Bright and shiny Tricia Kanne of Minipop.

Day Two, and we were awakened way too early from a deep sleep by a rap on the door from housekeeping. They’re a zealous lot, those housekeepers. A little too zealous for the majority of guests in Austin for SXSW and in need of serious ZZs, I am certain. Well, you have to get going at some point, and the day parties seem to be starting earlier and earlier every year. Besides, today was a big day, with plans to see several bands on my must see list. And although this year we’d decided to focus on people we’d never seen before, the possibility of a Rhett Miller sighting at the end of the night seemed fated. Given my love for Rhett and the Old 97s, the idea of being in the same town with them and not crossing paths seemed positively tragic.

We got up. We got moving. Roy had writing to do, so he dropped me off at the Red-Eyed Fly just in time to catch the last half of Minipop’s set. Minipop, from San Francisco, fell into the category of bands I’d read about but had never seen or heard. In this case my source was Nylon (the magazine for disturbingly hip 20-somethings, for those unfamiliar), and although I couldn’t tell much from Nylon’s review of Minipop’s cd, “A New Hope”, references to Mazzy Star and The Sundays were enough to pique my interest and land them on my must see list.

Tricia Kanne, Minipop’s pixie-ish lead singer won me over immediately, me being me: a lover of pretty, shiny things. The music, a bright wall of indie rock punctuated by fuzzy guitar got me as well. I loved Tricia’s strong but soft vocals. Unfortunately, a few songs after my arrival, Minipop’s set was marred by technical difficulties. Apparently, the issue was with the bar’s equipment, causing the guitarist, Matt Swanson, to remark “Great, we drive 2,000 miles to get here and then have to play on a $200 amp”. Poor guys. After switching some plugs around, all the instruments could be heard but Tricia’s vocals, not so much anymore. Boo.

Regardless, I was fired up for having found a band I really loved right out of the gate that day. After the set, I rather gushingly approached Matt (aka “the very tall guitarist”) to buy a cd. And they actually had cds, which not all bands do at SouthBy, believe it or not.

The Raveonettes plotting their attack.

Roy’d agreed to meet me at the Red-Eyed Fly to see the Raveonettes, who were up on the outside stage about an hour after Minipop’s set ended. In the mean time, I hung out inside for awhile and took the opportunity to chill, resisting the urge to start drinking (it was only 1pm), taking some notes, and scamming free merch from the party’s sponsor, Dewars. Once whoever was playing outside stopped and the place cleared out, I made my way to the stage to nab a good spot.

The space filled to capacity pretty quickly, despite the fact that The Raveonettes were scheduled to play more sets than any other band at SouthBy as far as I could tell. (Last years most prolific performers were Peter, Bjorn and John, who we nonetheless managed to somehow miss.)

The Raveonettes rock the Red-Eyed Fly.

The Raveonettes are primarily Sharin Foo and Sune Rose Wagner, and hail from Copenhagen. I am not one to be the least bit interested in watching a band set up, but for some reason found it cool to watch The Raveonettes check out and discuss their set list and the crowd from just a few feet away. Once they finished setting up, I was left to just wait, my only entertainment overhearing a middle-aged punker dude sheepishly admit to having purchased his hideous zebra-striped skinny jeans at Hot Topic. LOL. Dork.

And then The Raveonettes were back and they were on and I loved them. I’d describe their sound as cool, detached mope punk with great vocal harmonies. I give them 2 thumbs up on style. I can imagine Sharin Foo in no other ‘do than her platinum bob and Sune Rose Wagner duly rocked his peg-legged hipster jeans. At one point, I found myself mesmerized by SRW’s tattoo. It’s on his arm, and it’s intriguing, basically because I can’t figure out who the hell it is. It kind of looks like Peter Gabriel. But why would anyone, especially Mr. Raveonnette, sport a tattoo of Peter Gabriel? Nothing against Peter Gabriel, but that would just be weird. If anyone out there knows who and/or what this tattoo is about, please post a comment!

Sharin Foo, one of the few humans to successfully pull off 80s punk chic.

After the Raveonettes’ set, I found Roy squished in the back of the room and we moved on to see a Canadian band my most wanted list. Land of Talk were playing their first set of SXSW at Trophy’s, a dirty, weird, dive-y little bar south of all the cool stuff on South Congress. The place was pretty empty, kind of a bummer for the band but a relief for us after having been squashed at the Red-Eyed Fly. We grabbed beers, because that’s all they sell at Trophy’s, and enjoyed our expanded personal space.

I’d heard about Land of Talk in the Euclid Records newsletter and on KDHX (natch) prior to our trip, so I had high hopes. My shallow side got the best of me right off the bat, however, as I watched the band set up. The lead singer, Elizabeth Powell, is a girl (as generally people named Elizabeth turn out to be). Although there was a girl moving around the stage, she was kind of a mess, so I assumed she must be a roadie. Um, wrong. As Lizzie explained between songs, she’d gotten up at 3 am that morning to catch a flight. She’s a tomboyish looking girl to begin with, but I’m pretty sure she hadn’t done anything to herself, including showering or changing clothes or even like, washing her face, since 3 am.

