So I couldn't get tickets to last night's Hella show (with Pop Levi, Macromantics, Tartufi) at Bottom of the Hill (Yes, I tried to get 'em like a civilian. That'll teach me not to use my press privilege...) Which meant that after the Noise Pop Happy Hour at Thee Parkside (where I enjoyed some lovely little lox-and-cream-cheese sammiches), I managed only to go out drinking instead of seeing live music. But that doesn't mean I've nothing to post here. Oh, no. On the contrary, I have photos from opening night at Mezzanine, as promised:

Extra Action Marching Band:
Trumpet
Cheeky cheerleaders
The horn section
Tall f(l)ags
Majorettes
Rah rah rass
X-tra action close-up

Har Mar Superstar, after getting progressively less dressed:
Bringing sexy back?

And one dimly lit photo of Tapes 'N' Tapes:
Josh Grier

And hey, I never promised the photos would be good.(Molly Freedenberg)

So there’s this guy named Tommy Lee. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Played drums in a little-known rock band? Married some blonde in a red bathing suit? Starred in a salacious home video? Well, apparently this obscure musician is still making his art in the small, private, cult-following-type venues he’s become accustomed to (like Oakland’s Oracle Arena, on two different reality shows, and in a book he’s co-writing, among about a dozen other gigs).

And because I’m on the inside of the indie scene, with my ear to the ground and finger on the pulse and my nose buried deep in music mags you’ve never heard of, I caught wind of Mr. Lee’s recent appearance in the Bay Area. Not only caught wind, mind you, but rode that wind all the way to the stage and then behind it, where I watched this lean, muscled, tattooed, talented, teenager-in-a-man’s-body (If only he could be saved from his obscurity so the rest of the world could appreciate his crush-worthiness…) wail away on the drums while his friends from other little known bands (Guns N Roses, anyone? Black Crowes? Nah, I haven't heard of 'em either...) and a guy they found on a TV show played along in their tiny garage band named Rockstar Supernova .

Now’s probably the part where I should review the show, but thanks to appropriately rockstar amounts of beer and Jagermeister that took me a week to recover from (and therefore that long to write about it), you’ve probably already read about the show somewhere else. And considering that I met (and liked) the fantastic Mr. Lee before he went on stage, I’m not exactly an unbiased observer anyway.

Instead? Look at some pictures from the Rockstar Supernova show on Thursday, February 22 (with Juke Cartel, fronted by Rockstar Supernova reality show runner-up Toby Rand, and Panic Channel, featuring Dave Navarro):

Lukas Rossi, the former Hooter's cook from Canada who won the reality show contest and now fronts Rockstar Supernova


Tommy Lee on keyboards during a cover of The Verve's Bittersweet Symphony

The encore, a cover of Prince's Purple Rain, climaxes with - what else? - a rain storm of purple confetti

(Molly Freedenberg)

Guardian staffer Joe Pennant was out and about for Noise Pop and ran smack into some free mochi ice cream at Bottom of the Hill - courtesy of the Ice Cream Man.

Who are these kind, mysterious strangers giving away sweets at all manner of shows? Marketing, promotions, branding, and advertising, naturally! The site says: "Ice Cream Man is a grassroots organization that combines the minds, hearts, skills, and resources of a growing team of adventurous individuals who refuse to adhere to the old business paradigm. We were those crazy and confused kids raised in the '80s and '90s with conflicting messages ("Just Say No" vs. "Just Do It"). We believe that right now is the best time in history. With the Internet we are not bound by the constraints of the modern media machine. We can break through all of the hypocrisy and create REAL connections with like-minded people.... The more money we can bring in the more ice cream we'll be able to give away. To date the Ice Cream Crew has given away over 35,000 treats."

Folks last saw 'em at Arthurfest. I saw him at Great American Music Hall during the Sebadoh show - and got a lovely organic Creamsicle-like bar for my trouble. Apparently they're looking for a few good Ice Cream Men and Women too. Just, y'know, an FYI, duders.

Oooh, how I love me some rockin' women. And last night seemed to be chock full of 'em. (The men weren't half bad either...)

First was Noise Pop Happy Hour at the Parkside (are we seeing a theme here?) featuring the mesmerizing Loquat. Listening to the adorable Kylee Swenson (pictured top right) layer gorgeous, haunting vocals over the band's catchy guitar-pop-meets-danceable-electronica (thanks to bandmates Earl Otsuka, Anthony Gordon, Christopher Lautz, and the newest band member, a laptop) was the perfect way to start off an evening of rock.

