'WE HAVE A new album out, but we're not playing any of the songs off the new record, because they suck!"

Bless Enon's John Schemersal, who raised the dead and rocked the invisible pews with his band's oldie originals March 17 at the Church of the Friendly Ghost, a remote, unofficial party outpost – smack in the middle of a residential hood east of the club district – at this year's South by Southwest conference and festival. Even early into the fest, the entire bash – and Schemersal's cracks – came off as an anti-hype antidote to the glad-handing, queue-gaming, and laminate poker going on in the rest of Austin, Texas, last week.

Apart from the giant inflatable beer bottle in the Church's driveway – courtesy of a sponsor for the Chunklet magazine soiree – this could have been a house, or church, party anywhere in the country: outside, 'fro-ed-out Mars Volta look-alikes and girls in thrift-store frocks lined up for free beer; inside, it was sweaty, stinky, and thick with floppy-haired indie rock scrawnies. I stuck around to watch Ariel Pink draw connections between blotto 1970s psych and tear-jerking 1950s pop, and wandered out to the van at the curb, where bands were selling T-shirts. I was examining a Swearing at Motorists CD when, over my shoulder, some guy with ringlets and aviators pointed out helpfully, "Those guys are full of shit!"

"Is this your band?" I asked, wondering if this was another case of negative advertising masquerading as, well, advertising.

"Uh, yeah." Silly Dave Doughman – tricks are for kids.

  

Best band name that will doubtless appear in every SXSW report Austin's I Love You but I've Chosen Darkness.

Best band name that will show up only in alt-weeklies and mags that wallow in four-letter words The U.K.'s Selfish Cunt.

  

Sometimes swearing will get you, if not everywhere, then at least to Austin and South by Southwest 2005, seemingly the biggest music festival and conference in the country, with more than 1,200 acts, more than 8,000 registered attendees, 1,595 music media moochers, 60 venues, and umpteen parties. Wash it all down with free beer, beer, and beer. And screwdrivers and Stoli tonics. (But red wine? Get thee, whiner '49er, to a Napa nunnery.) And enough free barbecue to make you barf at the sight of sauce caked beneath fingernails.

How easy it would be to boil down the event to white guys with big hair: Billy Idol and Vanilla Ice, who headlined shows on the first and last nights of the fest, respectively. Throw in conference keynote speaker Robert Plant (also performing with Strange Sensation) among the blond bombs – and I had plenty to think about from afar, while I was taking in songwriting savant Daniel Johnston, and John Cale and Alejandro Escovedo, performing an elegant set of strings- and lap steel-dappled songs, at the Austin Music Awards.

Nowhere near the Idol, Ice, and Plant lines, I was getting my mind blown instead by a virtuosic Hella, after seeing Sleater-Kinney pour angst on their guitars and set them on fire, playing tunes from their "upcoming 'Comets on Fire' album," as Sub Pop staffer Jed Maheu put it. I was eating up the built-for-speed and beautiful M.I.A., and then I was throwing a mini hissy fit on the sidewalk in front of the Relapse Records showcase after rushing over from U.K. first-wave punkers the Nightingales, just to miss Pig Destroyer's set by minutes.

Yeah, big hair on artists looking for a second act (which includes Ian Hunter) coalesced around this year's SXSW, as did showcases by country music scions (Holly Williams, Shooter Jennings); a slew of buzzy Brit rockers (Bloc Party, Kasabian, Kaiser Chiefs); Nordic music showcases among a veritable United Nations of artists from Mexico, Japan, France, Uzbekistan, etc.; appreciation for Texas odd-job geniuses like Johnston and Roky Erickson; and more outdoor ISIS performances than you could shake a Flying V at. Ah, the sound of the symphonic heavy metal thunder bombarding Austin's Sixth Street clubland.

  

More fun The Woggles's twist, the Visionaries' multiculti shout-outs, Big Bear's girlish yelps, Headphones' writerly synth pop, Bottom's girlie grindcore, Functional Blackouts' shrieking garage, the Black Lips' white face paint, Two Ton Boa's bug-eyed theatricality, Pinetop Perkins's pep, and Mae Shi and the Wives' interactive noise.

Fun that was somehow not fun Fielding insults from Death from Above 1979's Jesse Keeler, in Hindi.

But it's all good until feeling begins to leave the extremities. I managed to slip into the freezing, humongous after-hours party in a hangar near the airport to check out the Bravery and headliners Queens of the Stone Age, lured by the Bravery publicist's enticements about how the band love to talk about their winning ways with label ladies. Unfortunately I was also slipping into hypothermia.

