South by Southwest 2000

Four nights. 142 clubs. Over 500 bands.

Two students flee midterms and head south to live

the rock 'n roll lifestyle, if just for a weekend.

The Lone Star State. Rock and roll girls. Indie rock boys. One hundred forty-two venues for live music. Free alcohol and BBQ. Some would call this heaven on earth. Others call it South by Southwest.

As if these motivations weren't enough to entice two college students to give the middle finger to academia the week of midterms, there are more: the chance to ditch the methadone-encouraging bullshit of Oberlin's snowy spring to drive through the deep South; the opportunity to kiss major rock star ass; and the potential to meet people who might actually give us jobs in the approaching days when the harsh realities of the employability of useless liberal arts degrees set in. Who could say no?

Man Scouts of America

Two thousand miles. Five states. One trusty Honda. Three dozen water towers ("Florence, Y'all" was Nate's favorite) and 23 hours and 14 minutes later, Ohio was a bitter memory. When we were pulling into humid Austin, Texas, you were studying for you neuroscience exam. Sucka.

Immediately after getting into town we realized that the cities of the wild west more than live up to their reputations. After ditching our stuff at a hotel and changing our clothes in said hotel's restroom, we followed our ears to the first show of the weekend at Austin's infamous Emo's. Picture the scene: two transplanted midwestern college geeks show their press badges and step into a dank bar in the middle of the Austin. The crowd is about every stereotype of "cool" known to modern human kind. The band is Man...or Astroman? The time is 3 o'clock on a Thursday afternoon. And half the record industry moguls are drunk, and will remain so for somewhere between the next 48 hours and the next 48 years.

Eager to immerse ourselves in the action, we shove past all the kids in tight pants to nod along to the seminal garage-rock-meets-Buck Rodgers stylings of Atlanta's most theatrical rockers. Blowing the minds of a bunch of impossible-to-impress music industry pros is not the easiest thing in the world for a band to do, but through the use of a junked and screaming thermion and laser-beam guitar effects, Man...or Astroman? was nothing short of enrapturing.

At the Drive-in

The thing about South by Southwest isn't so much the convention itself, but the conceptual history behind it. Sure, there are panels on such fascinating topics as how to use your Twinkie internet magazine to make you a million bucks and discussions with titles like "You'll be a Hit in Europe If..." but the real action is at the bars. Free music, lots of chickies in leopard prints, and a bunch of skinny boys who feel the need to wear Guns 'n Roses t-shirts the same size they wore the year Appetite For Destruction was released.

Embarrassingly enough, the best perks of South by Southwest lie in its corporate connections. One can feasibly eat for free three times in one hour, if you got your ear close enough to the ground to convince some dot-com fool that you're hip enough to get on his list. All you have to do is play the part, chat up your surrounding semi-circle of important people with, "Sure, Korn is great. Limp Bizkit? I love 'em," and stuff your face with tamales and margaritas, all funded by brainless mall kids across the country. Sure, some call this "selling out." We call it a rock 'n roll lifestyle. Call it sleazy, our people will call your people - if you're lucky.

The Icarus Line

It goes without saying that the worst gigs are booked for the early arrivals on Wednesday, so those in the know don't start rolling into town until the showcases kick off at 8 p.m. the next night. After schmoozing with the blokes from London alt-country band Wood at the Columbia Records dinner, we headed over to catch what was meant to be a mellow guitar-pop set from San Francisco's For Stars. After it sunk in that only one stranded member of the band was left to fend for himself, supported solely by a terribly out-of-tune guitar, we found little consolation in our king-sized Long Island iced teas and we took off to the Flamingo Cantina for the real deal.

The Icarus Line, the four-piece self-proclaimed evil sons of L.A.'s new school hardcore scene, who performed in super-skinny matching red neck ties, opened the evening at the Cantina. With the program disclaimer stating, "pregnant woman and people with heart ailments should avoid this ride," The Icarus Line had a lot to live up to, but the quartet started the night with a set of music that was about as in-your-face as possible.