Next up was Slim's, for a stellar line-up featuring French Kicks (moderately far away photo here)and Scissors for Lefty(very far away photo here), both of whom were fantastic. But opening band The Oohlas really stole the show. The music was true, heart-pounding rock'n'roll — and so was frontwoman Olivia Stone (in the other two photos), whose smile was as engaging as her on-stage antics.

Watch video here.

(And by the way, this isn't some "I Am Wemoon Therefore I Heart Womyn In Rock" thing. Merely having a vagina is not enough to make me like your band. These chicks have vaginas — presumably...I didn't actually see 'em — and they fucking rock. Uh, the chicks. Not the vaginas....Never mind.) (Molly Freedenberg)

Wow, can't stop the Noise Pop show-going. Though when one finds the time to report on it or discuss the hairdo's seen or the amount of cheap beer quaffed - who knows?

First off, Roky Erickson totally freakin' kicked ass last night, March 1. Solid band, great sound, punchy drumming, great gods of distortion smiling down. You know, the works. Though the set was relatively short at about 40 or so minutes and Erickson and the Explosives sprinkled the proceedings with several blues jams, all the faves were in order - 13th Floor Elevators' "You're Gonna Miss Me" and his own "Two Headed Dog," "Don't Shake Me Lucifer," and "I Walked with a Zombie." All mind-alteringly loud with plenty of intriguing facial expressions (puzzled, thinking, munching, etc.) on Erickson's face. Black motorcycle jacketed rocker crowd was out in force, along with passionate oldsters - haven't seen that mix since Radio Birdman's first SF stand.

And Wooden Shjips sounded absolutely awesome at 8:30 p.m. opening for Erickson (incidentally Howlin' Rain rocked the keys and Oranger sounded more raucous than ever). Hard to believe it's your second show, I told guitarist Ripley Johnson. It's actually his third - the second was in Cotati, he replied. Same diff, no?

Meanwhile Macromantics, otherwise known as Romy Hoffman, killed at Bottom of the Hill Wednesday, Feb. 28. She mimed sticking a knife in her chest, strafed the air with her arms, and flipped her long hair all over the place - and ruled the mic with tongue-twisters that would have driven me mad. (And lord knows I've tried, tackling "Crazy in Love"'s raps at karaoke.) Later Pop Levi brought the blues-rock overdrive - loud and proud, get used to it.

Later I waddled over to Great American Music Hall to check Sebadoh. Yep, they're still there. My pals were divided as to whether they prefered Eric Sebadoh tunes or Lou Sebadoh numbers. Regardless, ya got it all.

Just in time to catch the afterglow of Roky Erickson's awesome performance at Great American Music Hall last night: good news. According to Erickson's publicists, the garage-punk legend has had his legal rights fully restored as of Feb. 23.

Roky's camp writes: "In June 2001, Roky Erickson’s youngest brother, former Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra principal tubaist Sumner Erickson, was appointed Roky's legal guardian. Sumner established the Roger Kynard Erickson Trust to address Roky's living expenses and other financial needs. From June 2001 till July 2002, Roky lived with his brother in Pittsburgh, where he finally began to receive the support and care he needs.

"Roky is now back in Austin. Not only has his health continued to improve dramatically, but as of Feb. 23, 2007, the guardianship has been dissolved. Roky is back, a free agent and the rock 'n' roll muse that he was born to be."

His now-regular psychedelic ice cream social benefit will happen on Thursday, March 15, during SXSW at Threadgills WHQ, S. Austin, Texas, from 2-8 p.m.

This year's event celebrates "Electro-Shock Survivors"; Erickson's peeps write: "The Ice Cream Social is co-sponsored this year by the Coalition for the Abolition of Electroshock in Texas (CAEST). Many artists have been hurt over the years by the labels and biological treatments of the mental health system. Roky Erickson, Townes Van Zandt, and Jim Franklin are Austin music legends who suffered from psychiatric electroshock, also known as electroconvulsive therapy, or ECT.

"Roky and Townes’ son, J.T. Van Zandt, are among the musicians who are now publicly declaring their desire to protect future artists from being hurt by electroshock, calling for genuine asylum and compassionate care of artists and other citizens who might be having a hard time in life. Says Roky of being subjected to ECT treatments: 'I wish I hadn't had it and it didn’t help me.'”

