SXSW Surveillance: Part 1

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On my last night of SXSW I asked Nick Oliveri what he would change, if anything, about the week-long Austin, Texas music marathon. We idled coolly on the Emo's smoking-patio, biding our time before Turbonegro took the stage, and he replied, “It needs more ROCK.” This, coming from a man who was sacked from not one but two of the most raucous bands in recent rock folklore, the Dwarves and Queens of the Stone Age — bands chaotic in both form and function. I didn’t ask him to elaborate as Turbonegro was, in fact, moments from taking the stage. However it got me thinking about the week I had just survived at one of the biggest music festivals in the country, and perhaps the world. After all I had seen, heard (and smelled), how much of SXSW was still, at its core, down and dirty rock and how much was just, you know, simply rockin’?

The Flight: No Way Out

LAX at 4 am on the morning of the SXSW kick-off is somewhat disenchanting. If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to toss the best and the worst of the music industry into an overtly franchised, Big Brother-esque, sterile environment where everyone is forced to strip down to their mismatched socks and make awkward “who do you work for” conversation over Bloody Mary’s at dawn while dismissing any and all alcoholic innuendo, the early morning snob-surge at LAX is a worthy start.

It’s still dark out, but everyone is wearing shades. The un-tapped, indie bands lurk beneath vintage “Jackie-O meets Private Eye” sunglasses, the punk bands and under-paid journalists don Aviators, the stylists and publicists wear varied versions of oversized “Don’t bother me, I’m eating Fro-Yo” styles, and the higher-up record execs sport black, freshly polished shades that suggest “Matrix cool.”

SXSW is quite a phenomenon. It may be the only time of the year where people from every major city in the world flock to Texas willingly. At the airport, music industry giants risk rock-star hopefuls getting a sneak peak at the “man behind the curtain." If you happen to catch a glimpse of Rick Rubin’s orthopedic shoe-inserts during the obligatory security check point, it makes it that much more devastating when you later find out he thought your band’s showcase sucked. Everyone is taking inventory yet everyone is hoping to go unnoticed. You find yourself at a kiosk, buying Revolver magazine to read en route, only to realize that the guy buying Pepto Bismol in line in front of you is the same one on the cover of Revolver. That’s the airport.

The flight is a bit more traumatic, especially if you’re prone to inopportune bouts of confrontation anxiety. You’re about to board the plane, you’ve taken inventory of all the people you’ll soon be sharing germ-laden, recycled air and stale bagels with, and now comes the decisive moment where you find out who you'll be stuck sitting next to and crawling over to use the bathroom. There is nothing more awkward than waiting in line for the lavatory behind a musician you adore just to find out they left a less-than-fragrant stench for you to walk in to. There is something extraordinarily uncomfortable about that moment, when you feel the need to turn to the person behind you and say, “Dude, I swear it wasn’t me…it was Slash.”

As I boarded my Austin-bound flight and surveyed the rows upon compact rows of passengers, the situation proved just as expected: a haphazard music industry amalgamation flecked with forgone but not forgotten ex-factors: a double dose of both ex-coworkers and ex-lovers. Despite my best efforts at ignoring said passengers to preserve my projection of unaffected, self-contained awesomeness, I realized that there was nowhere to hide but at the bottom of an over-priced Bloody Mary.

Shooting the Shit, Talking the Talk

Getting a quality interview with a band or musician at SXSW is difficult. You’ve got to be a bit more forgiving with your expectations, gladly welcome the element of surprise and be prepared to let impromptu humor trump any lengthy prodding into a music-maker’s psyche. Seasoned journalists get thrown off guard and quick-witted bands are left without answers. I watched while geek boy-turned-Rolling Stone svengali David Fricke’s hands visibly trembled while questioning Iggy Pop and the Stooges during a harmless press conference.

My first interview at this year’s SXSW took place downtown off 6th street at a Bourbon Rocks Found Magazine party with the Walkmen (you know…the somewhat forgotten hipster-prototype band with that singer who thinks he’s still getting away with Bob Dylan-karaoke vocals). Anyway, word to the wise: when interviewing Peter and Paul from the Walkmen, never introduce yourself with any “Peter, Paul and Mary” jokes, because A) It’s really not that funny. And B) the uncomfortable silences that will plague the rest of your interview just aren’t worth it.

But then there are those interviews that remind you of everything you first fell in love with about rag-tag journalism and music in the first place. They are the interviews forged in some weird reality that exists inbetween the drunken, braggadocio tales you impart to your friends and nostalgic (dare I say romantic) throwbacks to the days of asking questions simply for the sake of asking questions -- savoring every unscripted minute of spontaneous, conversational uncertainty.

On Saturday afternoon, filled with a giddy yet authoritative sense of purpose following the Stooges panel, I wandered the outskirts of downtown Austin and found myself at what I assumed was a cow field but turned out to be a Vice magazine showcase. At SXSW "showcase" is a term mostly used to aggrandize a shifty, paint-by-number lineup of “here for beer” bands. After making my way past the non-existent party security, I inched towards the stage and delicately waded through a garden of sweaty hipsters that lounged in lawn chairs and sipped Lonestar from beer cozies inscribed with kitschy phrases like “More Cushin For The Pushin.” I secretly wanted to steal one but instead focused on tracking down Los Angeles' spastic, noise rock trio Qui for an interview. Qui was the only band that, for better or worse, held my attention throughout the entirety of its performance, despite being shut down mid-set for being too "provocative and controversial" for the Vice-promoting faux-liberals (a.k.a bland-wagon conservatives in American Apparel drag).

Next up: Qui, Iggy Pop, Jello Biafra...and more Iggy.

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