South By FauxWest: SXSW Day 5

Traipsin' the light fantastic in Austin without spilling a single beer!

By Johnny Mnemonic

Ed. Note: With this entry, BLURT blogger Johnny Mnemonic, who pens the "Music Journalism 101" blog for us, concludes his Austin report - all the way from England, where he's been on a freelance assignment. Not that a minor detail like being thousands of miles removed from the scene of the crime stopped him, so as we pointed out at the beginning, here's SXSW 2010- as he imagines it might be going down. Guarantee: all dialogue not reported verbatim.

Read also: Day 1 (Tuesday)

Day 2 (Wednesday)

Day 3 (Thursday)

Day 4 (Friday)

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Day 5: Saturday, March 20

Did you ever wonder why SXSW blogs and daily recaps are always peppy and perky and full of details and fun anecdotes for the first few days, and then as the week starts to wind down those reports steadily become truncated and as frayed around the edges as the bloggers and writers no doubt are themselves torn ‘n' frayed from four or more days of little sleep, lots of alcohol, and pretty much nonstop sensory overload?  For those of you reading this who have never attended SXSW, it's akin to going to a carnival and getting on the rollercoaster, followed by doing the bumper cars, and that followed by a race through a dimly-lit funhouse/hall of mirrors, while the whole time carnival music blares nonstop at maximum volume - then doing it all over again. And again. And again. With barely a few hours of rest before one of the carny workers takes your ticket and pushes you right back onto the ride.

It's fun, but like that old saying about hitting your head against the wall - it sure feels good when it stops, too. As I type it's Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting in the virtual terminal of the virtual Dallas airport, the same place where on Tuesday I got stuck for several virtual hours and entertained myself virtually by playing the "spot the traveling musician" game. This time around, though, all those black-clad dudes and cute chicks in cowgirl boots look decidedly worse for the wear, and even that fat bald English band manager who couldn't stop yapping five days ago seems relieved to just flop down in a chair and read a newspaper. I'm with him on that, but first, my virtual report - truncated, yes, but in an alternate dimension somewhere, absolutely true - on the final day of the 2010 SXSW. See you next year!

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Way too early on a Saturday morning, but for some reason I feel great! Okay, I'm dog tired, but my head is buzzing like a meadow in spring. Hmm... looks like my roomie Artie scored last night; over on the dresser beside his bed are two, not one, SXSW laminates. All you need is love, so that's sweet! Quick shower and I'm off. Over on 6^th Street there isn't a whole lot of activity, but I do spot a massive line of people down near Red River, and as the demographic appears to be (a) young, in the 18-and-under sense, and (b) dressed painfully hipster-centric, in a kind of Nickelodeon-meets-Hot-Topic way, it's pretty obvious something is happening down at Emo's this morning. Or more likely, around noon or so; only in Austin at SXSW will 3,000 kids queue up at 8:00 in the morning for in hopes of gaining admittance to a roughly 550-capacity venue that doesn't even open for another four hours.

What a bunch of sheep, I think to myself, as I go grab a quick cup of coffee. I have to hurry so I can bolt over to Stubb's (cap: 1,800) and queue up with 3,000 adults in hopes of gaining admittance to the annual Rachael Ray Feedback Party. This is one event that, having attended it previously, I was smart enough to RSVP for. The event started three years ago basically as a way for the celebrity cooking diva to pimp her husband's (John Cusimano) rock band, The Cringe, at SXSW without having to pay some label or organization to let them piggyback onto their party. Well, the bandname tells you what you need to know. In any event, only a schmuck wouldn't jump at the chance to play a bill that's guaranteed to draw a bazillion SXSW attendees, most of them lured as much for the free, Ray-approved eats as for the music. On the menu this year: Tex-Mex Sliders, Pulled Pork Tortitas, Quesadilla Suiza Stacks, Queso Fundido Taquitos and Albondigas Subs. Funny, Rachel, you don't look Mexican!

So anyway, this is the biggest RRFP ever, and Stubbs is the only logical place to hold it considering that last year the wait to get in was upwards of two hours. Truth be told, the band lineup has never been better: She & Him (Zooey Deschanel and M. Ward), Jakob Dylan & Three Legs featuring Neko Case and Kelly Hogan, Street Sweeper Social Club, Andrew W.K., Dr. Dog, School of Seven Bells, Justin Townes Earle, Bob Schneider, Local Natives, J. Roddy Walston & the Business, Pearly Gate Music, Steve Conte & the Crazy Truth, Freelance Whales, Lawrence Arabia, the Orion Experience, Mishka and Shayna Zaid & the Catch. Oh, and The Cringe!