Tickets for $20 are available at www.frontgatetickets.com and at Threadgills WHQ at 301 West Riverside Drive at (512) 472-9304.

By Deborah Giattina

I wouldn't have traded seeing my fellow Bay Area Ladyfest 2002 organizer play her first Noise Pop show last Wednesday for anything--not even a Ponys/Gris Gris ticket. I'm referring to Macromantics (aka Romy Hoffman), who recently was signed to Kill Rock Stars. (Check out her first KRS release, Moments in Movement.)

Onstage, the chaos-loving Australian MC and erstwhile San Francisco denizen's a capella onslaughts rocked the crowd as much as her body-moving escapades into metaphysical rapping.

Afterwards, my down under friend waved away a look-see at my snaps of her performance, stating, "I don't believe in documentation." This one's gonna keep moving forward into uncharted territory rather than look back, but that doesn't mean she minds if the rest of us cherish the memories.

The Gowns sound awfully good to me - composed of former members of Mae Shi and Amps for Christ, the now-Berkeley art-rockin' combo is playing tonight at 21 Grand, opening for BARR, Marnie Stern, and Old Time Relijun. Atmospheric, willing to test those everchanging limits defining a pop song, punky in ways that Good Charlotte wouldn't understand...oh hell, I'll just let the Gowns' Ezra Buchla tell it the way he sees it for himself, Erika Anderson, and Corey Fogel:

I am writing from Highland Park, Los Angeles, a city in which I am a (permanent?) visitor. Erika and I lived here two years ago, when we began playing together as Gowns or the Gowns. It was an attempt to synthesize several of our musical interests: the formal minimalism and elasticity of folk music, the abrasion of Crass-era anarchist punk, the directness and lyricism of grunge rock, and the alienating, arguably anti-human time-bending techniques of modern digital signal processing.

I had honestly forgotten how much I like Cake. Years of too much radio play hardened me to those catchy tunes like Never There and The Distance, making me forget all about the beats so steeped in funk you can't help but move your hips, the spot-on transitions that would make any music major proud, the deep melodic sarcasm of John McCrea's voice, and the plain old virtuosity of these people as musicians. What I hadn't forgotten was McCrea's attitude: bitter, jaded, and a bit antagonistic to his audience.

In fact, when I last saw Cake in Portland almost a decade ago, McCrea went so far as to insult the crowd for only showing up to hear the radio single I Will Survive, asking if anyone even knew their other songs. (Would it have killed him to thank them for padding his paycheck, however they found him?...) My embarrassment at being associated with one of the mindless minions (though I was a true Cake fan at the time, and didn't even like I Will Survive that much), and my anger at McCrea for making me feel embarrassed about it, might have been part of the reason I've hardly listened to the Sacramento songsters since then.

Until the last night of Noise Pop, when it all came rushing back. The band took the stage at Bimbo's in front of a packed crowd of mostly 30-somethings, all die-hard fans who sang along with nearly every song. And as that twangy guitar intros started and McCrea banged the vibraslap and they launched into some of my old favorites - You Part the Waters and Is This Love? - I remembered: This is is a great fucking band.

And then as McCrea yelled at people in the front row for taking pictures, and responded to audience requests by saying, "Thanks for the input, but we don't want to feel like a jukebox. So what do we want to play?", and as he launched into a tirade against the music industry, I also remembered that McCrea is still an asshole (or in need of a really big hug). A hilarious, sarcastic, droll, witty, talented asshole, but an asshole all the same.

Of course, that's part of what gives Cake character. And if being an asshole isn't enough to make me not date you (you know who you are...), then it sure isn't enough to make me stop buying your records.

Since the band is on an anti-corporate (and anti-publicity) kick, the chances of them playing anywhere near here anytime soon is pretty slim. But you can get their self-released CD "B-Sides and Rarities," with its scratch and sniff cover art, here. As for me? I'm getting another copy of Motorcade of Generosity. I suddenly have a craving to hear about birds falling from window ledges like small loaves of bread...(Molly Freedenberg)

Guardian intern Sam Devine weighs in on this weekend's Dustfish Burning Man camp benefit:

The Oakland Police Department busted the Dustfish Burning Man camp benefit party Sunday, March 11, early in the morning. It was a massive party of 3,000 in a warehouse on Mandela Parkway. The building was so huge that a charter bus company, seemingly indifferent to the bash, was coming and going from another part of the warehouse.