The irony that Land of Talk played in front of a banner that said BlogFRESH was not lost on me.

Wow. As an extreme girl I found this nonchalance fairly confounding and distracting. Roy pointed out that Elizabeth’s jeans had sparkles on them, which made me feel a little better. I think Land of Talk’s stage presence suffered from the 3 am flight as well though, as it took them a while to really show signs of life. After a few songs, they hit their stride, and I moved mostly past my first impression and just enjoyed the rock. I would call their sound classic indie pop rock as they rock a little harder than many of the newer indie bands and they don’t deploy the gimmicks du jour like whistling or clapping. They almost sound like they could’ve emerged in the late 90s, if that makes any sense.

Wash me. (I know. Evil. I’m SORRY!)

Although their performance did not blow me away as I’d hoped, Land of Talk were solid, I liked their songs, and I did compliment the guitarist (from a healthy distance, as he, too, looked a bit greasy) when I bought their cd afterward. I really like the record, too, by the way. In all fairness, I should also mention that I saw photos from Land of Talk’s “official SXSW showcase” in the Chronicle and they cleaned up rather nicely. They have it in them, which make me feel much, much better.

There were a few hours before the next show on our list, so Roy parked at Jo’s to write while I wandered the South By San Jose lot. I caught a few songs by L’il Cap’n Travis and AA Bondy and checked out the booths of vintage clothing, handmades by the Austin Craft Mafia, and various other and sundry SXSJ merch. We were starving, but needed to get moving, so we speed ate at a great meal at Guero’s and headed out.

Jens croons.

Next stop, Emo’s again to see Jens Lekman, a wholesome looking and captivatingly charming Swede. Jens was solo, which created a millisecond of disappointment as we’d heard stories that he often performed with like, 100 virgins (made that part up) dressed in white gowns or other manner of entourage. We recovered quickly by focusing on Jens’ endearing presence. I totally dug on his hip and very nicely pressed (white – ha) Nordic geek chic duds. It is not often that a dude can pull off embroidery on anything other than a western shirt. Snaps to you on that, Jens.

Jens started his set by very sincerely requesting that it not be taped as he really thought it would be nice for it to be just he and us, and not the world (via YouTube). Aww. And I’m pretty sure that the audience complied, amazingly.

Jens is a natural storyteller. His delivery is straight and deadpan, his voice both winsome and sly. And his stories are fabulous, although I’m sure they are mostly bullshit, Jens makes you want to believe they are not. My favorite, “Nina, I Can’t Be Your Girlfriend” is about Jens joining his lesbian friend Nina in Berlin where he meets her parents and is pressured to pretend to be her lover, before she moves to the US to be with her girlfriend, who of course her parents don’t know about. Hilarious.

I couldn’t have come up with this ensemble in a million years, but it works on Jens, the ultimate Swedish hipster.

Jens’ last song was about a hairdresser in the “boring Swedish town” in which he grew up. The song concludes with the words “Can you hear my heart beating?” Jens ended it with his head down, eyes closed and microphone on his heart, while thumping out a heartbeat on his chest. Brilliant. (I use that term in the Brit manner, not to imply feats of intellect.)

Next on our list were The Weakerthans. We were fairly certain theirs would be a popular set, so we decided to forgo running around like maniacs for the next 2 hours to catch sets we weren’t passionate about and went directly to the Cedar St. Courtyard to make sure we’d get in. This turned out to be a good move.

The stage at the Cedar St. was outdoors at the end of the long courtyard, but we were tired, so we went inside to get drinks and were pleasantly surprised to spy a vacant couch with our names on it. And then we pretty much just sat there for a few hours, enjoying the calm and our drinks, as we weren’t into the 2 bands preceding The Weakerthans. Curiousity eventually got the best of Roy, however, and he poked his head out to see what was up with Tim Fite. He returned shaking his head in disdain, so I stayed put. We still don’t know what’s up with Tim Fite.

John K. Samson of The Weakerthans.

Eventually, it became clear that the place was rapidly reaching capacity, so we abandoned the couch and plunged into the crowd from a strategic side door that opened just in front of the side of the stage. We managed to squeeze up front. A victory indeed, but it was not without a price as we had to endure the last few songs of Man Man’s set.

What the hell is up with Man Man? Hipsters will listen to any shit these days, that’s what is up with Man Man. Everyone freaking loves them, and I do not get it. Man Man’s gimmick is white face paint and a lot of maniacal jumping around, sort of a tribal Blue Man Group indie jam freak out. The majority of people who have written about them, and specifically about this set, thought they were amazing, but we were having none of it. They were easily the most annoying band of SXSW 08 for me, and I think I can speak for Roy as well. They were even worse than The People’s Party.

The crowd was happy. The Weakerthans were happy. It was basically a love fest.

