SXSW Strikes Again: Day Two and Three in Review
What is cool? Cool isn’t a one-size-fits-all metric designated by the masses any longer. Everyone and everything can be cool within context. And across Austin, cool (and SXSW ) is something we’ve been monetizing since the first hip dude slipped on a Bob Seger shirt and a cowboy hat way back in the Nixon administration.
During the massive SXSW conference and festival, we’re paralyzed with banners soliciting some new show on HBO or that we should enjoy some free Lone Stars at a day party featuring bands howling for their chance at exposure via a viral moment, a good write-up, or that someone found a band that breaks through the rib cage and into the heart. It’s a slog, there’s a lot to love about SXSW, but it’s not for the weak of constitution; the drinks are plenty, and the entertainment is world-class. Saturday night, I caught a show at Vulcan Gas Company featuring Mark Smalls, who nailed that whole funny stoner routine down to a Cheech-approved fluid, calling himself “Sadly Cooper.”
Lee Kimbrel was also on the bill and delivered on the lineup. The show’s host Maverick McWilliams is a solid up-and-comer around town who did an excellent job keeping beat with the crowd. The headliner Rocky Dale Davis, though, proved once again why he’s continually one of the voices that rise to the occasion of showing the masses that a kid from Alabama is bringing a whole new voice to the conversation of what it’s like to be a “southern comic.”
Through the haze of free cans of beer, high fives, and long pulls of whiskey, there was always more music and riffs to feed the monster lurking out in the streets. At Chess Club, Trauma Ray blew the doors off the joint with their moments of deep guitar chaos that pummeled as it also whispered only moments prior. Over at White Horse, it was almost the last call, so after a quick juke to whoever was doing a set that would make the ashes of Sam Cooke shift in their urn. After a long nap and a few sad drunk texts to my ex-girlfriend, it was time to sleep off Saturday. Sunday was afoot.
Trevor Keveloh has been working since the moment he landed back in Austin, doing his best to get stage time and book as much as possible. At the Electric Church far on the east side, Leonarda Jeonie gave a masterclass on why she’s the comic to beat in the city right now. Her sarcastic wit is something men should fear. Lando Shepard, who I don’t get to catch much, was a pleasant surprise as he knocked the jokes out one after another. The gig was rounded out by Grace Kirk, whose clear annoyance with the room only made her funnier. Kill Tony alum Hans Kim stopped to work out some new material while Mike Hudak did his best to work through the cloud of weed smoke and deliver the laughs, all while wearing a tuxedo shirt.
Walking to the 13th Floor, I was accosted by Jesus freaks in yellow shirts, riding those weird hoover board things while holding signs about how much their lord and savior cared about me. They should check with his fan club to make sure. At the 13th Floor, Rocking Chair Reality Room was a solid venture into the heavy psych rock, while I booked it back to Creek in the Cave to catch Trevor do a quick set to a sold-out room. There were long conversations with Roi Hernandez, the creative director at Elysium (and fashion genius), while two drunk guys almost scrapped on Red River Street.
As the ’80s beat throbbed, it was time to head home. There is always more to do during this time. One of the things that struck me about the continual SXSW experience is the hustle within our local music community, about how many people rely on the festival for their big bump in income for the year. I was starving by this point, and food was paramount; I hit not one but two spots. I had the birria taco in the White Horse parking lot and a burrito near 7th street.
The one thing that struck me was how hard the women running these trucks were working; they hustled to prepare the show for another day as the gas had run out of the city, and it was after two am. Even though a brick wall of music and experience, there are always the outliers, the ones not giving their food away, not sponsored by PlayStation, and blessed with a massive financial windfall. The bartenders are working the shows that aren’t getting the hype or no music; people are making the beds and cleaning up the barf in the hotel rooms. Think about them as you slam that fifth vodka soda. These people might not be “cool,” but they’re doing the best they can, happy to see another day and hopefully, maybe, catch a band on their cigarette break.
Be kind out there. And tip your bartender.
Featured photo of Darkbird by Greg Ackerman
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