Photos: Pitchfork/Windish Austin Bash

Emo's photos by Nilina Mason-Campbell; Emo's Jr. photos by Stacy Schwartz (unless otherwise indicated); Above: No Age by Nilina Mason-Campbell

Pitchfork and the Windish Agency hosted a party Friday afternoon that just so happened to coincide with the SXSW festivities. And what a party it was! No Age, A Place to Bury Strangers, Yeasayer, Times New Viking, Fleet Foxes, Atlas Sound, Bon Iver, Fuck Buttons, Jay Reatard, White Williams, Lykke Li, and High Places all brought the good stuff to Emo's and Emo's Jr. Here's what it looked like:

High Places [Emo's Jr.; 12 p.m.]




Lykke Li [Emo's; 12:30 p.m.]








White Williams [Emo's Jr.; 1 p.m.]




Jay Reatard [Emo's; 1:30 p.m.]






Fuck Buttons [Emo's Jr.; 2 p.m.]





Photo 3 by Matthew Solarski

Bon Iver [Emo's; 2:30 p.m.]








Atlas Sound [Emo's Jr.; 3 p.m.]



Bottom photo by Nilina Mason-Campbell

Fleet Foxes [Emo's; 3:30 p.m.]




Times New Viking [Emo's Jr.; 4 p.m.]



Bottom photo by Nilina Mason-Campbell

Yeasayer [Emo's; 4:30 p.m.]






A Place to Bury Strangers [Emo's Jr.; 5 p.m.]


No Age [Emo's; 5:30 p.m.]

SXSW: Friday [Amy Phillips]

The Ting Tings [Stubb's; 8:00 p.m.]

The Ting Tings have one great song: "That's Not My Name". It's a sassy little kiss-off that rides a bump n grind beat to an ecstatic finale, with singer/guitarist Katie White shouting the title over a chorus of multi-tracked Katies.

The British duo closed their set with "That's Not My Name", crushing everything they played before it. But hey, one great song is a lot more than most buzz bands plying their wares at SXSW can boast, right? The Ting Tings also have charisma and a grasp of rhythm and heft that's sorely lacking in most of their NME-boosted peers, which makes me think they might stick around. They just need to come up with a few more great songs.

Santogold [Stubb's; 9:00 p.m.]

Yet another artist riding a tsunami of hype to a prime SXSW slot, Santogold seems to be everybody's Next Big Thing pick, including the people at Downtown Recordings, who will issue her album this summer. The incessant hype has left a bad taste in my mouth, but I like Santogold's two songs (the rumbling "Creator" and "L.E.S. Artistes", which totally rips Madonna's "Die Another Day", amirite?), so I thought I'd give her a chance and check out her live show.

Well, consider me an official member of Team Santogold as of 9:30 p.m. last night.

First of all, this girl can sing. Really sing. Second of all, she has songs. Real songs, with hooks and choruses and twitchy, polyglot beats (some courtesy of Diplo, who acted as her DJ during the brief, 20-minute set). Third of all, she has backup singer/dancers who mostly stand there looking fierce, but every now and then bust out the choreography. Fourth of all, she has a crazy cute smile.

I've heard Santogold dismissed as an MIA clone due to the two women's penchant for culture- and genre-hopping, as well as their shared collaborators (Diplo, Switch). But you know what? I'm GLAD there are two musically omnivorous, defiantly individualistic women out there with strong, colorful personalities and fascinating backstories. In fact, I wish there were more! It's not like only one retro garage rock band is allowed to be popular at a time, or there aren't a hundred shoegazer outfits all vying for the same accolades. If we're OK with salivating over both Jay Reatard and King Khan, or My Morning Jacket and Band of Horses and Fleet Foxes, then we should be OK with giving our love to both MIA and Santogold.

Biz3 showcase [Emo's; 10:30 p.m.]

SXSW is full of wacky promotional ideas, from bands dressing up like robots/cowboys/cheerleaders to hand out fliers on Sixth Street to corporations plastering their names all over every inch of space (my hotel room key is sponsored by Island Records).

But far and away my favorite promotional idea of SXSW so far was the Kid Sister Pro Nails salon at the Biz3 showcase at Emo's. In the merch booth in a corner of the main space, a trio of manicurists painted patrons' nails for free, helping us all look just a little bit more fabulous.

I got mine done up bright red while watching Does It Offend You, Yeah? play. This, my friends, is the life.

That up there is a photo of Graham Walsh of Holy Fuck getting his nails did.

Mika Miko [Emo's IV; 12:00 a.m.]

Paul Thompson covered Mika Miko's extremely brief 8 p.m. set at the Lovepump showcase, and while their midnight set at the Kill Rock Stars showcase was short, at 30 minutes it was quite a bit longer than the earlier one.

Mika Miko are the sexiest band I've seen so far at SXSW, so effortlessly cool and confident and just plain down and dirty ROCKING. The pristine confines of Emo's IV made for an odd location to watch their grimy scuzz-punk in action, but the amped up crowd pogoed like we were all in some rat-infested basement.

I wish more bands like Mika Miko existed-- fearless girl gangs fucking shit up whenever they hit the stage. You know, bringing us back to the glory days of L7, Babes in Toyland, and 7 Year Bitch. Can we make that happen please?

Robyn [Pangea; 1:00 a.m.]

Pangea is a douchebag dance club infamous for its bottle service policy. Outside, there's a line of women in micro-minis and heels, accompanied by dudes wearing too much hair gel, waiting to get in. When I go to the bathroom, the girl behind me is startled by her reflection in the mirror. "Omigod!" she squeals to her friend. "I totally thought somebody just came up right behind me!"

When we arrive, the Vines-- who apparently are still a band-- are covering Outkast's "Ms. Jackson".

This, I say, is what hell is like.

A half hour later, Robyn is on stage, doing a medley of Snoop's "Sexual Eruption" and Salt-N-Pepa's "Push It". She's accompanied by two drummers and a keyboardist, and she's mugging it up like she's the biggest pop star in the world (which she totally should be). Everybody is going absolutely crazy.

This is what heaven is like.

That's the power of Robyn-- she literally lights up the room with her presence. "There are so many of you, and so much of me," she stated near the end of her set.

I don't think I could have picked a better set list. "Be Mine!", "Handle Me", "Who's That Girl", "Konichiwa Bitches", "With Every Heartbeat", "Cobrastyle", a version of "Show Me Love" accompanied only by drum pad beats that sounded just like the Knife's OneMusic version of "Heartbeats", a cover of Prince's "Jack U Off".

I am totally gay for Robyn right now.

These young men in the audience also seemed to be enjoying Robyn's performance a great deal:

SXSW: Friday [Paul Thompson]

Mika Miko [Flaming Cantina; 8 p.m.]

Mika Miko were either the first or second band I stuck into South by Southwest's showcase search engine deal. I have been turning Mika Miko's C.Y.S.L.A.B.F. over quite a bit in the last few weeks, I'm convinced the music coming out of the L.A. underground right now is among the best in the world, and I've never seen 'em before, so I had big plans to head down to the Flamingo and let 'em punk rock me for a while. A while, mind. Not six minutes.



Mika Miko were on first at the Panache/Lovepump showcase, and all five of 'em rolled into the club just about the time the Flamingo staff started admitting those of us in the small line that'd formed along 6th Street. They must've soundchecked beforehand, cuz they were raring to go, and I reckon I should've mentally prepared myself for a brief little blast when red phone-wielding singer Jennifer "Victor Fandgore" Clavin nonchalantly told the 50 or so folks in the crowd "we're going to play five songs."