Thelony on Rye opened, playing strange, noisy bebop. Then came Dr. Abacus, playing a similar but grooving jazz that had the room jitterbugging and hopping around. In a side area, DJs spun drum and bass and industrial garage while people banged on a steel statue of a stick figure with large metal bolts.

Fuzzy hats were all around. A boat, converted to a hot tub, was filled with naked partygoers. Spiky, steel columns were licked with fire on one side of the main floor. Colossal metal statues of men and women decorated the space. There was a small wine bar inside a miners shack. Strange. It was Burning Man-ed out.

Shortly after Dr. Abacus finished, the police moved in for the first time. The East Bay Rats, security for the night, supposedly couldn’t do much to stop them. There were reports of 10 police cars. The music stopped, and the lights came on. But the party continued.

I smoked a spliff and drank a Tecate while talking with a man named Mathew T. Whatley, esq. He claimed to operate a legal establishment, having attended Golden Gate University and a handful of other schools, one in Hong Kong. He said, while in China, he would regularly go about with a foreign ambassador, abusing diplomatic privilege to score free lunches. Fantastic.

The police finally came in at about 4 a.m. (or really 3 a.m. because of daylight savings time). They walked around, taking pictures. Seemingly cool with everything, they talked with a few people.

The room cleared out. The party was over.

All hail the promiscuous creative and collaborative imagination of Chelonis R. Jones. He recently teamed up with Marc Romboy on the sick single “Helen Cornell,” a slice of voice-over-beats that is bettered only by Jones’s “Black Sabrina” in terms of fierceness. (There has never been a spoken track as fierce as “Black Sabrina.”) Jones singing is even better than Jones speaking, especially on tracks such as "One and One" and "I Don't Know?," which he put together with Booka Shade, who are due at Mezzanine soon.

His own website is a feast of tracks, paintings and other stimuli, and Chelonis recently debuted his MySpace page, which features an article I wrote about his amazing debut Dislocated Genius, as well as some preview tracks from his next album, Chatterton. (Check out “Pompadour” -- amazing.) The time seemed right for Mr. Jones to list some of his favorite albums. “I wanted to tell someone about all these,” he said during a recent phone chat. “People always think I have all these techno gods on my list of favorites, when really it’s far from that.”

I know what you're thinking. "Oh, poor you - poor you, having to hear so much music, drink so much beer, inhale so much barbecue, and party so hard with all those rock stars, random actors, and piles o' Texans." You can wipe that little sneer off your mug - it's unbecoming, and I see marionette lines in your faded future. Anyhoo, South By Southwest it was. Expect fresh dispatches daily, when I can slog back to a computer, from yours truly and contributor Kate Izquierdo. Pray for us.

Who were the strange, frisky, equine-masked dudes making loud, frisky punk with a theremin, fer chrissakes? Rubber Robot, I'm told. All photos by Kimberly Chun.

Wednesday, March 14, I finally landed after missing my plane - again! - and hopping on a jet packed with bizzy types hailing each other in the aisles with, "John Schmoe! John Schmoe! Now I know it's going to be a good South By, seeing you." It's a big ole honking reunion partah down south for the music industry. But it's a working - and listening - excursion for me. So don't get me too Texas-toasted.

A small sampling of the fliers, mags, and literature around the Austin Convention Center during SXSW. I wouldn't want to be handed a duster.

Early on I was looking forward to listening to talks by keynote speaker Pete Townshend, tropicalia pioneer and politico Gilberto Gil, and renewed Stooge Iggy Pop at the actual conference (Remember that? Sometimes it's tough with all the parties, brisket tacos, and 40s in the haus). I wanted to check out panels on the relevancy of music labels, selling music online, and the greening of the industry. I had goals, yes, goals however humble to see and hear, to name just a few, the Fratellis, the Good, the Bad and the Queen, Charlie Louvin, Ghostface Killah, Jay Reatard at the Goner showcase, Thurston Moore's new project at the Ecstatic Peace hoedown, Cyann and Ben, Peter Bjorn and John, Fujiya and Miyagi, and all those other bands of two names that actually include more than two members. Clever! Misleading! Pass the corned bread and shrimp tacos.

Honestly, despite that a cursory look at the overall fest bill left me slightly underwhelmed - no Whitehouse reunion this year - and other vets concurred. "Everytime you see a 'special guest' slot," said one, pointing to the SXSW showcase sched, "just think, 'Peter Townshend.'"