I can happily report, however, that once The Weakerthans took the stage all of this annoyingness was forgotten and we settled in for some solid, upbeat power indie pop. The Weakerthans, from Winnipeg, Canada, have been around about 10 years and were a favorite of Roy’s, but were new to me. The lead singer, John K. Samson, who looks like a less edgy Daniel Craig (aka the new 007) threw out one engaging tune after another. The crowd was totally into them. Everyone was happy and jumping up and down. Definitely one of the most fun sets so far.

Rhett Miller. Yeah. Like I would’ve missed this.

We would’ve been perfectly content to end our night at this point, at least Roy would have, however, The Old 97s were headlining at Stubb’s (featuring one of my favorite people on the planet, the beautiful and talented Rhett Miller) and it just so happened that we’d parked not far from Stubb’s. Roy agreed that if there was not a massive line to get in to Stubb’s when we walked by we would go for it. As luck would have it, there in fact, was NO line. After some gleeful jumping up and down on my part, we went in.

My beloved Old 97s!!!

Look out, Rhett. Ken could lash out with that guitar at any moment.

Roy made himself comfortable sitting on the sidelines while I plunged into the crowd, wrangling a space up front. Sigh. Okay, I really love this band. I love pretty much all of their music and I always love seeing them. But yeah, the crush on Rhett is seriously bad and goes right to my head every time. It’s a distraction, but a good one. And in my defense, I KNOW he is married, and I have a boyfriend whom I adore. It’s NOT like THAT. The man is just charming, allright? I recently met him again in St. Louis, and he could not have been sweeter. Same with Murray. I love them both. They are just the best. And Philip is cool, too. He stays kind of on the down low, but is very funny and friendly when engaged. And as for Ken, I have never quite forgiven Ken for signing his name over Rhett’s face on my copy of “Drag It Up” at ACL 2004. This after the rest of the band had been sweet and gracious though I’d spent the majority of my time talking to and taking pictures with Rhett. Let’s just say I’m cautious now when passing my cds over to Ken for a signature.

Murray!! The man has the BEST sense of style, not to mention a very sweet voice.

So, Rhett was adorable and genuine as always, commenting on how lucky they were to get the gig at Stubb’s and the fabulous weather, and wondering why he lives in NYC instead of Texas. (I’m pretty sure he was born in Austin.) This was followed by a good-natured crack about Rhett “gracing us with his presence” from Murray.

The Old 97s cranked out the hits, including “Roller Skate Skinny”, “Can’t Get a Line” and the not often played “Designs On You”, which is one of my favorites. They also played a few new songs, which sounded good but as with pretty much anything after “Satellite Rides”, I felt I needed to hear a bunch more times before I could really get into them. (Post script: The new record, “Blame it on Gravity” is EXCELLENT. Dare I say, it may be their best.)

Serial lady killer, indeed.

At the show, we’d run into a woman we’d met in line for Van Morrison. She shall remain nameless for soon-to-be-obvious reasons. We’ll call her Lola. So Lola had told me in the Van line that she, too loved Rhett. Lola rolled into Stubb’s 4 or 5 sheets to the wind. We said hi, and although she did not initially remember me, I soon became her new best friend. Lola went back and forth between hanging on me while slurring unintelligibly and dancing around showing her love for Rhett while giving me suspicious, competitive glances. (As if, girl! Like I said, it’s not like that.) At one point, Lola turned to me and slurred “Your lipstick matches your dress. You look so pretty.” Then she almost fell down. I wasn’t sure if she wanted to make out with me or kick my ass, but once I was sure she had a friend there with her, I took one more long look at the stage, and we called it a night.

Chuck’s latest release, “Snuff”.

Last night I attended what I would most definitely call the best author event EVER: Chuck Palahniuk’s Snuff Tour 2008 at Mad Art Gallery.

I have long been a fan of Chuck’s, thanks to my sister. I haven’t actually read all of his books, as I’m kind of weird that way. When I find an author I love, rather than flip out and read all their books back to back, I like to space them out and savor them, and keep a few in my back pocket to look forward to. Luckily, I’ve still got a few to go, including his newest, “Snuff”.

Mad Art was packed, definitely SRO. The evening started with a reading by Donald Ray Pollack from his new book of short stories “KnockemStiff”. Chuck is a friend and a fan, and I have to admit, Donald Ray’s story, “Bactine”, was stunning. I did not buy a copy of his book only because I have SUCH a backlog as it is, but it is duly noted and filed on my mental list for when my mood next shifts to short stories.

One of my favorite books, “Fight Club”.

Next Chuck read a short story of his own called “Loser”, about a sorority girl who takes a bus with her sorority sisters to “The Price is Right” and becomes a contestant, culminating with a bid of a million zillion dollars during the Showcase Showdown.  And she is on acid (a Hello Kitty acid tab, no less) the entire time. It was brilliant. I won’t spoil any more details as the story is unpublished and it just doesn’t seem right.