The thing is, C.Y.S.L.A.B.F. jams 13 songs into just over 20 minutes, so five Mika Miko songs is, well, not a real long time. In their short stint onstage, they were good-- they hurried a bit too much to really be great, though it's there-- and they looked to be having a hell of a good time doing what they did. Hard to say just what this was a showcase for excepting perhaps brevity, but I sure hope they played a little more of the 45 minutes they were allotted at the Kill Rock Stars shebang later on in the evening. I was pretty bummed, but a minute later, I saw Bushwick Bill being interviewed in the middle of 6th Street, and that kinda made up for it.



Herman Dune [Stephen's F Bar; 9 p.m.]



I caught Herman Dune in a posh hotel lounge a block or so away from the downtown mobocracy, the kind of spot where they serve neon cocktails in all manner of fruit flavors and you feel kind of weird being all unshowered and covered in handstamps. It turned out to be a fine setting for Dune's sweet, silly Jonathan Richman-inspired, country-tinged American pastorals, made all the more charming by the fact that Dune is both French and seemingly the nicest man walking the earth at this moment. Dune's peppy little numbers about love and driving in cars are perfect mixtape fodder, and Dune knows how to work the crowd, alternating between a showy Chuck Berry duck-walk and a meek "thank you veddy much" to close every tune. "I don't know if you have had a chance to be puppetized," Dune muttered, "but I have." He then brought out a friend who manned a Dune puppet through "1-2-3 Apple Tree" to pretty amusing effect. The set occasionally threatened to veer towards the precious-- especially with the puppet, and especially in this pristine setting where even the appletini set were chuckling at his punchlines-- but the songs are just a bit too strong for that, and Dune curses just a tad too much for them to get too cute.



Telepathe [Emo's IV Lounge; 10 p.m.]

I took the kind of risk with Telepathe you're supposed to down here, I think: I went to see the Brooklyn trio having heard precisely one of their songs in my life: "I Can't Stand It", a swirly thing from the Rare Book Room's just-released Living Bridge compilation. "I Can't Stand It" is the jam, one of the best tracks on one of the better compilations in recent memory, pushing a big melody all over the place. And I was pretty jazzed to get a shot at seeing them play a few more tunes not unlike it and writing a nice thing about how we should maybe watch out for Telepathe.

And, in fact, you should watch out for Telepathe. They're not very good.



Live, Telepathe feature uncoordinated, awkward dancing, inaudible chatting, the occasional tuneless singing and some sorta spacey, minimal beats. That's really and truly about it. As a bit of confrontational theatre, it's interesting enough for maybe one "song," and then you get to wondering when the hell they're gonna stop swiveling and play something that resembles music. I scooted in a few minutes after they started and may have missed "I Can't Stand It", but believe me when I tell you nothing else they played is even in the same ballpark. This, I imagine, is what people who don't think much of the spare, shimmering High Places think of High Places, but at least those two put some tune in their tunes. This was just formless, dull, and, eventually, grating. Maybe I'm missing something.

Panther [Emo's IV Lounge; 11 p.m.]



Just shy of a year ago, I saw Panther play in this weird converted autoshop in Chicago. Armed only with an iPod full of spasmodic funk of his own design and some fleet footwork, Charlie Salas-Humara gave one of the only good performances I've ever seen using the generally dubious (or, I've noticed, generally electroclash) iPod-as-backing band setup. I was really into the satisfyingly strange Secret Lawns at that point, which I'd say is a lot closer to the record Beck should've made after Midnite Vultures than anything he's done since.

Panther recently became a duo, Salas-Humara recently enlisted Joe Kelly, late of 31Knots, to sit behind the drums both live and on record, and recent MySpace bulletins would suggest they're looking for a third. Yeah, the drums add a nice kick to the room, and the more streamlined funk explorations of the recent 14 kt God do sound better live than on record. But compared to Secret Lawns, which hit you at all angles at all times with its buzzing synths and Brainiac rhythms, the tunes are just a little dumb and more than a little too simplistic, and that's also made a bit clearer when it's just a dude chanting over a guy smacking the snare. And, since Salas-Humara now has an electronics rig and, eventually, a guitar to attend to, his dancing-- a sight to behold, as you can see here-- is broken up every few seconds by another knob to turn. It was a thoroughly okay performance, but I miss the dude with the jambox holding out his palm and blowing invisible pixie dust all over everything. Now that I would've liked to've seen again.



Kid Sister [Emo's Main Room; 12:10 a.m.]



I wrangled my way into the capacity crowd at Emo's specifically to catch Kid Sister and Clipse, but was told by the friendly young lady working the door that they were running "impossibly late." So, poor me, I had to catch the Cool Kids' last couple songs and then power through DJ A-Trak's cavalcade of remixes. The Cool Kids were live as ever, and I'm a little biased towards anybody who shouts out the Chi so often, but I was too far back to really engage with it. I muscled up a little close for A-Trak's jerky set, who threw out roughly as many bangers as he did pleas for the crowd to shout out his label, Fool's Gold, in an "are you ready to rumble?" voice. If they were trying to get me amped for what was coming-- and they were, cuz they told me-- mission accomplished.



And then, to the strains of the "Monday Night Football" theme, out popped Kid Sister. I know we cover Kid Sis and the whole Chicago scene on display here a lot in these diary things, but there's a reason for it: Live and in the flesh, Kid Sister is a sexy beast and a party monster, drawing all eyes to her even as those Chromeo goofballs mugged in the background. Kid Sis doesn't have a whole lot of songs to her credit at this point-- though that'll change soon-- so they're all familiar favorites to anybody with an ear to the hype machine. But the set was tempered by mic issues, and a lyrical gal like Kid Sister had to work extra hard to impress a crowd who couldn't make out a damn word she was saying. With her guy A-Trak on the boards and baby bro/Flosstradamus party-starter J2K echoing her lines, Kid Sister goofed with the crowd, juked and switchboarded and all that, and basically just got awesome all over the spot. And that's Kid Sister minus her best quality: all that glorious mess she's always talking.

Clipse [Emo's Main Room; 12:50 a.m.]



Kid Sister is a party, but Clipse is some contemplative head-nod shit. Sure, they bring the heat, and there's probably not a better live hip-hop act out there (though the one right before 'em is up there), but the incongruity of a bunch of soused indie rockers dry-humping to a bunch of songs about yayo makes me think not everybody there was really listening. Clipse, it probably goes without saying at this point, are absolutely at the top of their lyrical game right now, and their Re-Up Gang's recent third volume of their We Got It for Cheap mixtape series finds the foursome pruning some of their ill-fated commercial tendencies and honing their masterful craft even further. Still, there was a party going on right before Clipse showed, and a party it remained, which seemed to add fuel to Malice and particularly Pusha T's fire. Maybe dancing to Clipse isn't such a bad idea after all.

It was, in many ways, just your typical Clipse show: They came out, knocked every last line out of the park, bemoaned their recent commercial failings, asked if anybody had actually paid money for Hell Hath No Fury (how could you not buy that record?), and barely gave themselves a moment to breathe for the better part of an hour. The energy those two bring to the stage, disconsonant dancing from the crowd notwithstanding, is bigger than two dudes and a handful of great rap songs, and they're right to think they should be near the top of everyone's list. Not surprisingly, they eventually brought out Ab-Liva and, later, Sandman, and, with the Re-Up Gang assembled, tore through a good chunk of the new mixtape. Bringing out more folks at a rap show, as you probably know, is almost never a good idea, but Sandman and particularly Liva are operating on a level not that far from Clipse's, and it was a pretty great moment to be laughing right along with Pusha T at Liva's line in "Ride Around Shining" about how he'll "make Oliver Twist like Dickens". "No radio play, no video play," Pusha once again pointed out. "Ya'll the motherfuckers who kept us alive." Man, you are so welcome.