Maybe we're just jaded. Maybe we suck. Yet, ever the optimist, I say our cynical, overcooked state makes us ripe for having our minds blown. Blow me down, babies.

So to get things started, check out the typically Mardi Gras-with-live-music scene down Sixth Street, the entertainment hub, on Wednesday night.

Pizza scarfing, street walking, and loud, loud music thundering down Sixth Street on a subdued SXSW Wednesday night in Austin, Texas.

Contributor Kate Izquierdo logs on from SXSW:

I'm running way behind shchedule today - nursing the first jack 'n' coke of the day, and watching Dirty on Purpose from Brooklyn. It's a wide-open, delay-drenched moodrock, a mercifully good start to Thursday afternoon.

A little C&B, anyone?

We got in last night amidst horror stories of flashflood warnings and t-storms. Of our intended hitlist, we nabbed moments with the Pipettes, Matt and Kim, Illinois, Hank IV, and Cyann and Ben.

You need Cyann and Ben: you need them now. A French quartet on their inagaural tour of the states, they brought grey crashing waves of early Merc Rev, brittle piano and spare, lush vocals. A perfect crackling lullaby for that ride into hangover land. Over 'n' out fer now.

Whoa, you really had to catch your breath and race to the Austin Convention Center to catch the major stories, speakerwise, at SXSW. Gilberto Gil took the stage Wednesday midafternoon to talk about tropicalia, new technology, and hip-hop initiatives Brazil has undertaken since he's become the country's Minister of Culture.

With a laptop firmly placed in his lap, the disarming Gil gamely tackled words thrown at him like "expediency" ("one of those Latin words," he mused) and discussed the cultural points program, which provides resources to hip-hop artists in Brazil, and his first encounter with the form in the US. "Someone gave me a Last Poets tape, and I said, what is that? It isn't music but it's music," he said.

Contributor Kate Izquierdo blogs on at SXSW; here's her latest report:

By Thursday, the rainstorms had gone, the sun was blazin', and the Black Lips have lost their bass player. In Mexico. No matter, as they bring a good facscimile of their Sandinista flavor replete with a boy-on-boy guitarist make-out session. How can you suck face with a big ass gold grill? Very carefully.

Dusk led us to Jon Langford and Sally Timms "recalling the Mekons," which loosely translated meant playing a few Mekons songs and commenting on how being in a seminal punk band didn't exactly put them on the map. Introducing a cover, Langford commented that it was not a Mekons song, "like most of the songs in the world aren't. And not on the radio. Like all the Mekons songs."

Oh me, oh my, what to do every day at SXSW - the competing pull of day parties and unofficial showcases and the panels and speakers during the day - and then the night parties and official showcases at night - has me torn like a paper bag full of giveaway matches, condoms, beer bottle openers, and random acts of swag. And outfits and tats and hair. "There's a lot of hair going on," said one girly wag in the elevator at my downtown digs. "And lots of interesting facial hair. We're going shopping." Inspirational! Oh, yes, and music, music, music.

Oxford Collapse work those stripes. All photos by Kimberly Chun.

Here's a rundown of a few recent soirees: Brooklyn's Oxford Collapse busted it up at the Sub Pop showcase early on on Wednesday night. Furious mod aerobics by the bassist. Earlier Seattle's Tiny Vipers kept it sweet and low. BTW it was impossible to badge your way into the Beggars Banquet and 4AD showcases in the neighborin Emo's properties - where Calla, Voxtrot, Beirut, Mountain Goats, and Blonde Redhead were rocking. Queue you...


About time.

So with that in mind, I lollygagged over to Beauty Bar where Best Fwends, Holy Fuck, and Crystal Castles were setting it off in the sparkly interior, and the Comas, Langhorne Slim, Jack, Illinois, and Annuals were busting moves in the patio. Amsterdam's About were pretty durn electro-popping - throwing some bodily force into their boy-girl performance.

Oh. Oh. It's Oh No! Oh My!

Down the street on Sixth the Dim Mak party was swinging, sweatily, in the confines of Flamingo Cantina. Oh No! Oh My! impressed with proggish indie stylings before Pony Up, Scanners, Willowz, and Har Mar Superstar stepped up.

Pandas on parade.

Australia seemed to be throwing mucho dinero at their homegrown music scene so showcases straight from Oz seemed to be everywhere - or maybe they just had mondo-efficient flierers. One of their number, Panda Band from Perth - what no Koala Band? - started promisingly enough with energetic rock that took intriguing melodic turns.

