After a nearly full day of solid performances at Mess With Texas, everything afterwards had the faint odor of relative anticlimacticness.
The first stop was up the street from Waterloo Park, where Brit punk rockers The Homosexuals were unleashing a snarling, energetic taste of what the band had to offer back in the good old days. And except for some added crow’s feet, it was as though the eclectic, experimental punk band was frozen in time. Singer L’Voag was still brimming with as much piss and vinegar as he let loose on crowds back during their peak in the late ’70s, shouting to the crowd to, “Think for yourselves!” and to fight the Bush empire at all times, which was the one reminder that it was 2008 and not 1978.
On the other hand, just down the hall was a much more laid back and whimsical performance by Montreal’s Socalled, a Garfunkel-clone who mixes the unlikely genres of hip-hop and folk music, such as klezmer. If you ever had a burning desire to hear rapping and accordion in the same song, this is the act for you. His band was a veritable multi-culti musical Benetton ad.
After receiving a text that The Clash’s Mick Jones would be performing with Alabama 3 at La Zona Rosa, we raced to our two-wheeled steeds. I would like to interject here that riding helmetless on the back pegs of a BMX bike while the designated driver rides into oncoming traffic and weaves between cars at breakneck speed perhaps isn’t the safest form of transport. But it sure is fun.
Now if on foot, walking from one end of the strip to the other would have taken at least 20 minutes, by bicycle we made it in less than five. This resulted in walking into a Hanson concert, which was in full swing, complete with screaming girls competing for a tossed drumstick. It was surreal to stand among the worshiping fans, who were such a far cry from the typical SXSWer. And yes, my party and I all secretly wished for “Mmmbop.” No such luck. The boys have traded their PG teenybopper sound for a more classic rock one, but still came off as pure and all-American, even when the middle Hanson brother (on vocals and piano) asked how many people had gotten drunk last night and done something they regretted.
Come to think of it, I remember seeing the beaming blond ones at a SXSW after-party about five or so years back, cutting loose and (gasp!) enjoying an adult beverage or two. They were most definitely underage then. Maybe the brothers Hanson really do have a dark side.
After waiting a momentum-killing 20 minutes for Alabama 3 and company (?) to set up, the band appeared sans Jones and launched into a stripped down version of their typical “acid house country.” Though they hail from the U.K., Alabama 3 sound like a U.S.-born and bred gritty Americana act with a few bleeps, clicks and beats thrown in to mix it up. They merge good old fashioned blues and country with late ’80s/early ’90s Manchester electro party culture, a la Primal Scream and they are one of the most confident live acts around.
The earlier waiting with nothing to do while so much was going on dampened spirits and we moved on in search of something livelier. It turns out, Jones had appeared to contribute guitar to only one song, A3’s most recognizable song is “Woke Up This Morning,” which of course, happens to be the theme song for “The Sopranos.”
The evening ended up at the Vice Magazine party where a few rather curt ladies proceeded to tell everyone in line that they weren’t on the guest list. Not buying it (especially after hearing that there was nobody inside), I joined another line coming from the other way and was steered past the velvet rope with a smile and a “Hey… Arizona! I love Arizona!”
These are the things I know about the Vice after party: a band played and there were a lot of people onstage, there was no DJ, it was still going strong after 4:30 a.m. and there was alcohol and it was free. The rest was a blur of handsomely coiffed partiers, blaring noise and free tequila.
And so this brings SXSW 2008 to a close for Subbacultcha. As usual, it was packed with too much to do, new friends, delicious street food, a handful of truly memorable performances, discoveries of great new bands, and only a few hours of sleep per night. After driving well over 15 hours through blustery heat, freezing cold, snow (just outside of Benson), a carload of Tucsonans stumbled back into their normal routines, exhausted. And though every SXSWer arrives home feeling drained, weary, battered, bruised and usually five pounds lighter, the truth is most of us are missing it already. ‘Til next year…