Before the event, I’d happened into Left Bank Books (the sponsor) and they’d told me that Chuck had mailed them 3 big boxes with instructions not to open them until his arrival.  Apparently, one of the key images in “Snuff” is a blow up sex doll. So you can guess what was in the boxes. Autographed blow up sex dolls (both male and female) were thrown into the audience, after which a contest to see who could inflate theirs first ensued. Books, including one titled “Obscene Interiors” were given as prizes.

A woman who I assume was affiliated with Left Bank led a Q & A session with Chuck.This was the only part of the event I did not enjoy, although I have to give Chuck major snaps for remaining good natured and responding with interesting answers to what I perceived as ill conceived, long, rambling and often, inappropriate questions. Yes, the new book is based on the porn industry, and no, Chuck is not shy in writing about sexual topics. The questions however, seemed geared toward someone who was fully immersed in the porn industry (like Larry Flynt) rather than to a seriously talented writer who’d just happened to choose the porn industry as a setting in his latest book.  I mean yeah, Chuck is consistently subversive, but come on!  Luckily, just as I was about to start uttering audible groans, another Left Bank associate gave her the “wrap it up” (aka, the giant hook) signal. I don’t think I’d unleash this girl on an author again, personally. Yikes.

My autograph dog, dawgs!

After another round of blow up sex doll launching (I really wanted one, but was denied, dammit), Chuck took questions from the audience. I was intrigued by so many things he said, I don’t know where to begin, and yes, I realize I’m kind of gushing. I will try to sum it up by saying that the man is a voracious observer of human behavior in a very genuine and non-creepy way. There is something about him that lends itself to people telling him their deepest, darkest secrets and weirdest, wildest stories. Because he would GET them. I know I would have been up for some sharing had it been an option. And trust me, he shared some good ones with us: a trucker’s confession at a Sexaholics Anonymous meeting, a baggage handler’s attempt to circumvent safety guidelines and cash in by losing a finger (it only gets mostly ripped off, then he tries to pull it off….which turns out to be a very bad idea and a very graphic story).  The latter story was shared with Chuck as a result of a question about the scar on the resurrected finger, the response to which began “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”  !!!

Another topic that stuck with me is Chuck’s interest in events that create a temporary environment in which people feel comfortable to try out different personas. He used a specific term for these events, but I can’t remember it. The example he gave, which I can totally relate to, is going to a rock show. As I sat cross-legged on the floor, still in my “office” clothes, I pondered the fact that in the last 12 months I’ve both crowd-surfed and moshed (albeit with some trepidation) at various rock clubs.  Ha.  I fully understand the reference.

In answer to an audience question, Chuck also talked about his interest in support groups (a primary theme in “Fight Club”, which is a completely hilarious book…much different, and I think better, than the movie).  He started attending Sexaholics Anonymous meetings because they were better than TV, and because these groups provide the kind of support people used to look for, and get, from going to church: a forum for confession, absolution and complete acceptance.

Consider me literarily betrothed.

After Q & A, the contents of the final mystery box were revealed. As correctly guessed by an audience member, another recurring image in “Snuff” is an autograph dog. Remember those from grade school? Signed autograph dogs were thrown to the crowd. I was intent on success this time, and indeed fully gripped (along with 3 other people) an autograph dog that sped my way. My grip must’ve been the hardiest and most intimidating, because my competition relented (one girl actually said “It’s yours!  It’s yours!” and backed away - LOL) and the dog was mine.

And last, the signing line. Because he is one of my favorite writers and I wanted to be a giver and not just a taker, I brought along one of my notebooks as a gift, featuring cards from a deck of really excellent 70s female nudes. The imagery on the back of this deck reminded me of the imagery on the endpapers (inside covers) in “Snuff”.

Chuck must’ve signed a million zillion books (and autograph dogs and sex dolls) and posed for a million zillion pictures throughout the night but managed to maintain a great demeanor and made the effort to connect with everyone in line.  Part of me wished I’d brought my camera, but you know, I really hate pretty much all pictures of myself and a photo of me looking like a dork standing next to Chuck Palahniuk would just be depressing. I’d be thinking, damn, do I really look like that? Why don’t I ever really smile? I look fat. Etc. Besides, every time I bring a camera to an event, I get obsessed with taking the perfect photo and can’t enjoy myself.   So, this time I just observed everyone with cameras take the opportunity to look like giant (but very earnest) dorks. (And people, I am not laughing AT you, I am laughing WITH you, because had I had my camera, I’d've been right in it, too.)

I have a book bitch! (It’s in blood, man.)

When my turn finally came, I gave Chuck my notebook and explained that it was a gift for him and that I made them for fun. He could not have been more gracious in asking the specifics re how it was made and checking it out in detail, including my logo. Lest you think this was a restrained little exchange, please take note of the fabulous inscriptions on my books (pictured above). Have you ever met someone you really admire and been devastated because they don’t turn out to be all that you’ve built them up to be? This was not one of those times. I could totally hang with Chuck. And tell him my stories. The ones that YOU don’t even know.