Slaraffenand - say it 20 times fast.

Jet lag was starting to overtake one's curiosity around the time Copenhagen, Denmark's Slaraffenland came on at Mohawk at the Hometapes show. Interesting group - we all edged closer when the sax and trombone and effects pedals came out. I hereby dub the trombone the most ubiquitous unexpected instrument at this year's SXSW.

Outside on the Mohawk patio, a Steve Earle-like Rob Crow was ripping - sounding like he was channeling Geddy Lee of Rush and playing some delicate, at times moving music. Think he dedicated a song to Corey of the Bay Area label, Absolutely Kosher. Has everyone acknowleged that Mr. Goblin Cock is something of a genius yet?

Crow don't blow.

More blogging to come - last night I kicked myself down Sixth for missing the afterhours Playboy party out in the boondocks, which word has it was surreal and chock-full of bunnies - hey, cabs were impossible to nab at 3 a.m. Is music sexy again? There did seem a preponderance of bottle blondes at this year's SXSW.

Tonight, Friday, March 16, I'm looking forward to hyphy at the Beauty Bar with Federation, the Pack, and Saafir - if I can get in - and the Holy Mountain and Ecstatic Peace showcases as well as a Vice afterhours party. Scrape me off the floor when you're ready to go-go.

Ah SXSW, the land of a thousand dances, afterparties, and beery day bashes. You gotta have a good time, even if the bands don't start on time and the barbecue is far from free. David Cross and company staged a series of Mess with Texas shows as well as a midnight scavenger hunt March 16 - hosted by Andrew WK (sample quote from his power-of-positive-thinking speech, "We have the power to decide how it feels to be us." Thrill Jockey publicist Jamie Proctor also reported, "Some people might not expect to be philosophically captivated by a man also known for his ability to kick himself in the face on stage, but I think someone should give him a book deal.").

The great late Arthur mag, along with Lionsgate, threw a soiree over at the French Legation Museum. Good bands, including Bat for Lashes, an all-female Brit ensemble complete with bells, two violins, very Kate Bush-like, Bjork-enstein vocals, and plenty of headbands for all. A harrowing song titled "Sarah" and a moving cover of Bruce Springsteen's "I'm on Fire" put them completely over with me.

Batty for Bat for Lashes.

Also up at the Arthur/Lionsgate party - Entrance who showed off a new video, started, stopped, and then unfurled the acid jams.

Entrance-a-go-go.

Contributor Kate Izquierdo sent in her latest dispatch on SXSW, the final days:

Shitdisco is the shit.

Every year, you swear to yourself that you will find alternate routes to maneuver the Sixth Street on St. Patrick's day, and every year you forget or get too loaded and find yourself backstroking through a sea of jello-shot hoovering, stiletto-tottering, verdantly outfitted U of T students looking to whoop it up. They're a surreal injection into the conference populace, who are now starting to show the effects of four solid days of drinking, schmoozing, rocking, and ricocheting from venue to venue. Our forearms are purple from wrist to elbow with stamps, the plastic day party wristbands are cutting off our circulation, we're sunburnt, and, oh, yeah, maneuvering on about four hours of sleep. We're all ratcheting up to that level of cranky that can only be healed with a two-day nap or a lot of valium.

Don't get me wrong - the day (Saturday, March 17) was a good one, albeit one that started an ungodly hour. We kicked off at 9:30 a.m. with the Allen Oldies Band over at the Continental for an early morning dose of dance party and jalapeno pancakes, all hosted by club owner Mojo Nixon. Dancing to 96 Tears on no sleep is the cheapest hallucinogen on the market, I guarantee it. Being served chili-spiked pancakes by women in French maid costumes did little to normalize the event, either. Spontaneous chants of "Nine thirty! Nine thirty!" kept erupting, as if people needed convincing it was Saturday morning. For the record, it was still Friday to me.

Shame you gotta to go-go-go to Austin to see Bay hip-hop talents like the Federation, Saafir, the Pack, Kirby Dominant, and Rico Pabon. They more than made up for it with a Friday, March 16, showcase at Blender Bar Patio.

Federation get up for Saafir, holding it up (and down) stage left in the audience. All photos by Kimberly Chun.

The rarely seen, good-natured Saafir was great, spitting "Crispy" and "Cash Me Out," as the Federation cheered from the sidelines.