The chilly reception was a bit off-putting – due to the utter lack of heat at this supposedly must-attend annual bash. To properly brave the elements, I needed more than a band that's half shaggy-haired modkins and half broad-shouldered hotties who look like they want to be in the Misfits but sing and play like they're in the Cure. So which is it? I was in the throes of a full-blown personality crisis – where were those New York Dolls when I needed them? – when Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age launched into his own take on the revelry. "Everyone get drunk so you can fuck each other. I want to fuck him. And him. And him," he said pointing at his bandmates – help, Nick Olivieri! – and then the audience. "And all of you."

  

I hear I missed out Get Hustle; Blackfire Revelation; the Perceptionists; Spoon with M. Ward at an Austin City Limits taping; Parlour, Mono, and have-they-relocated-to-New Orleans-or-haven't-they Gris Gris; Dr. Dog; Keren Ann; the Go Team!, Diamond Nights, and Cheeseburger at an overstuffed, porked-out Vice party.

Hell, I could write an entire piece about performances, parties, and out-of-the-way shindigs I missed – who knew about the free Dale Watson show at the classic Texas dance hall Broken Spoke that Bay Guardian contributor Kurt Wolff and AM Magic's Mike Alexis took me to? And why didn't I tag along with Skyscraper editor Andrew Bottomley to check out wavo-metalists Sluts of Trust instead of attempting to see An Albatross and getting stopped at the border – or rather, door – by the fire marshal (Parts and Labor, though, sounded mighty fine, rumbling from the next club over).

  

Started strong but fading fast "This will be our last performance. I'm going to be getting a fellowship to Columbia, majoring in prescription drussggghshow," gurgled the New York Dolls' David Johansen, headlining at a Spin party at Stubb's.

Cute, punky good times in recognizable garb (jogging shorts) Be Your Own Pet.

Best Austin band of the, OK, two Austin artists I caught Shearwater.

Masked men MF Doom and Blowfly, "the world's best n–, one motherfucker," as his announcer described him.

  

Alarming moments for Bloc Party Bassist Gordon Moakes told me he once put together a Web site on a bulletproof car line for BMW – just as real-world bird alarms went off loudly in the tree beside us. Seated on the balcony of the Fader party H.Q., we watched the smaller birds scream at an invading crow while Moakes explained that on B.P.'s new album, Silent Alarm (Atlantic), "a lot of what we were singing about was a sense of unease, a sense of powerlessness, being aware of things being wrong but not quite knowing what to do about it."

But is that so bad, as one eased into the chaos and coped with the powerlessness associated with the long lines and closed guest lists? After dealing with a mock heckler ("C+!" "Lightning Bolt is so much better!"), Baltimore's Oxes managed to upstage all comers March 17. First, guitarists Nettarino Fowler and Marco Mirror climbed a grassy, tiered hill above the stage and audience, playing among the trees like back-to-the-land spaz rockers. Then, on returning to the stage, Fowler announced, "You know, music is fun, but it doesn't always address the deeper questions of life. Like, what's for dinner? Why are we here? What is the nature of forgiveness? We ask ourselves these questions all the time, but we decided to really address them with our one-act play, Oxes in Boxes."

Two black wooden boxes were stacked like amps on the hill. Then they launched into a metallic 'n' mathy punk-jazz jam that slowly coalesced into the theme to 2001: A Space Odyssey. Still, it was a shock when Mirror suddenly hopped onto the slope – naked and on all fours. He scrambled up the grass to beat the boxes with a stick and send them tumbling toward the crowd.

Was it dangerous? Was it performance art? Was it even music? Maybe it was none of the above, but I was wide awake after half a week of vampiric all-nighters. And after Oxes, I was ready for anything – even those tired notions about rock – to come crashing down. Bloc Party play Wed/23, 9 p.m., Bottom of the Hill, 1233 17th St., S.F. $10-$12. Sold out. (415) 474-0365. They also perform Thurs/24, 10 p.m., 330 Ritch, S.F. $8-$10. www.popscene-sf.com. Death from Above 1979 play Mon/28, 8 p.m., Independent, 628 Divisadero, S.F. $10-$12. (415) 771-1421. They also play Popscene Mon/28, doors 10 p.m., 330 Ritch, S.F. $8-$10. www.popscene-sf.com. Bravery perform Tues/29, 8 p.m., Slim's, 333 11th St., S.F. $15. Sold out. (415) 522-0333.

Feeling brave?

Contact Kimberly Chun at kimberly@sfbg.com.