SXSW: Friday [Matt LeMay]

[Photos by Christine Tadler]

Portastatic [French Legation Museum; 3 p.m.]

Chris Brokaw [French Legation Museum; 3:30 p.m.]

On a tip from a poster outside Emo's, we crossed I-35 to see Other Music's All Roads Lead to Austin party at the French Legation Museum. This is my first SXSW, and I've seen a lot of awesome stuff so far, but holy crap this show takes the cake. We staked out a good spot to watch Portastatic play a brief and charming acoustic set under a big white tent, then settled under a tree to hear Chris Brokaw (formerly of sadly overlooked Matador band Come) do a lovely acoustic set of his own.

Yo La Tengo [French Legation Museum; 4 p.m.]

At 4 p.m., Yo La Tengo took the main stage, playing a more laid-back set than their blistering performance at the Austin Music Hall on Thursday. This kind of setting is where the band's versatility really shines; Yo La Tengo were able to effortlessly recast songs like "Autumn Sweater" as sunny, relaxed summertime jams. Their set was a mere half-hour long, but didn't seem at all rushed and perfectly fit the party's mood.

Portastatic [The Parish; 8 p.m.]

As people lined up outside the Parish in the hopes of making it into Merge's stellar showcase, Portastatic (aka Superchunk's Mac McCaughan) reprised his earlier solo acoustic set with a few exciting additions. The last two Portastatic albums, the upbeat Bright Ideas and the more intricate and arranged Be Still Please are both fantastic, and selections from those records were particularly exciting (even though McCaughan couldn't seem to remember the lyrics to "I Wanna Know Girls"). A new song, about a fictional road trip to Amarillo, was also excellent, chock full of the soaring melodic turns that mark McCaughan's best work.

She & Him [The Parish; 12 a.m.]

By the time She & Him took the stage at midnight, the Parish was absolutely packed. M. Ward and Zooey Deschanel, whose voice is disarmingly lovely in a live setting, played an understated and twangy set to a room of rapt listeners. A cover of "You've Really Got a Hold On Me" made a good case for the band's broad, nostalgic appeal.

Destroyer [The Parish; 1 a.m.]

Fun fact about Destroyer live shows: When drummer Fisher Rose is playing with the band, they're about 20 times better. Dan Bejar let loose tonight more than I've seen in years, ripping through a set of material from This Night, Your Blues, and the soon-to-be-released Trouble in Dreams. The new songs ("My Favorite Year" and "Dark Leaves Form a Thread" in particular) were the best of the night, perfectly brought to life by Rose's insistent and muscular drumming and guitarist Nicholas Bragg's unending melodic runs. Destroyer, it seems, are well on their way to being a great live band.

Additional Photos:

Little Teeth [Maggie Mae's Rooftop; 9 p.m.]

Shout Out Louds [The Parish; 11 p.m.]

SXSW: Friday [Tyler Grisham]

[above: Mae Shi]

I had just seen Fuck Buttons at our own party and yet I kicked off my night searching them out again. That kind of thing happens at SXSW. Or you might travel a dozen blocks out of the way to catch your favorite hometown band. Or you might stumble on the noisiest, most energetic group of overworked kids at the festival. If you were me, you'd do all these things.

Snowglobe [Opal Divine's; 9 p.m.]


I grew up in Memphis, a city with a lot of musical past, but a somewhat shaky musical present. Aside from Jay Reatard's hepatitic punk scene, one's options for a weekend concert in the Bluff City are rather few and far between. But for the past decade or so, Snowglobe has been our rock band, dance band, jam band, and any other musical niche that needed to be filled on a given Friday.



Well this Friday, Brad Postlewaite and crew brought a taste of the mid-south to Austin, playing a set of vintage material from their first album, 2002's Our Land Brains, with a smattering of songs from 2006's Oxytocin and a few new numbers. It wasn't quite the musical-chairs extravaganza that the old HiTone shows used to be, but it was still a blast from Memphis' past.







Fuck Buttons [Prague; 10 p.m.]


When Fuck Buttons played the Pitchfork/Windish party earlier in the day, I foolishly left my earplugs at the merch table. When I caught their set at Prague later that night, there was no chance I'd make the same mistake. Having witnessed the event twice, I know I didn't miss anything by blocking out a few decibels; their aural assault is really something to behold, and it requires more than just one's ears, anyway.



Andrew Hung and Benjamin John Power began the set of tunes from their new LP Street Horrrsing with a wave of electronic tones, banging their heads in unison and fidgeting around with their Frankenstein's lab of equipment. Hoodie-clad Hung stepped out into the crowd for a song, half dancing half contorting his body to the rhythms that made their way through the din of blips, beeps and shrieks from their computers.







Mae Shi [Flamingo Cantina; 1 a.m.]

Admittedly it's not an official source, but someone in the crowd at the Flamingo Cantina told me the Mae Shi were playing 18 gigs this week in Austin. Later in the show, someone in front of me turned to his friend and said, shaking his head in disbelief, "the hardest working band in show business!" He was of course referring to last year's New York Times piece on SXSW, which bestowed that laurel on Black Lips, due to their hectic schedule of a comparatively fewer 12 shows. So, make of that disparity what you will, but assuming that by this point the Mae Shi had performed roughly half of their shows, these guys were in pretty impeccable form.



To wit, their singing shouting voices didn't sound at all dampened by 10-odd performances; their energy on stage was impressive just given the time of night, not only their backbreaking week's schedule. One guitarist worked the crowd, hunching over the front of the stage, singing straight into faces; a few minutes later he tossed a huge white canopy over the audience's heads, and hopped underneath, performing half of a song in what sort of looked like a budget big tent revival. Their relentless noise was enough to make the band a few converts last night-- and if there weren't as many as they wanted, they'll apparently have a few other opportunities before the week is up.

SXSW: Friday [Matthew Solarski]

Inca Ore / Grouper [Habana Annex; 7:30 p.m.]


Two Portland ladies with a thing for loop pedals and music that flirts with the outer limits, Inca Ore and Grouper split this early Acuarela Records showcase spot with two brief but mesmerizing individual sets. Inca Ore manipulated voice and violin to craft cold, alien lullabies, evoking the most stark and forbidden corners of the night. Grouper, meanwhile, carved a new Mariana Trench with low-end reverberations on her guitar, and then proceeded to drown her mournful songs in it. Neither said much of anything; each did her thing, and that was that. While I'm certainly on board, I couldn't help but think how much more amazing these performances would have sounded at four in the morning. Or, like, on the moon.

Sera Cahoone [Bourbon Rocks; 9 p.m.]


Grand Archives [Bourbon Rocks; 10 p.m.]




Sera Cahoone and Grand Archives share a label-- Sub Pop-- and a lineage, as both descended from quintessential Seattle sadcore act Carissa's Wierd. Cahoone performed first, with a four-piece backing band and a bunch of tunes from Only as the Day Is Long, due out next week. She's got the slowburn country thing down pat, such that it comes as a bit of a surprise to find that Only is only the singer-songwriter's second album. Her songs could stand to be a bit more distinct-- in a blind taste test (hear test?), I'm not sure I could tell a Sera Cahoone song from a Jennifer O'Connor song from a Laura Cantrell song from an Eleni Mandell song-- but at least she's standing on a rock solid foundation.