Saafir makes The Transition live.

After the Pack - who were said to have performed atop booker Todd P's car at his series of Mrs. B's house parties earlier that week - Federation got it up for the crazed crowd, bringing out the Pack for the last few songs. More dancing was sighted in the Patio tent than, well, maybe ever...

Federation stun 'em.

The next night, March 17, the Load Records showcase at Room 710 brought out all-ages noise-skronk fave Silver Daggers, who invited the entire audience up on stage at the end. Thurston Moore was in the haus, helpfully finding a wallet on the floor.

The crowd blew it up with Silver Daggers.

Next up, the broken-up NY band "Monotract" got up on stage - and lo, it was Moore with his Ecstatic Peace noise lineup including Monotract's Nancy Garcia on guitar, Burning Star Core's C. Spencer Yeh on violin and vocals, and Magik Marker's Pete Nolan on drums. Nice, nice noise.


Thurston Moore works it out with "Monotract" once more.

On a completely different rock tip, I caught ex-Guardian staffer and Budget Rock organizer Chris Owen's Hook or Crook showcase. By all accounts, Hank IV ruled; the Golden Boys followed with tuneful garage.

Golden Boys horn in.

Burning Star Core also showed at Holy Mountain's show at Spiro's, March 16, alongside Blues Control, Lesbian, Wooden Shjips, and Psychic Paramount. Tokyo psych duo Suishou no Fune built slowly, burned softly.

Burning Star Core on a slow burn.


Suishou no Fune fuming.

SF's Wooden Shjips drew the biggest crowd that night - thought they sounded great, like souped-up Velvets. The frontperson for Psychedelic Horseshit cheered up front.

Wooden Shjips bend light eerily.

One of the fest's highlights, however, had to be Jandek's extremely rare performance, backed by what looked like Oaklander and former Houstonite Tom Carter, at the Central Presbyterian Church. Vulnerable lyrics coursed through thoughtful noise improv - ending with the sole standing O that I witnessed this year.

Is that Jandek or is that a preacher man straight outta Flannery O'Connor that I spy?

Flatstock, the American Poster Institute's poster show at SXSW, is always a must-catch at the fest: everyone I ran into had to get the free silkscreened-as-you-wait Turbonegro poster or buy new art for their walls back home. Trends in cleaner, more Scandinavian moderne-like design were visible. So much to see and drool over.

Animal Rummy of Austin

Zachary Hobbs Design of Chattanooga, TN

Pedini of Austin

Serigraphie Cinqunquatre from Montreal.

Largemammal Print of Collingswood, NJ

Ron Liberti of Carrboro, NC

Standard Deluxe of Waverly, Ala.

Ah, SXSW, time to wrap up all the kookiness. So here are a few last lists, a few last pics, though look out for a few scattered weather reports on interviewees in the not-so-distant future. Here's to the mammaries...

We get hearts; they get guitars - which breed of public art do you prefer? All photos by Kimberly Chun

Glad I caught: Psychedelic Horseshit's exhilarating, smart-ass Fall-isms; Gilberto Gil's sweet revelations; Pete Townshend's on-point reminiscences ("Isn't the Internet something of an option - we don't need to burn gas in order to be together, though we ultimately want to be together," the man who predicted the Net with Lifehouse said); the Stooges' blunt bludgeons, onstage and in conversation ("What passes for intelligence generally isn't," Iggy Pop said on getting slapped with a "dumb" sticker by Rolling Stone); Isaac Hayes in the smiling flesh at a Stax press conference; Jandek getting a standing O at Central Presbyterian Church; Load show with NOXAGT; Silver Daggers and "Monotract" show consisting of Monotract's Nancy Garcia, Thurston Moore, Burning Star Core's C. Spencer Yeh, and Magik Marker's Pete Nolan; Oxford Collapse; Oh No! Oh My!; Entrance; Slaraffenland; Rob Crow; Charlie Louvin; Panda Band; Foreign Islands; Jay Reatard; the Good, the Bad, and the Queen with top hat and strings at Stubb's; Nina Nastasia and Jim White; Vashti Bunyan live and with Gabrielle Drake at the "Nick Drake Remembered" panel; and JESU.

Blues dudes jam outside Victory Grill and a nearby Vice day party.

