He graciously obliged the rapt audience (once they finally trickled in from day parties, beds, and such like) with acoustic performances of “Adult Education” and “Rich Girl,” and regaled us with tales of his Philly-area come-up with the likes of Gamble and Huff, Todd Rundgren, the tempting Tempts (and John Oates, of course). Best of all: his brilliant, clear-eyed debunking of blue-eyed soul – brer took it all the way back to the 1600s and broke shit down, yo – and the photo result of my diligence in traveling down to see Brother Hall (the above iPhone snap by Tim Broun).

My other personal highlight was meeting the mighty, mighty Bonnie Bramlett and her lovely sister Elvinia Rudd. While I missed her singing classics and selections from her new CD, Beautiful (Rockin’ Camel), the one-two of meeting her, one of my lifelong heroines and musical icons, and Daryl Hall just made my trip.

Thereafter, 16 magazine panel celebrating the late Gloria Stavers’s contributions to rock subculture and postwar society was uneven but very riveting and educational. Yet I eschewed remaining Center activities in favor of making strides to meet up with Signal to Noise editor Pete Gershon at his Presbyterian Church showcase featuring Jandek and then to see Bramlett’s former bandmate Bobby Whitlock play with his woman, CoCo Carmel, and Stephen Bruton – but still I failed.

So the last big evening’s highlights were reduced to center on three very different men: former Bay Area soul sensation Darondo, Nashville outlaw scion Justin Townes Earle, and local hero Davíd Garza (for whom I had determined to stay up past 1 a.m.). En route to Earle the Younger at Red-Eyed Fly after I soaked my poor feets, I made the effort to see one hipster group, the young “New Eccentrics” students from the UK, Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong at Emo’s, an overcrowded venue I tend to avoid if possible. Sorry, but they didn’t seem to improve much on high ‘60s classicism of their forebears like the Kinks and I have lived through skinny ties-and-floppy hair now one too many times – so I soon had to jangalang out of there.

Justin Townes Earle and mystery pimp Darondo got retronuevo just right, as the former invoked Hank Williams and the latter accomplished full splits worthy of James Brown. Well, so I hear – Darondo had been written up in the SX daily rag, meaning that the buzz was uncontrollable by Saturday night and Club DeVille was beyond packed. I only saw Darondo from the neck up, shuddering process, two-and-a-half teeth - one’s gold, I think - and all. Brothaman’s 70 if he’s a day, but he was amazing, all my friend Tim B. (who’d been crowing his praises as a “garage Al Green” all week) claimed and more.

Somehow, the backing band with Nino Moschella abruptly got on point when Darondo finally strode out and hypnotically wielded his pimp-hand over the mostly white audience. Folks were grinning from ear-to-ear, shimmying and exhorting their fellows throughout; no one could get enough of Darondo’s rough velvet croon and toothless lisp during “Didn’t I,” et al. Whatever Next Big Things your trusty local pop critic may have already touted, Darondo, rag-top white-on-white gangstalean heartily enjoying the official come out of his second act, was ultimately the most-buzzworthy artist of the entire festival.

SUNDAY, MARCH 16

Had to sit for Davíd Garza down Second Street, but my tenuous cleaving to stamina was well worth it, for Davíd entertained us not just with his wonderful Latinate hybrid songs but a hula-hooping vibes player as well. Great to see him and his LA manager Gil Gastelum of Cosmica Artists. A groovy, witty, colorful way to end the festival…

…Followed several hours later by our last IHOP visit – non-New Yorkers just don’t get the craving for cheap breakfasts, grease-saturated hash browns and free refills (especially with no road-trusty Waffle House anywhere nearby). Sixth Street after the circus has left town is always kind of bedraggled and desultory, and still bands played at some of the bars while we smiled wryly at “Obama is my homeboy” T's and Motownopoly in one of the head shops. By the time I dragged my black ass back to Bergstrom after 5 p.m. only to find both flights delayed and be mercifully well-met by Canadian country-rocker-turned-Manhattanite Serena Jean, your faithful correspondent was a drooping – if sartorially splendid – hot mess. And it took me a week to recover from this year’s festival - filing stories all the way – at least until the odd trifecta of Aretha Franklin at Radio City, Tyler Perry’s Meet the Browns, and an eerie inner-city full moon on Good Friday.

While I ain’t the guy who reviewed 763 tracks from Greg Weill’s unofficial BitTorrent SXSW guide, old gal did pretty darn good.