In fact, it's while The Cringe are onstage that I spot Ray over next to one tables near the right hand side of the stage, watching the band. I wander casually over towards her but she appears to be totally transfixed by the performance, that trademark Joker-like grin of hers frozen across her face (although it's entirely possible that she's simply afraid her hubby will glance over and catch her not being, like, less than enthralled). I get a perverse urge, then act upon it: I slip the last of the ‘shrooms left over from the previous evening into her Albondiga. Call me a rebel, call me a criminal, or just call me Owsley, but tell the truth: haven't you fantasized at some point about having the chance to dose Rachael Ray?

A couple of hours and several plates of Tex-Mex Sliders, Pulled Pork Tortitas, Quesadilla Suiza Stacks, Queso Fundido Taquitos and Albondigas Subs later, I stagger through the Stubb's exit gate and realize I need to go find a place to take a nap. I'm stuffed.

As a result, I miss all the panels I wanted to take in, but through my powers of retroactive prescience, I have divined what I missed:

• "Effecting Social Change via Music and Technology": ain't gonna happen; rock fans are even more apathetic in 2010 than they were in 1969.
• "Ethics in the Music Business": don't exist; just ask that guy who keeps flooding your in-box with his latest half-ass strategy to "bring bands and fans together via an exciting new and dynamically symbiotic social networking platform".
• "How a Timeless Artist Remains Vital": marketing- and dollar-wise, that's a no brainer: die.
• "Too Much Information! Does Interacting Kill Rockstar Mystique?": yes.
• "Artists: Getting a Digital Ass-Kicking?": yes.
• "Can China Build a Better Music Business?": no.

Now that I've got all that out of the way, I can go drink some beer.

On the way I run into Artie and his new girlfriend. "Dude, we were looking for you at Rachael Ray's party!" he says. "Did you hear what she did? She jumped onstage during the Street Sweeper Social Club's set, grabbed the mic from Boots Riley, hollered, "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!", then dropped to her knees in front of Tom Morello and mimed doing the David Bowie-Mick Ronson thing! It was awesome!"

Shit, I miss all the best stuff at SXSW. Anyway, I laugh with them, then before we go our separate ways. I can't resist telling the girl, who as you may recall works for a certain high powered NYC public relations firm, "Since you two are an item now, I guess Artie can't write about your clients anymore." To which she replies, coyly, "Well, then I'll have to get you to do it, won't I, Johnny?" I chuckle, then shoot back, "Dunno ‘bout that. Last time I profiled someone on your roster you tore me a new one for printing the city your client lived in - that stalker shit you were so paranoid about, even though, as I pointed out, she had already posted the name of the town on her MySpace page." The girl blushes, so because I'm really a sweetheart I add, "But don't worry. I covered for you." Ah, the journalist-publicist relationships can get so complicated. Sometimes the only solution is to sleep with one another.

Anyway, off for a couple of beers.

Several hours later: Holy shit. I. Cannot. Believe. This. Is. Happening.

Each year at SXSW there's The Big Rumor that circulates, typically regarding this or that artist who may make a surprise appearance. A few years ago it was gonna be Dinosaur Jr, who at the time had not done the full reunion tour, and even up-to-the-last-minute texts were flying about the band "set to go on in a half hour" at such-and-such a place. (I got sucked into that one and rushed over. Turns out it was just Witch.) Last year the word on the street was that Neil Young would turn up for a stealth concert; it made sense, because there was also a special panel devoted to Neil and his forthcoming Archives box. But no dice.

This year I've been hearing that Husker Du is going to do a one-off reunion gig. Despite the acrimony that supposedly lingers between the three members, from a logistical standpoint, it's plausible: Grant Hart is in town for several shows, including the Second Motion/Blurt Magazine showcase that's happening tonight, and just last week Bob Mould did a three-night residency at the Rusty Spurs club here in Austin (he apparently knows the owner from their college days). I'm not sure where erstwhile Husker bassist Greg Norton fits in, particularly given some of the comments Hart made about Norton in a recent Blurt interview, and his and Mould's generally dismissive attitude towards Norton and his musical talents. But still - anything can happen, and SXSW has become more and more often a kickoff party  for new musical projects, particularly those where a lot of dough stands to be made and therefore the glare of an industry confab like SXSW makes for beautiful marketing symmetry.