"This South by Southwest is something else, huh?" offered Grand Archives' Mat Brooke mid-way through his band's post-Cahoone set, and I couldn't quite tell if he was being ironic or was truly awed by the nightly bacchanalia just outside on 6th Street. There's no questioning the earnestness of Grand Archives' songs, however, which sounded pretty fantastic here. With four of these five boys sharing singing (and, apparently, songwriting) duties, there's no room for a detached-looking rhythm section or bored third keyboardist. Everyone here seems invested in Grand Archives, and it's fairly exciting to watch people who seem fairly excited about what they're doing, especially if they're doing it well.

I must admit I was thankful they spared us the overcooked "The Crime Window" and instead capped the set with a "Southern Glass House" rendition bifurcated by a medley of covers-- including the Bee Gees' "I Started a Joke" and Gordon Lightfoot's "Sundown"-- on which the harmonizing was nothing less than glorious.

She & Him [The Parish; 12 a.m.]






Certainly one of the fest's hottest tickets, She & Him's Parish appearance commanded a SXSW badge-holder queue that stretched on for a block, one in which I waited for the better part of an hour to gain admittance (sorry, Shout Out Louds, I tried!). Understandable, really: M. Ward, the "Him" half, would be a pretty huge draw by himself, and toss in the novelty of seeing actress Zooey Deschanel in the flesh and just a few feet away [/starstruck] and you've got yourself a capital E Event.

Volume One, She & Him's debut, is an interesting artifact; while only two of the songs are covers, pretty much every track on it sounds like something you'll swear you've heard before. That may be a testament to Deschanel's skill with classicist songwriting, or that may be a testament to one of the chief talents of any actor: imitation. Perhaps both. Either way, those songs still felt eerily familiar when Deschanel and Ward played them at Parish, joined by a three-piece backing band that included Bright Eyes/the Good Life bassist Stefanie Drootin. Zooey mostly sang and tapped tambourine, though she also played a mean Rhodes (as on "Sentimental Heart") and even did the kazoo thing with her mouth on "This Is Not a Test".

Deschanel, as it turns out, is an extremely capable performer, though perhaps not (yet) a comfortable one. I had a difficult time getting an emotional read on her here; she seemed to hover between vague bemusement ("I like those lamps," she remarked at one point, gesturing toward some illuminated spheres in the club) and mild annoyance. (Ward, meanwhile, was strictly wingman, ceding the spotlight the whole while to She.) Until the novelty factor wears off and folks' attentions shift from Deschanel to Deschanel's songs, however, a degree of awkward disconnect will probably remain a given at She & Him live shows. Hopefully this happens sooner rather than later; each live show is, after all, a one-take affair.

Additional Photos:

...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead [La Zona Rosa; 4 p.m.]




Pissed Jeans [Bourbon Rocks Patio; 9:30 p.m.]


Destroyer [The Parish; 1 a.m.]

SXSW: Friday [Dave Maher]

Matt Walsh and Matt Besser [Esther's Follies; 9:30 p.m.]

Upright Citizens Brigade member Matt Walsh took the stage under the auspices of doing a stand-up act Friday night, but what we got was much more entertaining. Right away, a heckler, who turned out to be UCB partner-in-crime Matt Besser, interrupted his act. It was immediately obvious that Besser was a plant, if only because the pair's chemistry was too good. At least a couple of actual hecklers in the audience refused to get the joke and were for some reason upset that Besser interrupted Walsh's set, but for the rest of us, the derailed act was plenty entertaining.

Human Giant [Esther's Follies; 9:30 p.m.]


Speaking of derailing, Human Giant's set started with a T-Shirt Squad bit which turned into a robbery which turned into a self-sabotaging stick-up which turned into a police sting. And that was just the first half. Rob Huebel and Aziz Ansari were without Paul Scheer for the night, but that didn't keep them from following the T-Shirt Squad segment with an Illusionators appearance, which peaked when a card trick resulted in Huebel delivering an audience member's baby. Explaining these bits in hindsight is hard to do because of just how absurd they are, but it's the willingness to embrace such absurdity that makes Human Giant so much fun.

Be Your Own Pet [Mohawk Patio; 11 p.m.]

Be Your Own Pet played about three songs before their mics went dead and they were forced to leave the stage. It turns out the Mohawk's generator actually ran out of gas during their set, and before the four of them left the stage, Jemina Pearl used the occasion to lecture on the merits of the movie Polyester ("It's like middle period John Waters.") Despite the derailing (sensing a theme here?), the band eventually came back playing twice as fast as before. When they play, every member of the band is totally essential and locked-in, but drummer John Eatherly-- who turns their fury into a pummeling attack-- is their secret weapon. After spending so much of my week at SXSW seeing total pros (R.E.M., Robyn), the sheer balls on display at a Be Your Own Pet show-- as evidenced by a lyric like "we've been to every place everywhere in the world"-- is refreshing. I could go on about how wild, intense, and fun this band is live, but suffice it to say: if you get the chance, please see them yourself.

Fleet Foxes [Bourbon Rocks; 12 a.m.]

The key to Fleet Foxes' live show is their ability to perfectly execute the interlocking harmonies from their records. Balancing vocals from four guys is no mean feat, but Fleet Foxes do it like it's as easy as brushing their teeth. Frontman Robin Pecknold's scattered stage banter revealed his self-consciousness about being a participant in SXSW, but if the purpose of the festival is to reveal emerging talents to a waiting public, the band was in the right place.

Constantines [Antone's; 1 a.m.]

Constantines put on one of the best shows I've ever seen about five years ago, so my hopes were high for their 1 a.m. set at Antone's. Memory has a way of obscuring and romanticizing things, though, so of course I found the show lacking by comparison. Bryan Webb's voice is as affectingly gravelly as it has ever been, it's just that the band themselves move a little less than they used to. Their show used to be feverish and urgent, where now it's tense without being unhinged. What happened is Constantines grew up, just like everyone else. They make grown man records like Tournament of Hearts now. Fortunately, the band still drew from its early days for Friday night's setlist. But even if they hadn't, it's hard not to love a band that introduces a majority of its rough-edged rock tunes as love songs.

SXSW: Thursday [Amy Phillips]

Shout Out Louds [Team Clermont/Under the Radar party; Flamingo Cantina; 5:00 pm]

The Shout Out Louds are one of the hardest-working bands at SXSW, playing countless day parties and showcases. So I expected this early evening set at a college radio party (taking place at a bar painted with murals of flamingos, no less) would be kinda blah, a tossed-off gig that wouldn't be very enjoyable for band or audience alike.

Instead, I was pleasantly surprised by a top notch professional performance. The dapper Swedes of the Shout Out Louds were full of energy, sweeping through gems like "Tonight I Have to Leave It" and "Impossible" like they were playing a sold out headlining show at the Bowery Ballroom.

I honestly don't understand why the Shout Out Louds aren't more popular. They are impossibly good looking, are signed to a big label (Merge), and write songs with mile-wide hooks that make for delicious earworms. Why haven't major sports teams adopted "The Comeback" for rally time? Why isn't "Tonight I Have to Leave It" in, like, every romantic comedy movie farewell scene?

