SXSW 2009 report: Day one

Ladyhawke's Pip Brown (Credit: Ryan Muir)

Photos:

Officially, the South by Southwest Music Festival doesn’t start until 8:00 p.m. Wednesday night. In reality, there are musical events happening all week, and by Wednesday, things are pretty much in full swing. Still, a lot of folks—myself included—don’t arrive until later that day, and it takes us awhile to get into the swing of things. So when you walk into Stubb’s, one of Austin’s biggest venues, at 7:55 and notice that it’s mostly full of dudes standing by themselves, nervously poking at their cell phones, don’t worry—give us another few hours and another few beers, and we’ll be raring to go.

Janelle Monae, Stubb’s, 8:00 p.m.
If you can picture a cross between Morris Day from the Time and a fembot, that’s Janelle Monae—a very funky nerd with a serious sci-fi fetish, and for the next four days, probably the owner of Austin’s best pompadour. Her retro-futurist take on P-Funk/Prince/OutKast was fun for a few songs, but she leaned a little too heavily on pre-recorded backing tracks for my taste, so I moved on.

Ulrich Schnauss, Elysium, 8:20 p.m.
I know, it makes no sense for me to criticize Monae for having her DJ cue up a few basslines and backing vocals, then ditch her show to go check out some German dude sitting in front a giant bank of samplers and effects boxes. But call me a hypocrite if you must. Ulrich Schnauss’ music hits a sweet spot for me right between the pretty noodlings of ambient electronica and the warm feedback bath of classic shoegaze—Boards of Canada meets My Bloody Valentine, if you will. His set was the most consistently engaging thing I heard all night, even though he remained so intently focused on his gadgets that one of the SXSW minions had to practically throw herself at his feet to let him know it was time to wrap up.

Ladyhawke, Stubb’s, 9:00 p.m.
Is it tacky to critique someone with Asperger’s syndrome for not having much stage presence? Oops, guess I just did. Pip Brown and her band make terrific, fun, colorful music, full of sly cribs from ‘80s rock and New Wave, but on the big stage at Stubb’s, they delivered a performance that could best be described as merely workmanlike. Still, our photographer got some great pics of Pip and the boys in action, and got close enough to capture some subtleties that, from my vantage point, I failed to pick up on.

The Coathangers, Red Eyed Fly, 9:20 p.m.
“Thanks for putting up with us,” sneered drummer/singer/guitarist/budding sex symbol Stephanie Luke as her band wrapped up their deliriously sloppy set. The Coathangers are an all-girl four-piece from Atlanta who make their fellow ATLers the Black Lips look like beacons of staid professionalism. They constantly swap instruments, less as a way of showing off than as a way of declaring, hey, anyone can do this—playing, say, the drums in a punky spazz-rock group is about as complicated as, say, writing about SXSW. Really, I should just stop writing smack about other people’s music and start a band.

Boys Noize, Elysium, 10:00 p.m.
Stepping up to the decks with a big black “N” (as in “Noize,” I presume) on his T-shirt, Germany’s DJ Alexander Ridha, a.k.a. Boys Noize, threw down a set that got the Justice-loving hipster kids waving their hands in the air like just didn’t care. And OK, fine, I admit it—I waved my hands, too, even though dirty, distorted electro-house has almost become a cliché at this point. Those buzzy, dive-bombing basslines are hard to resist.

Peter Mulvey, The Velveeta Room, 10:35 p.m.
On my way to the evening’s main event—Peter Bjorn and John—I stopped in to catch a few songs by an old personal favorite of mine. Back when I lived in Boston, I used to catch this amazing singer-guitarist playing Waterboys covers on the subway. He’s since moved back to Milwaukee (his hometown) and mellowed into a gifted, literate songwriter with a beautifully light touch on the old acoustic. Fans of Ray LaMontagne and Ron Sexsmith, please, seek this guy out—he’s an underappreciated master. I hadn’t seen him play in years, but he still has the power to silence a room.

Peter Bjorn and John, Vice, 10:55 p.m.
All I can say is, what a disappointment—and no, I’m not even talking about the fact that they didn’t play “Young Folks,” though there was plenty of grumbling about that from the crowd. But the whistling Swedish trio’s set was plagued with sound problems from start to finish, and neither the band nor the audience really handled the situation well—no, it’s not cool to heckle a band that’s having trouble hearing themselves play, but it also wasn’t very cool of Bjorn to cuss out said hecklers and proceed to play the rest of the set like he was on the verge of wrapping his bass around the sound guy’s head. Peter and John were better sports about the whole thing, and the tension in the room actually produced some momentary magic when they tore through a ferocious, riveting version of “Objects of My Affection.” But PB&J clearly were not happy with how the new material sounded, and the rapidly dispersing crowd clearly wasn’t, either. I hope I get a chance to hear them again in better circumstances before the festival’s over.

Wild Moccasins, The Tap Room at Six, 12:00 a.m.
I went to the Tap Room expecting to hear a terrific psych-rock band from Ann Arbor, Mich., called Starling Electric, but apparently they were a last-minute cancellation. Fortunately, this replacement band, an impossibly young-looking group from Houston (seriously, their drummer must get carded at PG-13 movies) was a pleasant surprise. Featuring some tasty boy-girl harmonies and chiming guitar hooks, they played a feisty, energetic set to a sparse but appreciative crowd (apparently, everyone was back at Stubb's for the Decemberists). And when the lead singer noted that his guitar had clearly gone out of tune, he didn’t appear ready to beat anyone up over it. Texans nicer than Swedes! Who’da thunk it?

Brother Ali, Back Alley Social, 12:45 a.m.
First, let me just drop some knowledge on y’all: if the words “Back Alley” appear in the name of the venue, chances are you enter through (duh!) the back alley. Apparently, after one too many Shiner Bocks (the beverage of choice in Austin), your intrepid reporter had a hard time figuring this out. After one of the nice little SXSW elves finally steered me to the correct entrance, I managed to catch the tail end of a punchy little set by the world’s greatest albino Muslim rapper. Actually, all kidding aside, Brother Ali may be one of the world’s greatest rappers, period. This was my first time seeing him live and his stage presence is every bit as powerful as his voice.

Booka Shade, La Zona Rosa, 1:15 a.m.
More German DJs? Don’t worry, all you red-blooded American indie rock lovers—this is neither a trend nor a particular obsession of mine, more like a grand SXSW coincidence. The rest of the festival features no more German DJs that I’m aware of. Actually, this Frankfurt duo weren’t just rocking the laptops and/or CD decks, as I had expected—they actually had a live PA, with one guy working a full complement of keyboards and high-tech gear and the other whaling on an impressively elaborate electronic drum kit. This gave them plenty of opportunity to jump around and whack things and gesticulate wildly to the crowd, which was clearly eating it up—but in a weird way, it made me nostalgic for the good old days when club-going was a simpler experience and DJs were just lowly, unassuming crate-diggers who weren’t expected to put on a show. Damn you, Daft Punk! This is all your fault.