Tonight, that anything that can happen does happen. I'm sure a lot of people reading this will think I was hallucinating, but that all happened to me last night at Acid Mothers Temple. I've only had two beers tonight, I swear. The Second Motion/Blurt showcase at the Taproom At Six has drawn a fantastic turnout, and we've already had stellar sets from Ireland up-and-comers The Walls, UK singer-songwriter Gemma Ray, Marty Willson-Piper from the Church, pop legend Tommy Keene, the aforementioned Grant Hart, and Adam Franklin (of Swervedriver) with his latest band Bolts Of Melody. We've also already passed the 1a.m. mark and Franklin's just come back onstage for what we presume will be the last encore when he glances over at the wings and casually announces, "I'd like to bring a couple of new friends of mine out here..."

It's Grant Hart and, you guessed it, Bob Fucking Mould.

Hart settles in at the drumkit, while Mould plugs in. Smiles all around onstage, while in the audience you can hear the collective thump of jaws hitting the floor. Franklin nods at his newly-enhanced band, then turns to Mould and makes a classic "we're not worthy!" bowing motion; Mould cracks up, cocks his head and points at Franklin like "You da man!" And before anyone in the room can react, they've launched into "8 Miles High," in all its post-Byrdsian, proto-Huskerian thunder.

A four-song H.D. mini-set then ensues: Mould's "New Day Rising" is followed with barely a pause by Hart's "The Girl Who Lives on Heaven Hill" (both from the H.D.  early classic New Day Rising), then another Hart song, "Don't Want to Know if You Are Lonely" (from 1986's Candy Apple Grey), and finally a marathon, 12-minute version of Mould's "Could You Be the One" (from the band's 1987 studio swansong Warehouse: Songs and Stories). The crowd is pretty much going berserk, and the musicians are exchanging glances like, is this really happening?

Apparently the four Husker songs, plus the Byrds tune, was all they'd had a chance to prepare, so for one final encore, circa 2:30 in the morning, following a brief onstage huddle, Mould launches into the signature "Back In Black" riff. Franklin beckons to some of the musicians at the back of the stage who've been taking all this in, and in the blink of an eye Gemma Ray, a couple of the Walls, Tommy Keene and Marty Willson-Piper are all clustered around the extra mic stand, swapping off on AC/DC lyrics. Someone in the crowd catches Mould's eye and he gestures the guy up - holy crap, it's Greg Norton! Franklin's bassist hands Norton the axe and...

Wait a minute; it's not Norton. It's actually Franz Nicolay, late of the Hold Steady, who's been in Austin promoting about 15 different musical and literary projects he's currently involved with. I'm not sure if anyone knew Nicolay could play the bass, but he most certainly can, with aplomb. At one point all the musicians except Nicolay and Mould pull back, leaving Nicolay, Mould and Hart in a semi-circle, jamming away, and I swear if you squint, it looks exactly like Husker Du. Later, when I get back to the hotel, I will go online to see what the bloggers are saying and what the Twitterers were tweeting (not to mention Lords a-leaping, ha-ha) and sure enough, a slew of them are claiming it was the actual full Husker Du at the show, so I'm just correcting any erroneous reports here.

Things turn chaotic at this point. Willson-Piper shouts out he'd like to bring up a few friends, and all his bandmates from the Church hop onstage. Then Tommy Keene pulls not one but two rabbits out of his hat by bringing on a couple of guys he's played with in the past, Paul Westerberg and Bob Pollard. Not to be outdone, since it's technically his showcase and all that, Franklin brings on everyone from Swervedriver and subtly steers the AC/DC song into a primal version of "Son of Mustang Ford." Sheer pandemonium. It looks like one of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremonies end-of-evening all-star jams - a notion that's indelibly reinforced when fuckin' Paul Shaffer jumps up there too! Where the hell did HE come from!?! Such a ham, and... whoops, it's Moby, in town to help promote his dynamic new social networking platform that will bring bands and fans together. Still, it's quite a sight.

Suddenly Rachael Ray is running on from the wings, grabbing Mould's mic and gibbering something about "I think this is a pile of shit while John Sinclair rots in prison!," but Mould quickly boots her off the stage with one deft swing of his Flying V. Things finally come to a conclusion about 4a.m. and the club owner assures everyone that this is without at doubt the longest SXSW showcase Austin has ever seen. Who am I to complain!

I spot Ray curled up in a fetal position behind the merch table at the rear of the club and I want to go console her, but an overwhelming sense of guilt washes over me so I just ease out the door, into the Texas night, in search of a chili hot dog prior to hitting the sack.

Another successful SXSW has come and gone. Let's get on that ride and do it all over again! How was yours?

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Johnny Mnemonic is the pseudonym of a "highly-regarded" national writer with, he advises us, over two decades' experience working as a music critic, reporter, editor and marketing consultant. We've never met him face-to-face, and he further advises he will be delivering his blogs to us via the "double blind drop-box method," whatever that is, to ensure his anonymity.