Essay: A SXSW 2023 true tale of heartbreak

I’m an unreliable narrator – SXSW 2023 passes and all. I hope you enjoyed it. I hope you learned about new bands, new places to eat, new bartenders to meet to serve you a drink. I hope you got an inside track about what the Austin music scene has to offer. But it was never about you. Instead, it was always about her. Every night, I took you to places, into the sounds of rock and roll. I picked every one of those places, not because I wanted to make you better, but because I needed to slap a Band-Aid on me. 

Typically, this time of year is my Christmas. I love the chaos of music from all corners of the globe, I love accruing new badges, meeting new friends and finding my way into a late-night show or an after-party, but not this year. No fucking way. I found small ways to feel human again whether it was through new bands, old bands or finding yourself in a riff and a scream, if only for a moment. I wanted this experience that people come from all over the world for to be a medicine, something I needed from my bones to my beat-up Vans. I wanted a distraction from how bummed out I am.  

My entire SXSW and existence since has been tainted by a breakup that’s an emotional baseball bat to the teeth. So, here’s the thing, I recently lost the love of my life. It’s my fault. I’ll spare you the details. (I didn’t cheat, but I fucked up.) Knowing she was out there, without me, hurt, letting me die with every moment that you could look over and give the “can you fucking believe this” nod as one of the many bands I saw crushed it on stage. And you got a first-row seat for it. Losing a girlfriend is one thing, but losing your Best Friend who can make you laugh in the middle of Target makes the sting of sharing so much music you both love together feel that much worse.

The cool guy Jameson shots in the air, all the passes, the backstage bullshit is meaningless when the noise can’t battle with the offbeat thump in your chest. It was a salve to post a story on social media that would somehow get back to her—all of it. I wanted her to see some part of me, even secondhand. From Rickshaw Billie’s killing at the Parish to The Zombies putting on a masterclass of what it means to be rock royalty, it was all based on a schedule of small ways to feel human when that’s been impossible lately. Lone Star doesn’t taste as good when you can’t cheers with someone who knows how special the moment is. 

It was all by the luck of the draw, and in the process, I discovered so much. Backdrop  Cinderella was incredible; hanging with El Hefe Greg is one of the best times you can have. I caught Bike, Pussy Gillette, and Model/Actriz. I rediscovered my love for Black Angels. These experiences were fantastic because they came without context; it was a magic-of-the-moment situation. 

I went to the Far Out Lounge for their big psyche/doom/stoner night because I hoped to catch her. If there was one show I knew-knew she’d hit, it would be that one. I don’t give a fuck about stoner or psych bands. To me, they’re boring. As my hands tore into the makeshift parking lot, it wasn’t about the music. I had to talk myself through “what if’s.”

Every band wanted to sound like Black Sabbath for about five years in Austin. I hated every second of that mustache and bell-bottom jeans bullshit. Monte Luna played, and those dudes are one of the better bands within the genre. Monte Luna explores further than just the same tired-ass Sleep riff I’ve heard for the last decade.  For the rest of the scene, no one cares about your Billy Joel baseball tee from 75’ my dude. Your chopper and biker gang are lame as fuck. Rainbows are Free were fine; many neckbeards were screaming while wearing tie-dyed hoodies. After four bands, I bailed. I missed Scorpion Child, and that sucked.

After watching the sky light up like a birthday cake with endless lightning, I figured the whole thing was headed for “maybe we’ll make up tomorrow.” Only indoor stuff was happening. My road dog Corey and I wound up at 04 Lounge, catching the best cover band in town, Think Lizzy, as they howled their way through the Thin Lizzy catalog one riff at a time. Despite a small crowd, there was enormous energy, and you know what? Singing along to “Cowboy Song” when you’re down has its moments. Following Think Lizzy was Angry Little Vegan, who sounded as if Quicksand and Snapcase had a baby for a second there.

As I drove into the rain, I didn’t have an agenda. I wasn’t asking the gods for anything but a few tunes that might save me. You can drive forward, but you can never go back. I stopped into High Noon. Hip hop played while people talked in shadowy corners. I caught Kyle from The Sword and told him explicitly how much I loved his band and that the breakup was trash.

I cruised across the street to Long Play Lounge. Star Parks was a fun New Orleans-style groovy rock band with brass that make people shake ass.  We need more of it in town. 

I love Austin. I’m thankful to live here and to be a part of multiple scenes. I’ll never take it for granted. After a shot and a salute to the homies, I headed across the street to devour  hot wings at Drinks Lounge. It was the fuel I needed when I checked my social media. I saw that my Ex had been at the Far Out. I’d missed her. The lightning was still in the sky, which meant it was by moments, likely. My heart went to the soles of my feet. She might have been there the whole time, avoiding me. I don’t know. 

I spent seven days documenting my life, but the one thing I left out was my heart. There are hugs from your friends who run bars, watch the door, or print the fliers for the shows. They may not be the homies you talk to daily, but the family of the service industry is weird and fucked up. They get it: heartache is something you can do a shot about because if you’re fucked up, they’ve been there, too. I’m still looking for that moment where I can stop looking at my phone wishing she was with me.

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