Tribute to Lou Reed [The Fader Fort; 6:00-8:00 p.m.]

For some reason, the Fader Fort decided to stage an elaborate Lou Reed tribute concert right in the middle of the day, in between sets from Saul Williams and N.E.R.D. Why? Because he was the SXSW keynote speaker? Because Lou Reed is awesome and always worth paying tribute to? Because Lou Reed only wanted to be celebrated in front of people who RSVPed to an invite-only private party, rather than the general public? I have no idea.

Lou Reed (taking a picture of Yo La Tengo)

As is the case with pretty much any tribute concert or compilation album, there was much separating the wheat from the chaff. We sat patiently through mercifully brief two-song sets from Oh No! Oh My!, Joseph Arthur, Dr. Dog, and Ezra Furman and the Harpoons in order to get to the good stuff. And there was quite a lot of good stuff.

Yo La Tengo

Yo La Tengo tackled "She's My Best Friend" (with James McNew handling lead vocals) and "I Heard Her Call My Name (with Ira Kaplan on lead vocals and searing guitar solo), as Lou himself stood off to the side snapping photos.

Mark Kozelek

Poor Mark Kozelek, alone with an acoustic guitar, battled a crowd more interested in drinking nuclear bright blue Southern Comfort concoctions than listening to his lovely takes on "Stephanie Says" and "The Kids".

My Morning Jacket

My Morning Jacket blazed through "Head Held High".

Thurston Moore and the New Wave Bandits

Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore, accompanied by a band that included Samara Lubelski and Sonic Youth drummer Steve Shelley, absolutely murdered (in the best possible way) the rarity "I'm Not a Young Man Anymore". Moore channeled Iggy Pop, crawling and rolling around the stage, diving into the crowd, seething with punk energy. It was the wildest performance I've ever seen him give. It was the ultimate fuck you to people who think rock'n'roll is strictly a young person's game.

Moby and Laura Dawn

Moby closed the show. First, he played a note-perfect cover of "Femme Fatale", featuring vocals by singer Laura Dawn, who did such an accurate Nico impression, folks around me kept asking each other if the infamous German chanteuse was really dead.

Moby and Lou Reed

Then, Moby had the honor of sharing the stage with the man of the hour himself. And you would never guess what they played! (Kidding.) "Walk on the Wild Side", OMG! Their version was actually quite lovely, a subdued take featuring only lightly strummed guitar and vocals, with drums coming in at the end to add heft. Sure, it was weird watching Lou Reed trade verses and guitar licks with Moby, but you know what? The little guy held his own.

The tribute ended in the most appropriate way possible, with Lou Reed stroking his own giant ego. His arms raised in the air like a victorious prizefighter, Reed barked, "I love punk rock! And I was the first one!"

Bellafea [12 a.m.; Habana Calle 6]

North Carolina punk band Bellafea are most likely best experienced in their natural habitat: the grimy basement of a squat in an abandoned loft, or some such DIY space. They are most definitely not best experienced in the immaculately clean lower level of an expensive Cuban restaurant, on a stage festooned with lights and greenery. The awkwardness of the setting sapped a bit of momentum from the trio's old school emo/math rock interplay, and frontwoman Heather McEntire's bottomless howls were a bit muffled compared to the explosiveness of their excellent debut album, Cavalcade. Nonetheless, for people who just can't stop craving the sound of early Rainer Maria (c'mon, it can't just be me and Matthew Solarski, right?), I can't recommend Bellafea enough.

The Wombats [1 a.m.; Maggie Mae's Rooftop]

The charmingly nerdy boys of Liverpool's the Wombats are big stars in England, but here in America, I usually can't bring them up without getting mocked. First of all, they call themselves the Wombats, and even have a stuffed toy wombat they carry on tour with them. Second, they sound like a less macho, more indie influenced Weezer. (Yes, it is possible for a less macho Weezer to exist.) Third, their singer/guitarist has a receding hairline and bald spot which he tries to hide with floppy, curly hair.

Since I am a complete and total cheeseball, I love this band. Their pop-punk ditties sparkled and popped live, played with sugar high intensity and utmost professionalism. I totally want to go to the mall with these guys.

Justice [3 a.m.; Playboy party]

Photo by Beth Martinez

If you ever get the chance to see Moby and/or Justice DJ at a warehouse party, do it. Seriously. Even if said warehouse party is being thrown by Playboy, and there are Playboy Bunnies there, and the place is crawling with the kind of guys who hang around Playboy Bunnies. It's worth it, I'm telling you.

Think what you will about Moby, but dude knows how to rock a dancefloor. I don't know how he managed to make stuff like Basement Jaxx's "Where's Your Head At" and Guns n' Roses' "Paradise City" sound fresh and exciting, but he did. Maybe I was just delirious with exhaustion?

As for Justice, they stood there smoking cigarettes, looking impossibly hip, spinning the hits. Just being in the same room as those guys made me feel like a sleek, sexy VIP who was totally used to hanging out with Playboy Bunnies, whatever, no big deal. And hey, isn't that what the transformative power of live music is all about? Making you feel really, really cool?

SXSW: Thursday [Matthew Solarski]

Thurston Moore Interviews Steve Reich [Austin Convention Center; 1:15 p.m.]





On paper this pairing makes sense; both NYC innovators, Steve Reich and Thurston Moore have also each earned a reputation as everyman figures of sorts, refreshing contrasts to the negative stereotypes that plague their fields: Reich as a no-nonsense, pragmatic journeyman unafraid to stare down the serialists and Schoenberg acolytes and their dominion over academic composition, and Moore as the perennial man-child, curious spirit, and constant innovator amid an indie scene that's too often insular, stubborn, and self-satisfied.

On a stage in a windowless room on a Thursday afternoon, things were, understandably, perhaps a bit stiff. Moore resorted to book-reportage at times (prattling off various facts about Reich from his little black notebook), and there were moments when he seemingly forgot who he was talking to. One such exchange, during a discussion of language, had Moore offhandedly mentioning "Italian prog-rock in the 70s, you know?" and Reich making an amused befuddled gesture toward the audience.

But as Moore loosened up some (Reich, meanwhile, was plainspoken and good-humored throughout), we learned much. There was talk of Reich's inspirations: the poet William Carlos Williams, the great John Coltrane, the jazz drummer Kenny Clarke. Clarke, enthused Reich, inspired the composer not with technical virtuosity but with the "quality" of his playing. "It was as if the whole band was floating on his cymbal."

Reich also marveled over African music and its emphasis on rhythmic complexity, in contrast to the chiefly harmonic concerns of the West, and opined that improvisational playing may not have the meaningful potential it once did (in the Baroque era, say) due to a lack of common practice nowadays.

Plenty of fun trivia too: Four of the organs Reich used to compose and tour the 1970 piece Four Organs now reside in Sonic Youth's studio; Reich rejiggered his mono headphones into stereo headphones before such things existed by plugging each channel into a separate source (Thurston seemed particularly geeked out about this); Reich likes Sonic Youth and specifically Daydream Nation for towing a line between the feedback's improvisational looseness and the structured elements of conventional songwriting.

The most endearing moment by far, however, occurred an hour into the interview when Moore decided to open the floor for Q&A, then promptly interrupted himself by saying "Oh wait, actually I had a question!"

The Brother Kite [Habana Calle 6; 8 p.m.]