Sorry I missed: Mrs. B's house parties (including one with the Pack rapping atop booker Todd P's car), Pink Reason, Swishahouse showcase, Bonde do Role, My Brightest Diamond, Deerhunter, the Big Sleep, Galactic with Lyrics Born and Boots Riley, Yip-Yip, Strange Boys, Fuck by Fuck You, Horrors, the A-bones, Reigning Sound, Cody Chestnutt, the M's, Oohlas, the Ponderosa Stomp party, Miko Miko, Daniel Johnston and the Nightmares, David Garza, Clockcleaner, Gown, Michael Pitt's Pagoda, Broken West, Rosebuds, Cyann and Ben, Cortney Tidwell, Langhorne Slim, Finally Punk, Sammies, Golden Bear, Devin the Dude, the Presets, Kings of Leon, Turzi, David Karsten Daniels, Midnight Movies, Watson Twins, Malajube, Gods and Monsters, Plan B, Lee "Scratch" Perry, Swamp Dogg, Beats of Bourbon, the Saints, Andrew Bird, and Andrew WK.

Jay Reatard and co. bust up Longbranch Inn at a Vice Saves Texas shindig.

The Hylozoists send out good vibes.

Psychedelic Horseshit talks back. "This song is about Deerhunter and their samplers."

Oh, no, it's Iono, Norway's NOXAGT

Rusted Shut opens up the Load showcase.

Remembering This Moment in Black History.

Jesus, it's loud. It's JESU.

Vashti Bunyan kills us softly with her song at Central Presbyterian Church.

Here's what a capacity SXSW crowd looks like - peering in from outside the Beauty Bar Patio at Foreign Islands.

This is the end, my semi-naked friend.

By the way, anyone notice that the old-school girl-group sound is back (i.e., Amy Winehouse, the Pipettes, Mary Weiss)?

Oooooh, here comes Japanese all-femme Thrill Jockey band OOIOO, playing Monday, March 26, alongside with Neung Phak at the Independent. Here's more of an e-mail interview with honchette Yoshimi (also of the Boredoms), translated by Hashim Bharoocha.

Guardian: How did this tour come about? OOIOO seems to rarely tour internationally.

Yoshimi: The tour came about simply because Thrill Jockey in the US also released Taiga, and I had a vague idea from about last year that I wanted to tour the US around March. There are three people with children in the band, so it is difficult to make arrangements with each of the mothers and their families to tour. I don't feel it is necessary to separate small children from their mothers just to tour. So we are taking our kids with us. We will also be taking either babysitters or the fathers with us and touring together. But there is no one in the US that wants to pay for additional family members, so it is difficult to work that out. We mostly have to pay for that ourselves.

By G.W. Schulz

It's tough to come up with your own musical concepts and ideas when your schedule is loaded with photo sessions and magazine interviews inquiring about your sex life on behalf of thousands of barely legal teenage girls.

How does Fall Out Boy have time to write music these days? They’re everywhere ‘cept behind their instruments. They're on the cover of Rolling Stone. They're on the cover of Spin. Shit, the New Yorker even ran a piece on them, dutifully highlighting in the photo that one guy who insists on liberally applying mascara and not wearing a shirt. You're no Iggy Pop, douchebag. Who is their publicist fellating to get all this good press, by the way? Do people still buy this trash? Most of all, why is Microsoft Word telling me not to use “fellatio” as a verb, or even “douchbag” as a noun? Perhaps the new Word version in Microsoft Vista will list “Fall Out Boy” among the alternatives for “douchebags.”

Anyway, it looks like Nicholas Hans of the now-defunct Knives Out is considering legal action against Fall Out Douche for ripping off the image that appeared on a shirt Knives Out was selling a few years ago in 2001 while on tour.

Lots to hear this weekend - including a petite DJ set by yours truly today at 3 p.m. on KUSF. Justice, El-P, Sleepytime Gorilla Museum, Money Mark, Besnard Lakes, Swan Island - but right I'm thinking Birds of Avalon sound pretty swell.

Onetime Cherry Valence-rs Cheetie Kumar and Paul Siler got married and busted up the Cherry and put together this hard-rockin' ensemble with the Weather's Craig Tilley. Psych, prog, Sabbath? See what I mean. Their first album, Bazaar Bazaar (Volcom), was co-produced by Mitch Easter and the combo is touring with Fucking Champs when they're not here, playing with Total BS and Mantles at Hemlock Tavern, SF. It's Saturday, March 24, 9:30 p.m., and 7 bucks, buckeroo.