One of Austin’s favorite and finest, Jon Dee Graham.

…in the words of Jon Dee Graham, the first artist we saw upon our arrival in Austin for South by Southwest 2008. Okay, to be honest, we tried to see the Raveonettes at Emo’s first, and even got a sweet parking spot (no small feat and to be savored, as those of you who’ve been to SouthBy know), but alas, we just missed them. As we’d not had a 13 hour drive to contend with, only a “Who’s on first?” style attempt at picking up our wristbands, we were in a great mood, shrugged it off and moved on to Plan B. Besides, it seemed somehow fitting that we’d start SXSW 2008 at Mother Egan’s with Jon Dee, who was in fine form and played all the hits he still owns the rights to. Bless the man and to hell with the evil record company.

Chip Robinson, formerly of the Backsliders.

After Jon Dee, we hung out to catch part of Chip Robinson’s set, which I very much enjoyed. Roy tells me Chip was with a band called the Backsliders. How did I completely miss this band? Huh. Roy managed to get me drunk by enthusiastically buying (and/or encouraging) 3 rounds of beers in quick succession, which necessitated a stumble down the street to Hut’s for sustenance before embarking our next mission.

The mission, which admittedly, seemed quite impossible, was to see Van Morrison at La Zona Rosa. We were very early, but the line was loooong. And there were lots of badges. And the badges just kept coming, and coming; seeming to multiply like wabbits. We chatted with some people in the wristband line, sneering in solidarity as the badges continued to make their way inside. At some point, the show began. We moped a bit, stuck it out and occasionally inched forward. A few fellow wristbanders abandoned the mission in frustration. And just as we were about to throw in the towel, the figurative clouds broke and we made it inside, albeit 1/2 an hour after Van had started playing.

Contraband Photo #1.

Van was Van. I have only seen him twice, and really, what can be said about Van Morrison that hasn’t been said already? Of course he puts on a great show. He’s fantastic, yet guarded, so thoroughly focused on what he’s doing, engaging you while blocking you out at the same time. Once in awhile you might catch the flash of a smile or smirk, but ultimately, the sunglasses mask the man. All the songs Van played were from his new record, and they sounded great. The place was packed, but I was feeling brave so after a few songs I broke into the crowd and made my way up front, landing about 10 people in from the stage. And then I started taking pictures like a madwoman.

Okay, I admit that while we were in line I’d heard rumblings that photography would be limited to the first part of the show. But we were in line for so long, once we finally got inside I was just happy to be there and had pretty much forgotten about that pesky little tidbit of information. I “forgot”, that is, until a bouncer came up behind me and told me (nicely, really) to either give him my camera battery or leave. Shit. After a moment of panic, I handed the battery over.

Contraband Photo #2.

I recovered fairly quickly, but I was embarrassed, especially when the dude standing next to me (who’d also gotten busted for taking photos) told me how they’d issued a really firm warning at the start of the show (whatever…I wasn’t there, was I?) and how “at least he’d had his flash off”. I sort of sulked through the rest of the show, hoping Van wouldn’t suddenly stop and say “And now I’m going to stop playing because of that woman right there and her goddamn camera”.

The show ended and once I was able to find the bouncer, (who knew they all look the same?) true to his word, he gave me back my battery and told me that he would not ask me to delete my photos even though he’d been told to. Moral of this story: When busted, do not act like an asshole. Worked for me, anyway.

But the wait for Van was not to be our longest or most trying wait of the evening. Our next stop was Antone’s for the British (really UK) invasion, with a lineup that included Lightspeed Champion, Sons & Daughters and The Kills. We waited in line for over 2 hours, a wait that was made quite harrowing not only due to having to witness yet another continuous stream of badges wind their way inside as we stood around barely moving, but by the horrific presence of The People’s Party.

The People’s Party are a really crappy jam band who decided that it would be really cool to set up camp in, around and on top of their trailer parked across the street from Antone’s to take advantage of the opportunity to play for a literal captive audience. They were SO bad, honestly, I wanted to kill them. And of course they would NOT stop playing. Our only recourse was a nasty diatribe expounding upon their suckiness that Roy penned and deposited in their tip jar. We were in hell. We had no choice.

.

Devonte Hynes, sheepishly inhabiting his Lightspeed Champion persona, as well as his fur hat.

And again, right about the time we were about to slip into the despondency that so often befalls one in a long SXSW line, the powers that be had mercy on the wristbands and a pack of us made it into the club. Lightspeed Champion was approximately mid-set when we walked in. I’d had high hopes for Devonte Hynes. But okay, I’d only really heard one of his songs and it was on the Urban Outfitters SXSW page, so I guess I should have known that there was a very good chance that the hype would outweigh the talent.

