Signage modification - Austin, Texas-style. All photos by Kimberly Chun.
What a weird lil' South By this is? Can it get any stranger than the evening of March 13, which started out at Stubb's for a sold-out anti-war concert, "Body of War," linked to the feature documentary on 25-year-old Tomas Young, who was paralyzed from a bullet to his spine, taken after serving in Iraq for less than a week. System of a Down's Serj Tankian accompanied himself on piano, Billy Bragg presented a powerful "Farmer Boy," and Kimya Dawson, Ben Harper, and RX Bandits filled out the bill. (Sightings of the Dawson's infant being cartered by her partner, abounded throughout the fest).
Gimme more Ex Cocaine.
Then it was off to the Siltbreeze showcase at Soho Lounge for a hand drum-driven Ex Cocaine from Missoula, Montana, and the stirring guitar-electronics invocations of Blues Control from Brooklyn. Good to see such a sizable crowd out for what many might see as a micro-niche night.
Outta-hand Blues Control.
Made few pitstops at Friends for the soon-to-be capacity Carbon/Silicon showcase (witness the scores of disappointed Clash fans milling around before their 11:30 p.m. set outside, cordoned off by police tape just so they don't get raucous). London's Noah and the Whale plied their rootsy folky harmonies with sweetness and high spirits.
Swallow this: Noah and the Whale.
More ambitious but definitely more streamlined lineup-wise, was Florence and the Machine, also from London town, over at BBC/Steve Lamacq's event at the Rio. Like a sweet, over-the-top cross between Kate Bush and a high school musical theater star, Flo mimed drowning, quasi-tap-danced, and threw her gold-sequined jacket to an audience member when she grew encumbered. All accompanied only by ukulele. And with plenty of drama for all.
The Fantasticks, anyone? Florence and the Machine.
Time to queue for the Playboy/C3 (presenters of Lollapalooza, et al) ninth annual late-night party. The line wound round the block of the "301" warehouse and the media line (through the back entrance - I felt like I ought to be helping with the dishes!) was just as crazed. Once inside, after watching oodles of would-be media types getting turned away at the list, I spied Perez Hilton all in white, with white shorn locks, got my beverage (check the ample barbecue midnight snack), and studied the Heavy as they cozied up to playmates in sad drooping bunny ears and cotton tails.
Things got Heavy.
As with so many other SXSW soirees this year, Guitar Hero - played out of the back of a hatchback - was present and accounted for. A weird Playboy animal mascot - a rodent cousin of the leggy bunnies? - cavorted with guests. Britney lookalikes - complete with fedoras, big shades, dyed black hair, and slip dresses were plentiful. Lavish - oui, though the Porta-Potties detracted from the posh array of cocktails.
MGMT brought everyone to the dancefloor with their folkish fairy pop/rock - they sounded swell and got the industry types wiggling. That warmed them up for Moby - who came on at about 2 a.m. and delivered a DJ set heavy on his own music, streamlined techno, house, and disco faves. Seems like Moby is taking a cue from newer DJs these days - how else to explain the train-crash segue and the Guns 'N Roses climax? Surrounded by a mass of audience members on stage, Moby resembled nothing more than...Girl Talk.
Whale, hell: Moby warms up
The bash had turned into a warehouse rave complete with big pools of spilled beer and water and fluids, with empties and paper plates and plastic cups everywhere. Faux smoke filled the space as Justice entered the haus at around 3 a.m. It was a solid DJ set but something of a letdown considering this was their sole SXSW appearance (which also explains the mania surrounding the party). Was it accurate to describe the party as "Tittystock," as coined by Kandia Crazy Horse? Perhaps Fratstock would be more on point.
Is there Justice? I can't make 'em out in the haze.
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