With mainstream acts one will explicitly talk about things like marketability-- how easy it is to "sell" the artist in question to an audience-- and the notion certainly applies to the indies just as well. But it even extends in a sense to the level of day-to-day discourse on music. Simply put, some bands are just easier to talk up than others.

I know I like this band, the Brother Kite; I'm impressed with the spirit they put into their performance and amused by how none of them really look like people who would be in a rock band, much less wielding a double neck guitar, as the lead vocalist did here. But I'm sorta at a loss for talking points. They hail from Providence, but they certainly aren't some noise crazies (marketable!) or art-school agitators (marketable!). They draw from elements of each, but don't strictly adhere to either shoegaze (marketable!) or dream pop (marketable!). Their name is kinda silly and weird, but not silly or weird enough.

If somebody happened into this gig (perhaps en route to Habana Calle 6 Patio, which lies just beyond this space), I doubt they'd have much noticed what was happening onstage. Or they may have been thrown off by the hoarse vocals (an unfortunate result of the singer's present fight with the flu). Yet I imagine those to whom this band has endeared itself-- and there was a small but super-enthused gathering of such people here-- went home with plenty to talk about.

Secret Shine [Habana Calle 6; 9 p.m.]





Hey, it's a Sarah Records band at SXSW! Bristol's Secret Shine shared five releases via the quintessential twee imprint in the early 1990s before calling it a day some 10 years ago. Recently reactivated, the quintet has a new full-length (All of the Stars) on the way that sounds not the least bit unlike the unabashed shoegaze they were serving up a decade prior. Not surprisingly, then, Secret Shine were equally at ease showcasing the promising new material and treating the small but eager crowd to a few classics. With the glut of ramshackle, idiosyncrasy-flaunting indie acts popping up all over the damn place, I must admit I find this sort of polished, expansive headspace music refreshing.

Sissy Wish [Wave; 10 p.m.]



It wouldn't be SXSW without a few disasters, and last night, the South-by Specter of Indiscriminate and Unexplained Equipment Failure decided to visit upon poor Sissy Wish of Norway. She and her bandmate looked positively Sissy pissed after struggling for 30 minutes to get one (apparently crucial) gadget working. Failing that-- and with their set time now drastically truncated-- the pair managed to squeak in four songs. Only the relatively pared-down "Milk", however, sounded right, and unfortunately that had to compete with the exasperated admonishments of Scroobius Pip streaming down from upstairs (Wave, it should be noted, should not attempt to host two simultaneous showcases in the future).

Props to Sissy Wish though for her attempts to rile up the crowd by yelling all of her banter-- at one point inviting us to "get naked and drink beer later"-- and for the little conniption fit/shriek-out that capped off the performance, no doubt a release for a whole flaming heap of understandable frustration.

Retribution Gospel Choir [Central Presbyterian Church; 11 p.m.]







Side project is such a dirty word. Okay, two dirty words: Side, suggesting something peripheral to the middle or main or core, and project, evoking a dalliance or something less serious and established than band or group or whatever it exists in relation to. Implicit in all this is inferiority, which in the case of the Alan Sparhawk-led Retribution Gospel Choir, couldn't be more untrue.

Indeed, the best of RGC's songs (showcased on this year's self-titled debut) are on par with Low's recent best (nevermind that several RGC tunes are also Low tunes), and the trio sounded tight and ferocious playing them in these appropriate church confines. To top it all off, Sparhawk sported some shaggy curls, perfectly suited to the rocking out that ensued.

Mark Kozelek [Central Presbyterian Church; 12 a.m.]

Were we granted the opportunity to witness one of the old master painters at work, I suspect there wouldn't be anything overtly masterful going on to our untrained eyes. So it was with Mark Kozelek, a Rembrandt of folky confessionals, whose simplified (but not simplistic) lyrics and songwriting belie a preternatural talent for evocation and the conveyance of unbridled feeling. I am nothing less than awestruck at the grace with which Kozelek plays; listening closely, I swear I often heard a ghost cello sighing amid the finger-picking. As a borderline obsessive fan of the earliest Red House Painters material, I was a mite disappointed none of that made it into the set, but that's a personal qualm and one which I will by no means hold against Mr. Kozelek.

Additional Photos:

My Brightest Diamond [Volume; 12 p.m.]



J. Tillmann [Habana Calle 6 Patio; 1:15 a.m.]

SXSW: Thursday [Paul Thompson]

No Age [Mohawk Outside Stage; 1:30 p.m.]

"Beer is back there," No Age drummer/vocalist Dean Spunt pointed out at the Rhapsody Rocks Austin day party at Mohawk's outdoor stage, a finger towards the back of the crowd. "Pour it on your genitals when you get a chance." Welcome, friends, to a No Age show: Plenty of the swelling, sweltering noise-punk they do so well, sure, but with a little bit of Deano's deadpan and Randy Randall's off-the-cuff goofiness to break up some of the tension they themselves build in a crowd. "We're happy to be here at Rap City," guitarist Randy Randall quipped in a pun worthy of Pitchfork news. "I didn't know rap was still this popular, but I'm glad it's got a whole city devoted to it, and we are the mayors." Then they dedicated their next tune to Disney Channel/Randy's pedal star Hannah Montana. Funny guys.



On the serious, though, the things that people tell you about No Age being all transcendent and stuff live are far from exaggerated. The pair thrashed about admirably and worked every inch of the tiny stage including, as pictured, the top of a mighty tall speaker cabinet, squeezing (as they always do) every drop from every song. The Weirdo Rippers stuff sounds great, of course-- opener "Every Artist Needs a Tragedy", in particular, ripped weirdly in the early afternoon sun-- and the new ones, the ones from the forthcoming Nouns? Particularly "Eraser"? Maybe even better. "We're gonna play one more song," Spunt told us after being given the warning from the party brass, all the while holding up two fingers and shaking his head. They played two more.

Be Your Own Pet [Cedar Street Courtyard; 4 p.m.]



Everything was going great-- really great-- at Be Your Own Pet's mid-afternoon set at the Cedar Street Courtyard until bassist Nathan Vasquez's finger fell off. Well, not all of it: just, um, most of it. (That's it, that beige thing next to his heel. Yup. Gross. Sorry.)



Four seconds later, blood splattered all over the pickups, everything was going great again. Really great. "Nathan goes through basses like people with gonorrhea go through underwear," frontlady Jemina Pearl Abegg assured us. Then they tore into another one. No Band Aid required.



I'd never put a whole lot of effort into getting down on BYOP's records (no real reason for it, honest, beyond there being just a lotta damn bands around), but I know for certain that'll change after witnessing this perversely spirited session. This band is tight, funny, brash, weird; they go off like a cannon every time the beat drops, and-- to belabor an old point-- they're still just a bunch of kids. They weather things like busted hands and a lack of a setlist and what looked to be a four-person hangover ("I'm tired, I started drinking at 12 o'clock", Jemina mentioned at one point) by the sheer force of their deceptively dopey songs and, perhaps, their youthful exuberance or whatever. Blasting through quite a bit of their self-titled LP and the upcoming Get Awkward, stopping only to crack wise, they play like they're not planning on using those muscles again any time soon.

"Do you guys like Soulja Boy Tellem?", Jemina asked at a certain point to a decidedly lukewarm response from everyone but your reporter. "Well, do you or don't you? 'Cuz this is a cover of 'Crank Dat'." It wasn't, though if anyone could've pulled off such a stunt, I suspect it might've been them. "If this is your first Pet experience," guitarist Jonas Stein told us near the end of the set, "we're playing the Ecstatic Peace showcase tomorrow night." Jemina quickly "but only if it's your first. We don't want any sluts there." See you later, then.