Or so we thought. Coming next was possibly the most hyperactive indie band at the conference, El Paso's at the drive-in. Two huge white man Afros. A dozen pedals. Three broken strings - five minutes into the set. at the drive-in played the rock, their front man busting headstands while screaming, salty drips of sweat left and right into the thirsty crowd. (For the record, he has the same rock-and-roll belt buckle as Nate.)

Covered in their literal rock and roll juices, we left the Cantina to report to our hotel, whereupon while shoving Wheatables and processed cheese in our face some middle aged loser named Sean offered us crack. This is no joke. Even less of a joke was the fact that Seanny-boy ate all our damn food, and was never more than an arms length away from us for the rest of the weekend, not by choice.

After sleeping off the first of many hangovers, the duo parted ways. Lauren waited around to interview the creative genius behind No Doubt, Gwen Stefani; Nate went to the convention center to get free Miller Lite and massages from the Miller Lite bikini girls. Next stop was the Listen.com party, with quality showcases from nameless bands that probably deserve mention, but unfortunately got stuck with the late-afternoon slots where business card-swapping is more of a priority than actually paying attention to who's on stage.

Friday evening started early with an unexpectedly quality show from San Diego pop-rockers Buck Fast Super Bee. It was more or less an obligation to make an appearance (hey, those guys paid for our cab ride home the night before), but it turned out to be a good warm-up show for the rest of the evening's big gigs.

Beachwood Sparks

After learning our lesson Friday night when we were forced to forfeit the incredibly long line for the Jayhawks, at least we arrived early enough at the Austin Music Hall to see Nate's second-favorite band, Whiskeytown. Ryan Adams, the youthful frontman, led the new line- up of the band through a series of distorted rockers. Playing tunes off their album that "is never fuckin' going to come out," Whiskeytown played an incredibly solid set.

Whiskeytown

Giddy school boy that he is, Nate shoved to the front line of the crowd and barely avoided several fist fights. (Guy in Patagonia hat with Long Island accent: "Hey, I was standing there. I'm short, you're tall." Nate: "No.") After the set closed he waited in the devoted fan line to shake Adams' hand, and give his country rock idol his beloved TNN belt buckle. Impressed by the gesture, Adams took him past the bouncers and he spent the next 20 minutes with the band and their sexy girlfriends.

Next, we headed back to Emo's for sex-rock fiends Vue heating up the inside stage while the infamous Murder City Devils sloshed around the outdoor crowd. The Murder City Devils' show was perhaps the only punk experience of the weekend and after suffering a kick to the head in the pit, we bought t-shirts.

Mary Lou Lord

A brief recess from the Emo's action happened when emo-Dave of Muddle magazine convinced us to follow him to the Buffalo Club for the Her Space Holiday show with some of the Insound.com folks. This band would be well received in Oberlin's music scene. Two kids in all black and nerdy glasses playing whining songs on one keyboard while sitting on lawn chairs. Needless to say, we didn't stay long.

Inching out the back of the club we stumbled into another venue where The Man Scouts of America were about to go on. Even though the teenage Donnas may have the claim of playing "skin tight rock," The Man Scouts of America would be best suited for the title of "skin tight punk." If there is one thing to say about the band it is this: they play guitars that are hooked up to blow torches and at high points in the rock a seven-foot stream of fire appears to be coming out of their instruments. All the while, they are grabbing their crotches and sticking their tongues unnatural distances out of their heads. This band boasts the scariest-looking bunch of eye makeup and shaved eyebrows imaginable. These are the kind of guys who scare old ladies for fun, and ditching Her Space Holiday for The Man Scouts of America was about the most extreme juxtaposition of our natural born lives.

