from the upcoming album, Now We Can See. That “whoa-oa” chorus works out quite nicely at a live show, wouldn't you know it? Really, though, the Thermals sound the same no matter what medium you've got them in: airtight and ass-kicking.
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As usual, {The Hold Steady} killed it, which we discussed yesterday, so I'll just say that today's set was one for older fans, and I appreciated it more than you know. I danced and did a lot of pointing. Here's a pic:
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Since every WIN must be accompanied by a FAIL, my lack of geographical knowledge caused me to completely miss the Bloodshot Records party, so I'll make it up to you tonight, y'all.
