SXSW Surveillance: Part 2

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Qui has been a local LA underground fixture for quite some time, started by singer/guitarist Matt Cronk and drummer Paul “The Guy” Christensen in 2000. The band’s Website lists its music as Christian/Comedy/Regional Mexican, though in all truth it’s more of a sludgy, metal concoction dished up with boisterous, punk showmanship. With influences like the Melvins, Black Sabbath and Black Flag, it seemed like a match made in rock-heaven when David Yow (The Jesus Lizard, Scratch Acid) joined the group in 2006 to take over frontman duties.

After wading through the aforementioned cow field of grazing hipsters, I made my way “backstage” to meet up with Qui. Backstage, of course, was a sidewalk behind a steamy row of Porto-Potties where the band parked its road-warrior van, or as a buddy later dubbed it, “the loser cruiser,” complete with a meat, cheese and beer filled cooler in lieu of a center console. Cronk claimed he built the van while he was in the joint.

Qui had rolled into town several hours late after blowing two tires on the freeway, and yet the sidewalk curb was already littered with crushed Budweiser aluminum and the requisite piss-filled water bottle -- a touring band’s urinal of choice. David Yow quickly informed me that the piss was indeed his own.

Cronk waved me into the van to start the interview, adjusting his white designer-imposter, Chanel looking shades. “When you’re in show business it’s important to look your best,” he said with a smirk, and we began our chat. I asked how Qui’s drive had been (besides the blown tires) when Yow hurled his small frame into the backseat, lunged towards the tape recorder and shouted in his best guttural growl, “Who cares! My name’s Henry Rollins and I just swang by to tell ya, Qui’s a good band! But that old man who’s singing for them sucks a big cock! Sonovabitch couldn’t even stand up if he tried to!”

The rest of the band joined in with their best Rollins impersonations. “’Cause I’m a liar!!!” “I’ll rip your face off! I’ll bone your mom!”

Cronk paused, “So what did you want to talk about?” I wasn’t quite sure. Those Rollins impersonations were some of the best I’d heard or seen. I was in awe. Or maybe the Budweiser was already getting to my head, I couldn’t tell and it didn’t matter. I asked about the label attention the band had been getting lately and was pleased to hear they were in talks with both Ipecac Records and Touch and Go – two of the most respectable and nurturing indie-labels in an otherwise carnivorous industry. (By the end of SXSW Qui was proud to announce it would sign with Touch and Go.)

After some roundabout conversation concerning the band’s upcoming album and the festival in general, I asked if the guys had any SXSW survival tips, to which Yow replied, “Well, lemme tell ya. No. I lived in this stupid town for 13 years and I’ve been in bands for 25 years and this is the first time I’ve attended this nightmare. And today has made it perfectly clear to me that I’m glad I’ve never been a part of this. It’s a fucking nightmare. How many bands? Like 15,000 bands?! Stupid. Stupid.”

Post-interview we exited the van, beers in hand, cloud of cigarette smoke trailing behind. Qui was unloading its gear onto the sidewalk when some older dude sauntered over and inadvertently tripped on Christensen’s cymbals, knocking them to the ground. I looked up to see none other than Jello Biafra with an Amoeba canvas sack slung over his shoulder as a make shift man-purse. Biafra and Yow -- peers with a long history of fucking the music industry’s shit up -- were excited to see each other again. They conversed a bit about mutual friends (Buzz Osborne of the Melvins) and updated each other on their current projects (Biafra was in town to do spoken word at the Alternatative Tentacles showcase.) Before parting ways, Yow turned to my friend and I and, all in good fun, introduced us to Biafra.

“Ladies meet Jello. Jello meet the whores.”

I have always adored Yow’s impeccable sense of humor.

With show time minutes away, Cronk and Christensen had already plugged in, so I bid Yow farewell and watched as he made his way towards the stage carrying his gear, which was (of course) a 12-pack of Bud.

Now, this kind of hodgepodge interview with Qui is the kind a writer is most likely to get in the midst of festival madness. I, for one, prefer it. I like sitting in smelly vans next to bottles of pee, drinking flat beer, and musing about the pitfalls of the music industry and what makes rock so darn special. The other kind of interview -- the official SXSW Convention Center “Big Name” music panel interview -- is a whole different beast. It's usually an air conditioned, clean carpeted affair involving bottled water (not pee) and publicists who hover over your shoulder, glancing incessantly at their watches to make sure you don’t go a minute over your allotted time with said band. This is the kind of interview you must endure to chat with someone like Iggy Pop. It’s the kind of interview you must have an official badge for.

The whole "badge ordeal" is by far one of the weirdest SXSW phenomena. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the press needing to wear them (this is after all an industry schmooze fest and you’ve got to stay organized somehow…digital chip encoding and all.) What’s mind-boggling about badges is that there is an unspoken, somewhat judgemental code about how you wear your badge. How you wear your badge suggests what level of industry cool you reside on. For example, you’re a jerk if you wear it around your neck…a dead give away that you're not going to get laid this trip and probably work A&R for one of those Big Deal record labels that “strangles the creative life” out of its artists. The guys that wear badges around their necks can also usually be identified by the Blue Tooth gizmo dangling from their ears. You’re cool if you wear your badge and/or assortment of other laminants on your belt loop. Don’t ask why, because I don’t know how this got started. But somehow people take it very seriously. (I wore my badge on my belt loop. Not because of the code, but because my boobs got in the way.)

Boobs and badges aside, there were so many requests for sit-downs with the Stooges that the festival promoters decided to throw everyone into one room at the same time and stage a formal panel of sorts, led by ringleader David Fricke of Rolling Stone magazine. There was a mic set up in the aisle that the rest of us plebian journos could use to ask questions, but conveniently Fricke’s longwinded Q&A ran over and our mic went untouched. So it goes. At least we got to sit in on the interview.

Iggy Pop, Ron Asheton and Scott Asheton of the Stooges were already seated and softly-lit when I walked in. The first thing everyone has asked me about the interview is whether or not Iggy was coherent and how healthy he looked. He looked great for a 60-year-old ex-junkie -- all sinewy muscles, tanned skin, and blond locks. That Florida sun (where he now lives) must be doing him some good. And yes, he was completely coherent. His oddities are, after all, what makes him the crazed, rock survivor we worship. He wore one flip-flop and left the other foot bare and has a charming tendency to mispronounce words and fumble phrases: pronouncing Vincent Van Gogh as “Van Goff” and saying things like “it was water under the dam” instead of “under the bridge.”

Part II of III. Next up...stories from the Stooges.

Want to read Part I? It's right here.

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