Leaving the Buffalo to return to Emo's for The Go was about all the rock we could pack into the night and after an outrageous set of retro garage that proved them true to the Detroit Rock City heritage. Rocked to death (both in terms of music and sobriety), we took a cab to the Mary Lou Lord folk set at The Hole in the Wall across town. Watching the punks from Buddyhead.com drool over the campy folk seductress was the highlight of the set. The evening's end found the duo separated while a very tuckered-out Lauren went off to bed, and insomniac Nate went to party with the boys from Buddyhead. There would be more commentary on this if he could remember it.

Vue

Waking to the gray of our final day in Austin miserably hung over, we subscribed to the old-school MTV credo of "too much is never enough" and headed to a series of dot com parties. After a pleasant luncheon courtesy of our hosts (hey, we're starving college students, and they're successful twenty-somethings with kind hearts and big wallets), Nate got lost at the convention center and the rest of the team headed to the Revolver launch party. This, of all things, was perhaps the biggest display of snobby schmoozers, feeling oh-so-special to be included at a party with Guided By Voices, Nashville Pussy, The Unband and an open hard-bar, manned by the cutest bartender in Austin, according to Lauren. Funny things happened at the Revolver party. We don't normally agree to have random strangers photograph our butts for documentation on the web, but these things tend to occur when open hard-bars are involved.

Jogging over for a brief stay at the Launch.com party, Lauren managed to catch So-Cal twangy-popsters Beachwood Sparks, who played a modest set for the late-afternoon crowd-who probably would have been content with anything so long as there was another open bar nearby. And there always was. Saturday afternoon was spent jogging back and forth between Launch.com and Revolver, trying to get a glimpse past the crowd for Guided By Voices, and eventually giving up, realizing the band was even more drunk than its on-lookers, if that was possible. The Ohio-based band may produce some good records, but live, excessive alcohol spillage stops being funny as soon as lyrics stop sounding like lyrics, and more like gurgles of inebriation.

Guided by Voices

Somehow, afternoon turned into evening, and the dynamic duo headed out to a very hazy Spaghetti Warehouse dinner on Epic/Immortal Records' credit card. Nate lost his Polaroid. Lauren was just lost. But we trekked onward to the Gallery Lombardi Lounge for the Saddle Creek showcase featuring Bright Eyes, ...And You Will Know Us By the Trail of The Dead, Cursive and Spoon. The one good thing to come out of Omaha, Nebraska (Bright Eyes makes two), Cursive plowed through a tight set of their trademark scratchy guitars and passive-aggressive singing/screaming to an attentive audience. The die-hard Saddle Creek fans were forced to put their indie rock pride high enough over Modest Mouse to miss their competing slot at the Austin Music Hall. Nate managed to sneak over for a few songs, but made it back in time for ...And You Will Know Us By the Trail of The Dead, another hard-hitting Texas band who ended their rock show by making a mess of their drum kit. This is, of course, the surest way to any rock fan's heart, and we saw it many times the weekend over. It should be noted that Bright Eyes, fronted by a 19-year-old who could pass for Elliot Smith's man-child twin, captured the late-night crowd with hard-edged swooning that could only be borne of frustration from some kind of emo-Napoleon complex. But hey, the chicks dig it.

Nothing beats the end of a rock convention like the late night after-party hosted by SPIN. While this guest list was too selective for the Oberlin kiddies, Nate managed to mingle with the best of the crowd outside the over-crowded club. Brushing shoulders with The Promise Ring's sometime-producer and other such under-appreciated industry types wasn't nearly as exciting as one might expect, but at least it made for a late last night, and difficulty getting up at 6 a.m. Sunday to drive home 2,000 miles to boring Ohio. We're not going to say who got the Most Valuable Driver award on the way home but we'll give you a hint: Nate snores.

Murder City Devils

And so, we bid Texas and South by Southwest farewell, with nothing but our newly-inflated rock snob egos and millions of useless promotional CDs to trade in at the Record Exchange. So long, happy times. So long, free drinks and BBQs. So long, silly publicists. Your flirting didn't go far enough to seduce us into writing about your wussy bands, but don't worry - we'll always have next year.