I think I liked what Devonte and his fur hat were trying to do, but his execution was just too sheepish. He seemed very disconnected from the crowd, mumbled way too many self-deprecating comments and just generally stumbled around. There were some good moments. He did have a violinist, a nice female backup singer and he plays a mean guitar, but how many times do you really want to hear an artist mention that he’s expecting to be thrown off stage by his record label at any moment before you actually start to want to throw him off the stage yourself? Answer: About two.

The fabulous and besequined Adele Bethel of Sons & Daughters.

Next up, Glasgow’s Sons & Daughters, a band who were also on my list although I have no idea how they got there. I must’ve read about them somewhere, but I’d never seen their photo or heard a song. Weird, but I do choose bands just based on things I read and I’d say at least 75% of the time it works out for me.

I knew I was about to see something good as soon as Sons & Daughters stepped onstage. Confession: There’s a certain amount of shallowness in how a band’s appearance affects my feelings about them. I’m not proud of this, but at least I freely admit it. So how could I not love a band fronted by a fierce and pouty brunette in black hot pants, a gold sequined top, gold boots and gold glitter eye shadow? I loved Adele Bethel before she even opened her mouth. And once she did, I was not disappointed. Adele rocked hard, and dare I say had a little Exene in her. I also really dug Scott Paterson, who played guitar and also sang. He was very charismatic, almost like a mini-Bowie. Sweet.

Scott Paterson of Sons & Daughters, aka The Mini Bowie.

Although Sons and Daughters turned out to be my favorite band in the Antone’s lineup that night, I’d originally wanted to go to this showcase to see The Kills. Again, a band I’d never heard, but who I’d read about and who intrigued me. Yeah, The White Stripes are the original 2 piece and everyone else, including The Kills, are just wannabes to some extent, but there was a lot of buzz surrounding The Kills and this was their only gig at SXSW, so there we were.

The Kills are too cool for you.

If you read my ACL blog, there were several acts I saw who left me feeling like I wasn’t cool enough to “get” them. Add The Kills to that list, although I’m not giving up on them that easily. Despite all my gushing about Adele Bethel of Sons & Daughters, The Kills (Alison “VV” Mosshart and Jamie “Hotel” Hince) were the most stylish band of the evening and it was this that resonated with me more than their music. They gave off a very NYC smoky basement punk club vibe, and I appreciated the simplicity of their setup , their ability to fully embody what they were doing and not least, to play off of each other’s every move.

Alison “VV” Mosshart, my new fashion icon. Don’t be surprised if you see me out wearing mistmatched, layered, shredded things.

Although I could not get into the sampled drum beats (as Roy said, they should just get a drummer, but then they couldn’t be a White Stripes-y 2 piece), I did like their respective guitar thrashing lo-fi thing. They were fucking hot, plus Alison Mosshart (aka VV) is a fashion bad ass.

Yes, I am a bad ass.  I will take you down, Kate Moss.

So let’s talk about that outfit. Check it. VV had on a fantastic combination of gold booties, multiple gold pendants, a very perfectly hole-y blue grey tee with a flowy open leopard print blouse over it, and 2 scarves that looked like 3. One was black crochet and the other was a bluish paisley with thick afghan-like fringe. As I read this description, I am making her sound like a punk rock bag lady, but trust me, this was the most perfectly shredded and thrown together rock chick look I’ve seen in a long time. And Jamie is the one dating Kate Moss. Serious. I wonder if she and Alison are like, best friends, or if they engage in silent fashionista warfare and want to rip each other’s eyes out? My vote is for Alison in that death match, and that’s saying something.

We could’ve called it a successful first night after Antone’s, but we definitely wanted to make it to No Depression’s party at the Pangaea. (Sidebar: As a long time subscriber, I am very, very sad about No Depression’s recent announcement that they will cease publication.) What a strange, strange club, and not the type of place at all that you’d expect to find No Depression. There were bouncers in suits with headsets, a roped off VIP area complete with confused VIPs wondering what they’d stumbled into, and “assistants” in the bathroom who paused from texting just long enough to hand you a paper towel and hold out their hand for a tip. Who knew there were places like this in Austin? But Pangaea had COUCHES, which are like an oasis in the desert that is SouthBy. Those couches turned this nightmare of a club into instant sanctuary at 1 in the morning.

We made it inside in time to grab some couch and settle in with our Red Bull and vodkas for The Felice Brothers. We’d missed the Felices opening for the Drive By Truckers in St. Louis a few weeks back, and damn, I’m glad we caught them in Austin. They were freaking great, and reminded me of all the good things about the Avett Brothers before they got all weird and jammy. Not many bands can pull off a washboard, that’s all I’m saying. And who knew they are actually brothers? At least 3 of them are. They hail from the Catskills (now NYC) and are really named Felice. I love this.

The only Felice Brothers photo I took before my camera went night night.