Soiled Mattress & the Springs [Habana Annex Backyard; 9:20 p.m.]



One part Fred Wesley and the JBs, one part Boots Randolph and his Yakety Sax, and a whole lot of "Baker Street", New York ironic lounge-prog-jazz trio Soiled Mattress & the Strings were just about the weirdest thing going at their particular timeslot, which more than likely explains why the assembled crowd numbered around 40 (mostly from the other bands playing that evening). The band's style is largely their own, but as we've all learned, being unique is only part of the equation. Peter Schuette's occasionally showy, proggy synths don't always fit in with the reedy sax and the sound of the funky drummer quite like they should, but even in this silly mish-mash, these guys are certainly doing their own thing with melody, however skewed. Whenever they hit on a swanky little line, they mess it up a few seconds later, like an endless replay of that moment just as Coltrane breaks out of the "My Favorite Things" theme into umpteen minutes of improv. It's an endearing strangeness, for sure, and saxman Matthew Thurber sure does bring it to the stage and, when so moved, the area immediately in front of said stage. And I could swear one of their songs quotes the main riff from Shanice's breezy early 90s R&B-pop hit "I Like Your Smile", which is amazing whether it's intended or not. But apart from the nifty "Tidal Wave" (which you should track down, pronto), there's a sense these guys are making music more for themselves than for their 40 fans. There's something to be said for that, I think.

Mike Rep [Soho Lounge; 10:40 p.m.]



I stepped up the stairs and into the Siltbreeze showcase at the unusually posh Soho Lounge to the strains of a familiar sounding organ blast rumbling under a gloriously bent take on the Archies' "Sugar Sugar", and, hey, there were Times New Viking, several hours before they were to perform for their old label and spiritual brethren. But the dude standing at the front of the room was, to me, an unfamiliar face, and it took tracking down a real live Ohioan to clue me in on just who I was in the presence of. Mike Rep is an Ohio lo-fi legend, if this list of credits and the decades' worth of back catalog he kept alluding to have any bearing on the matter, and I'm told he "always plays around Columbus." Lucky Arch City folks. Rep deals in the same kind of big riffy pomo pop of Guided by Voices and his backing band for the evening, and though I'd not heard of the man before stumbling upon his rocking the hell out, it was clear his collaborators and much of his crowd were intimately familiar. "I've never played with a better bunch," he said of TNV, grinning ear to ear. They seemed positively touched by the comment, and judging by the adoration Rep inspired in the crowd, that's as it should be.



Psychedelic Horseshit [Soho Lounge; 11:20 p.m.]



The Siltbreeze m.o. can be summed up like so: instead of a bass drum, Rich Johnston helped the soundguy mic a cardboard box which he then held in place with a cinder block. See:



Upon taking the stage to set up his keyboard (missing a few keys towards the high end, natch), frontman Matt Whitehurst pulled a balled-up piece of paper out of his pocket and laid it on the rinky-dink Casio. Obviously, it was their setlist. Siltbreeze bands' gear is more junked up than the next dreck-pop label, their sound exponentially nastier sounding, but if you were to give 'em money for upgrades, they'd probably just spend it on weed or something and make do with their junk. As both a sound and a vision, it works.



Psychedelic Horseshit take their cues from those real early Pavement singles (who, I guess I'll be the millionth to mention, owe a debt to Wire and the Fall). PH, however, are somehow far snottier and still somehow more coherent than anything pre-Slanted. They're not so much catchy as they are enjoyably heady, with plenty of moments where a fist-pump or a huge guffaw would be apt. There's a sense that they might stop the show to make fun of you just 'cuz, though they saved that for a few more nefarious targets. "This song used to be about Deerhunter," Whitehurst said in introduction of Magic Flowers Droned's "New Wave Hippies", "but now it's about Yeasayer", and they changed a few of the lyrics to take a bit of the piss out of the hairy Brooklyn set. No longwinded jam-freaks, these guys, despite the first part of their name: Their set was over in 20 minutes, and that's a pretty generous estimate. From where I was standing, they could've gone on all night, but one suspects any longer and they would've grown bored.

High on Fire [Emo's Annex; 1 a.m.]



One has to find ways to stay moving down here in Austin when you're out show-going and BBQ-chewing and Lone Star-swilling for 12-plus hours a day (to say nothing of the poor suckers who have to wake up early and write about all the stuff they saw the day before then go out and do it again). Some opt for energy beverages, others sheer willpower, others get drunk and just go for it. Me, I'm starting to think metal shows are the answer. Have you ever actually thought, "crap, this incredible display of proficiency and ballast going on in front of my brain is putting me right to sleep?" Genghis Tron doesn't count.



High on Fire took the stage at Emo's Annex just a bit before 1:00 a.m. last night and proceeded to kick my ass in ways I, on four hours of sleep, never thought possible. Frontman/guitar god Matt Pike is as much the physical embodiment of rock'n'roll as Keith Moon or Lemmy Kilmeister or Mike Rep. I couldn't tell you what they played (I was inches from the right speakers, rendering anything but pure kaboom indecipherable) or put into words just why High on Fire's set was as good as any I saw on an otherwise very, very good day-- and the metalheads tossing up devil horns at Mr. Pike and crew seemed with me on that point. I missed Motörhead and Napalm Death earlier in the afternoon due to some technical difficulties, but I did stand five feet away while Matt Pike barnstormed the neck of his guitar, and I suspect in 10 years those two things will mean about the same thing.

SXSW: Thursday [Matt LeMay]

[Photos by Christine Tadler]

R.E.M. ["Austin City Limits" taping]

By 3:15 p.m., people were lined up all through UT's communications center to see R.E.M. tape the first episode of Austin City Limits' 34th season. I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get in, let alone get a good spot, but after running up three flights of stairs and foregoing free beer (free beer vs. free R.E.M.: priorities, people), I managed to find a spot about 10 feet from the stage, in the second standing row.

There are very few bands that mean so much to me as to entirely override my critical faculties, but R.E.M. is one of them, if not the band. R.E.M. was my very first favorite band, and seeing them perform in a small room (with enormous TV cameras) was amazing. They played a balanced set of new material (from their forthcoming album Accelerate) and older songs including "Losing My Religion", "So. Central Rain", "Fall on Me", "Man on the Moon", and "Drive". Aside from the excellent song choices, I was struck by how comfortable and at ease the band seemed; thanks to the magic of editing, there was no need for them to plow through their songs or stay "on" during the whole taping.

Some thoughts on seeing R.E.M. up-close: Michael Stipe is still a presence to be reckoned with, and I can't imagine him ever being otherwise. He was gracious, strange, simultaneously self-aggrandizing and self-effacing, and constantly engaging with the audience. His voice only seems to have improved with age, too; the chorus of "Fall on Me" has grown from a subtle and insistent lift to full-on ascendant catharsis. Seeing "Losing My Religion" performed, it occurred to me first how incredible it is that such a song could become a full-on mega-smash, and second how much of the song's excellence really belongs to Mike Mills, whose bass part alternately emphasizes Stipe's vocals, Peter Buck's mandolin, and the shape of the song itself. R.E.M. on "Austin City Limits" will be broadcast by PBS on May 24.

So Many Dynamos [Jovita's; 4:30 p.m.]

