South By FauxWest: SXSW Day 1

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

By Johnny Mnemonic

Ed. Note: With South By Southwest 2010 in full swing, we decided to send BLURT blogger Johnny Mnemonic, who pens the "Music Journalism 101" blog for us, to Austin and report back with his daily misadventures, er, observations. Only hitch was, he neglected to inform us that he's currently in England and won't be back in the States until the summer. "No problemo," he assured us. "I've attended SXSW numerous times since its inception in 1987. At this stage, I think I can wing it." We hereby present the erudite Mr. Mnemonic's long-distance account of this year's SXSW - as he imagines it might be going down. Guarantee: all dialogue not reported verbatim.

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Day 1: Tuesday, March 16

Greetings, Blurters. I'm safely ensconced in my hotel room here at the Bloomsbury in London, currently on a freelance assignment for MTV networks. Readers of my Blurt blog will recall that about a year or so ago I lost my editorial job when the music publication I worked for went under, and since then I've been hopping around in a freelance capacity - including, apparently, covering SXSW for Blurt now. Without further digression, then, here's what happened my first virtual day in Texas.

My flight into Austin is delayed by a protracted layover at the Dallas airport, so to pass the time I play my favorite SXSW-related game, Spot The Traveling Musicians. Many of them are easy to pick out in a crowd; garden-variety tourists and businessmen do not, as a rule, carry guitar cases and dress in all black. If the traveling musician is female, she can additionally be identified by the western boots she invariably wears, as her far savvier Texas peers wouldn't be caught dead in clunky cowgirl boots that will kill your feet after standing for 10 to 12 hours straight, which is what SXSW is all about. British bands offer an additional wrinkle in this people-watching exercise that's always delightful: garden-variety tourists and businessmen are rarely accompanied by a short, fat, balding manager who feels compelled to speak in a loud, obnoxious Manchester accent to nobody in particular. The sub-strata of traveling journalists is worth mentioning here too: as anyone who's ever been to SXSW knows, male music writers do in fact look EXACTLY like Elvis Costello circa 1977, which is to say, anemic, with thick glasses, and hair that looks like it was trimmed with a chainsaw; female writers, dead ringers, every one of them, for Carnie Wilson prior to her notorious gastro tuck.

Upon finally arriving in Austin I take the SuperShuttle into town and promptly use up my entire stash of business cards by exchanging them with the other 50 people riding in the van. Luckily I had the foresight to ship ahead an extra box of 5000 cards to my hotel, and after arriving at the Hilton (adjacent to the Austin Convention Center, where much of the SXSW action takes place), I secure the package and check into my room. Whew - the blow and reefer I packed inside my Hole bootleg box set, which I'm hoping I can get autographed by Courtney Love while I'm down here, wasn't detected. Party on, Garth!

I pull on my faded, vintage No Depression teeshirt, the one featuring the reproduction of the cover of very first issue of the late, great Americana magazine, which was given out to everyone who attended the first organizing event of the Americana Music Association all those years ago, and with that subtle telegraphing of my hipster status to anyone I may chance to encounter, it's off to 6^th Street.

Which isn't really 6^th Street yet because the city of Austin hasn't blocked it off yet. That will come soon enough, though, and meanwhile, it's fascinating to see the main SXSW drag looking relatively uncluttered and not smelling of beer and puke. There are even cars, which reminds me, I need to check with my roommate to make sure he reserved a vehicle. He won't be in until Wednesday, but you'll meet him soon enough.

Since SXSW Music doesn't really get going until tomorrow, the must-attend music events going on today are somewhat slim pickings. So I head over to the Alamo Lamar theater to see what movies are being shown as part of SXSW Film and manage to catch most of Le Donk & Scor-zay-zee, a pretty funny British rockumentary about UK rapper Scorzayzee that also features cameos from the Arctic Monkeys. Aren't UK rappers silly!

Then it's time to hit the big Paste magazine "Kickoff" party at the PureVolume House on Trinity, where Jakob Dylan & Three Legs are supposed to play - Dylan's band is to include Neko Case, Kelly Hogan and Jon Rauhouse, and he comes on at 11, which means I won't have to sit through that family band of Christian rockers Eisley, who are headlining. When I arrive around 8pm I hear opener Harper Blynn strumming away quite earnestly, and there's barely a line to get in, so all looks good - until I am refused entry at the door. Seems that the event is RSVP only, and all my protestations fail to sway the mousy little Paste intern checking off names. I even point out that I used to write for Paste and politely urge, "Go tell Josh Jackson that his old friend Johnny M is here!" - no dice. I spot Jackson over near the bar and try to catch his attention but he pretends not to see me.

As a last straw, I pull my teeshirt up over my chest to display my big Jesus-on-the-cross tattoo that stretches across my entire torso (it's designed so each of my nipples is positioned as a nail hammered into one of the palms) but the Paste gal just goes "Ewww" and turns away in disgust, so I guess I'm fucked.

Utterly dejected - I really, really, really, really wanted to see Neko Case; not in a stalker kinda way; I just wanted to be right down front to watch the sweat glisten on her forehead as she sang; but again, it's not like I was desperate or anything - I hoof it from Trinity over to east 5^th Street to Levi's Fader Fort, site of the Zynga party where the Constellations and Metric will be playing. This turns out to be RSVP too, and I make a mental note not to be so quick to delete those label and p.r. emails that flood my inbox during the run up to SXSW next year.

Luckily the door person is way more civilized than the bitchy little Paste intern, and I don't even have to pinch my nipples and lick my upper lip at him like I did before. After a short wait in line, I'm admitted just as the Constellations are nearing the end of their set but I do get to see the Atlanta band's lead singer climb up on top of the PA and pull some Iggy/Lux Interior type moves (without actually exposing himself) while his bandmembers, all 15 of them (or so it seems; it's a big band) crack up.

Metric, featuring the ever fetching Emily Haines, comes on around 10, and I move right down front so I can watch the sweat glisten on her forehead - she does not disappoint. I start to pull up my shirt and flash my Jesus tattoo at her, but wind up sloshing beer on both myself and the people on either side of me (I am holding a bottle in each hand), so I scratch that idea and just enjoy the music.

Later that night on the street I run into my friend Kumie, who's here on a PopMatters badge to do live blogging from the music panels each day at the Convention Center, and she tells me that at the Paste party Neko Case and Jakob Dylan recreated the famous Mick Ronson-David Bowie mock-fellatio scene during a cover of "Suffragette City" and that the club just went nuts. Fuck.

I grab a bratwurst with extra kraut and chili from one of the street vendors on 6^th Street and much it down walking back to the hotel. Time to call it a night. SXSW Music on Wednesday awaits. Neko, if you're reading this, I adore you. I'm registered at the Hilton.

To be continued.

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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.