Between songs, drummer Simone Felice (who bears an unfortunate and striking resemblance to K-Fed) and his brother (I believe it was James, but I could be wrong) slipped into some serious Borat schtick, which made me like them even more. I enjoyed all their songs, which were a spirited amalgam of americana, roots and foot stomping revivalism. They’re a tight band. Plus one of the brothers sounds like Bob Dylan when he sings. It was all good, until their performance was eclipsed by a most unbelieveable occurence.

Remember our setting. We are at a No Depression party in Austin, TX.

So, a semi-nice and rich-looking older dude arrived at the club with a very hot 20-something woman in very high heels and a very short dress. It quickly became apparent that said woman was trashed as she began to lean forward and ride/rock on a speaker, giving everyone in the place a shot of her ass, crotch and what I believe to be a micro thong. (For the love of god, please tell me there was a thong.) The older dude was clearly pulling a Spitzer, as between ass barings, this chick’s dance moves had stripper written all over them. (I realize that most strippers aren’t hookers. Apologies to all non-hooker strippers. What I mean is that she danced like a stripper, but I’m pretty sure she was a hooker. Or a very obvious golddigger. Or some combination of the 3.)

And of course my camera battery was toast. Not that I needed photos of this girl’s ass, but she really had to be seen to be believed. All of this went on for a very long time, I’d say 3 or 4 songs, before the 2 of them moved to the couch just a few feet from us. (Great.) Stripper girl took note of a few playahs more her age (you know the type: gelled hair, over-pressed shirts, bling-ish jewelry, bla bla bla) sitting just a few steps above and behind her in the VIP section and proceeded to CRAWL on all 4s up the couch and toward them, again baring her stuff to the masses, most of whom were in rapt attention and completely ignoring The Felice Brothers. In the mean time, Daddy, her date, tried lamely to regain control likely just hoping, as Roy said, that all of this wouldn’t be on YouTube in the morning.

What can be said after experiencing THAT?

After exchanging incredulous stories with a few fellow victims (”victims” being the female perspective, obviously) we left, ending our evening with tacos from a streetside taco stand. And to bed at 2:30. And this was only Day One!

So, I’m not typically one for girl crushes, but I do have it bad for Feist. It’s not the same kind of crush I’d have on a boy, like my now infamous obsession with Rhett Miller. It all started with “The Reminder”, which I’d happened upon pre-Nano commercial. “The Reminder” was the first record in a really, really long time that I found myself listening to over and over again, from start to finish. That, I think, is rare these days, and I was intrigued. So, I surfed, read articles and interviews, watched videos and other clips, and quickly figured out that Leslie Feist is exceptionally interesting and cool. She’s smart, unaffected, has style without really trying (the best kind, in my book), and overall, seems pretty much how I’d wish to be if I were a rock star. Put another way, if had a BFF who was a rock star, I’d want it to be Feist. So it’s that kind of crush. I just think she’s damn cool. I know this clarification will be very disappointing to my friend Wes who thanked me for providing him with a visual of Feist and I in a loving embrace when I used the term “girl crush” with reference to Feist. Sorry, Wes.

In my eyes, Feist’s coolness was sealed after I had the opportunity to see her in London last September. And yes, I have been meaning to belatedly blog about that trip, during which I also got to see PJ Harvey, 2 amazing shows at the Victoria & Albert, and shop for vintage clothing. It was basically one of the best weeks of my life. Did I mention that I got to see PJ Harvey?

Feist’s London show was great, and in a wonderful old theatre, the Shepherd’s Bush Empire. Everyone else in London must’ve thought it went well, too, as her next show there, in May, is at the Royal Albert Hall and it’s sold out. Anyway, her performance blew me away and I had been hoping she’d come to St. Louis, both so that I could see her again and so that Roy and my friends would have a chance.

And so she did, finally!  I saw Feist at the Pageant last night. Unfortunately, no photos to share except one really crappy one that came over from my cell phone blurry and about the size of a stamp.  So I won’t bother.  (What is up with that? I need an iPhone.) I am not sure that I can do Feist’s performance much more justice than Roy did in his review. She was amazing, more fierce and soulful than people give her credit for.

Feist’s music, as well as her voice and presence, are interesting, diverse, beautiful and well, totally rock. She’s so much more than 1-2-3-4.  I’ve been listening to people make stupid comments about 1-2-3-4 all week. Those people should have come to her show and gotten a clue. Now I know how she must feel about that damned Nano commercial. Not to mention what it’s done to the price of sequined jumpsuits on ebay. Ha.

Her music aside, allow me a moment to tap into my DIY aesthetic and swoon over Feist’s use of lighting and paper screens to illuminate her silhouette as well as that of various paper cut outs throughout her performance. I love paper, I love silhouettes, I love how she’s used her silhouette on her record, tshirts and other merch. I love it all.  No, I FEEL it all.  (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

And just when I thought Feist could not be any cooler, after the show I discovered handmade books (see photo above, and yes that’s my finger, because the cover wouldn’t stay flat) for sale at her merch table. My mouth literally dropped open. Never have I seen anything for sale at a merch table besides tshirts, cds and records, buttons and the occasional lighter, let alone handmade books.