The one downside to seeing R.E.M. is that I missed the always-excellent So Many Dynamos, who were playing at Jovita's across town. My friends who were at the show came back with glowing reports, and excited chatter about songs from the band's forthcoming, Chris Walla-produced record. Very few bands manage to put on a spazzy, high-energy live show and still have great songs (think Brainiac and the Dismemberment Plan), and So Many Dynamos are one of them. Here's hoping I don't miss then next time around.

Yo La Tengo [Austin Music Hall; 9:30 p.m.]

I've seen Yo La Tengo a good number of times, and their shows are fairly inconsistent. The band always plays well, but they sometimes play a batch of songs that just seems ill-suited to the event. This time, they just played the fucking hits, including "Cherry Chapstick", "Autumn Sweater", and "Tom Courtenay" (which, I have decided, has the best opening of any Yo La Tengo song, if not of any indie rock album period). Maybe the strict time constraints of a high-profile SXSW show were actually good for Yo La Tengo; aside from an awesome, 15-or-so-minute version of "The Story of Yo La Tengo", the band's set was concise and action-packed.

The English Beat ["Smokin' Music"; 11:45 p.m.]

After Yo La, we headed over to B.D. Riley's to see Canada's sorely underrated Simply Saucer, only to find that they were nowhere on the bill. So, we went and saw the fucking English Beat, at a fake venue sponsored by a cigarette copany. And it was pretty awesome. Only at SXSW...

Additional Photos:

Destroyer [Volume; 2 p.m.]

6th Street, 11 p.m.

SXSW: Thursday [Tyler Grisham]

Motörhead notwithstanding, the place to be on Thursday afternoon in Austin was the Parish club. NPR stations from around the country, including KEXP Seattle and KUT Austin, hosted one of the most well-curated day parties of the entire week. With a line of eager concertgoers stretching around the block more than an hour before the show began, only a lucky few of us made it past the door and up the stairs into what was doubling as a monstrous broadcasting station.

Each of five public radio stations had their DJs stationed by the bar, scrambling to interview acts as they left the stage and pumping the entire show around the world via the magic of internet radio. And then they went and saved all the shows (plus R.E.M., Yo La Tengo, and My Morning Jacket gigs) at NPR's web music hub! So now you can go listen for yourself and let me know if I got any song titles wrong.

Jens Lekman [Parish; 1:15 p.m.]

Swedish heartthrob Jens Lekman stole the show early on, with a lighthearted group of songs mostly from last year's excellent Night Falls Over Kortedala. He began the set by introducing his hometown, the album's namesake, as a labyrinthine suburb it's easy to get lost in-- and a lot harder to get out of. Fortunately, as he told the crowd, he found his way out of the Gothen-burb, and the rest is history. The Parish songs included last year's "Opposite of Hallelujah" and "Shirin", which, he explained to some laughter, was written in honor of his old hairstylist.







Yeasayer [Parish; 2:30 p.m.]

For such a drastic change of pace, Brooklyn prog-pop outfit Yeasayer was nonetheless an instant crowdpleaser, as they managed to translate the shouted, soaring vocals of last year's All Hour Cymbals into a live setting. It worked pretty spectacularly, and they even had the crowd singing along to the apocalyptic single "2080".







Bon Iver [Parish; 3:15 p.m.]

Bon Iver's Justin Vernon, an unassuming, genial guy in a beard and flannels, somehow managed to match the sonic assaults of the previous acts with his relatively restrained, cryptic tunes. Joined only by a young guitarist (which may or may not have been his little brother, who has played the occasional show with Justin) and a drummer, Vernon switched back and forth from a collection of at least five guitars, two of which looked to be half a century old. His soaring falsettos filled the Parish's spacious room and begged the question, "How long can a grown man continue to tour on such throat-singeing performances?" Whatever, he managed it, and had the crowd shouting back "What might have been lost", louder and louder each time, on "The Wolves".





Vampire Weekend [Parish; 4 p.m.]

It's a good bet the most anticipated act of Thursday afternoon-- if not SXSW altogether-- would be Brooklyn's Vampire Weekend. The sweater-clad Columbia grads certainly have their denigrators, but none of them were to be found at the Parish. Instead, the Ivy League foursome were greeted by a crowd who sang along to almost every line of every song, to the apparent surprise of the band. At some points (like the "Hey hey hey hey!" of "A-Punk") the crowd's shouting actually drowned out the music from the stage, which was as tight and airy as Vampire Weekend's brilliant debut album.



Frontman Ezra Koening was jovial with the Austin crowd, giving a shout out to everyone from College Station, Texas, (a few hollers from the back of the room) explaining, "I've got people there," and dedicating "Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa" to the state of Texas, which, according to Ezra today, the song was written about. Right.







Bodies of Water [Mohawk Patio; 9 p.m.]

Clubs in Austin have developed creative ways to get around the city's smoking ban, the most popular solution being multi-level venues with patios, balconies, lounges, and outdoor bars. Aside from Emo's, the place that does it best is the Mohawk. Their patio stage boasts an impressive sound system, perfect for the sonics of Los Angeles collective Bodies of Water.



Meredith Metcalf, decked out in her trademark black leotard, led the group in a selection of tracks from their forthcoming album, A Certain Feeling. The record was just finished and won't hit stores for another couple of months, but the Bodies gave a taste of the new Water to the Mohawk's crowd, and for those who enjoyed last year's Ears Will Pop and Eyes Will Blink, the new sound won't disappoint. Their website claims that while Ears Will Pop was "aggressive," the new one is a bit "more passive-agressive." Not sure what that means sonically, but it sounded as boisterous and infectiously catchy as their terrific debut.









Man Man [Cedar St. Courtyard; 10 p.m.]

There's a game they like to play at SXSW in the Cedar St. Courtyard-- which is basically an atrium tucked between a couple of restaurants on 4th Street-- the basic object of which is to try to cram as many sweaty, cranky music fans into one tight space as possible, and the more photographers attempting to squirm their way to the front, the better. But as soon as Man Man took the stage, all the ill will evaporated and the crowd was focused intently on a set of new tunes from the forthcoming album Rabbit Habits.







High Places [Habana Annex Backyard; 10:40 p.m.]

High Places, the Brooklyn duo of Mary Pearson and Robert Barber, make some astoundingly pop-centered tunes out of a small assortment of samplers and drum machines. Judging by the sound of the record, you'd think there was at least a quartet behind the internationally flavored sound. But Pearson and Barber proved tonight that they don't need anyone else's help to cull clever pop songs from the strangest amalgam of catchy, dancy samples, and beats.









El Guincho [Red Eyed Fly; 1:00 a.m. 2:00 a.m.]

Barcelona's El Guincho is a one-man dance party. Not unlike Panda Bear's Noah Lennox in his stage show, Pablo Dias-Reixa's entire setup consisted of a slab of particleboard on a keyboard stand, a Roland sampler, a floor tom, a tambourine, some sleigh bells, and a mic.



From this modest gear, El Guincho recreated the oceans of sound from his excellent record, Alegranza, and whipped the capacity crowd, who had waited through an hour delay at the outdoor Red Eyed Fly, into a crazed mass of late-night dancers. For the duration of the set, Dias-Reixa kept time by pounding his floor tom and the tambourine set on the tabletop; at times he was hammering so hard that little bits of particleboard fell to the floor. But the effect was palpable; by the end of the show, the fans (including all the members of the Ruby Suns) had more or less coalesced into a mosh pit, shouting back and forth to El Guincho, himself looking as happy to be there as the crowd was.

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