Speaking of silhouettes, pictured directly above is one of the cooler ones I own. I’ve never seen one like it. Found it on ebay, and I fairly certain from the markings on back that it was custom made for the couple who are pictured.

So, I started a conversation with the very nice merch girl whose name I wish I’d taken the time to ask. She explained that Leslie loves stuff like that (handmade books, etc). For whatever reason, before leaving the house last night, I’d put a new MOBV notepad I’d recently made into my bag. I reached for it and handed it over, asking that it be passed on to Feist. I know. I’m a complete geek. What can I say? I was practically giddy that Feist likes and was selling handmade books, and felt a spontaneous, uncontrollable urge to share. And of course I bought stuff from the merch table as well. This is me we’re talking about here.  A girl can never have too many Feist tshirts. (wink)

This is what a festival looks like when you have collapsed and are sitting on the ground.  I know it.  Not pretty.

Yes, I realize it is 2008, and that I am leaving for SXSW in 2 days, but I am still catching up! As my blog serves as my unofficial diary, the highlights I can recall from last September’s fest must be recorded for posterity. One thing I recall quite clearly is that this time around, I really felt my age. How many more marathon outdoor fests can my middle-aged body endure? I cannot be sure, but I can tell you this. It’s kind of like having a baby. (Or so I hear.) Very quickly you forget the pain and are ready to do it again. We humans are stupid that way.

Before I plunge into the depths of my memory, which is actually not very deep, I have to issue a warning. Surly and cynical comments abound in this post, in spades. I’m not sure what’s up with this abundance of negativity. Part of it is that the older I get, I find myself increasingly unable to be easily amused by my favorite artists. A few good records in a row used to get me all settled in and comfortable, but not anymore. I am demanding! Anyway, read on and you will see what I mean.

But before launching into the music, I really need to purge myself of the first surly-inducing moment of the trip, which occurred during the drive. At about 10pm, the DAY before the festival, I received a call from the Hotel San Jose offering me a room. God-freaking-dammit! How many times have I stayed at the San Jose? Many. How many thousands of my dollars have I given them? Several. And can I get a room there when I want to anymore? No. I cannot. So, for ACL and SXSW, I continue to waste my time trying to call on THE DAY and THE TIME that they decree one must call to get ON THE LIST, only to be told this last time, if I recall correctly “well….the list is really long….there is pretty much no way you are going to get a room.” I believe the front desk girl even laughed at me. And THEN they dare to call to offer me (e.g. beg me to take) a $300+ per night room the night before the event after I have already recovered from my disappointment and settled into my $300 (for the whole weekend) alternative, the ratty ol’ La Quinta.

So I said no. I just said no, knowing of course that this would then turn out to be the time when many, many celebrities, like probably Rhett Miller and Keanu Reeves and Viggo Mortenson, would be staying there and partying all night with the likes of oh, I don’t know, Bob Dylan. Turns out that I only missed a private party with Drew Barrymore (who was staying at the hotel), The Arcade Fire and Spoon on Friday night. DAMN you, San Jose. You break my heart.

Anyway, we arrived on Thursday mostly without incident, and picked up our wristbands. Roy was surprised to get VIP access wristbands in addition to his press bands. Needless to say I was coveting the VIP bands, star stalking swag lover that I am. Roy insisted he would share, which made me very happy.

And speaking of VIPs, when we hit town, we heard on KGSR that Bill Clinton was in Austin and would be signing his new book at Book People. Unfortunately, the signing would happen during the festival, so I couldn’t have made it. This was of course, before the Clintons went completely insane on the campaign trail and I decided that I can’t stand either one of them.

Before grabbing dinner on South Congress, Roy needed to get online and planted himself at Jo’s while I happily made my way up the street to Uncommon Objects. I’d just walked in and my phone buzzed with a call from my friend Mona, who was at Jo’s. As we’d only been in Austin a few hours, shopping could definitely wait, and I headed back to Jo’s, where we drank many, many beers and caught up with Mona and Andrew. After, we managed to make it up the street in time to grab a late dinner at Guero’s. Unbeknownst to us at the time, Bill Clinton was in the back room dining. Bill loves Guero’s, as do I. They’d closed the back of the restaraunt for he and his party, which included Lance the-ladies-love-me (yeah right, jerk) Armstrong. More on that later.

Friday

The Art Market at ACL 2007.

For the first time, Roy and I witnessed the chaos that reigns while the Star Wars theme plays and the first exuberant entrants dash into Zilker Park, racing toward the main stage to nab prime spots for the day. And yes, we laughed when we saw a girl totally bite it with her chair mid-dash. Ouch. Despite this gleeful start, a minor pall lay over the proceedings as the news filtered to the ill-informed that both Amy Winehouse and the White Stripes had cancelled. At the time, the Amy Winehouse cancellation was quite upsetting, especially as she’d also cancelled an appearance I’d stood in line for at SXSW last year. But now poor Amy is on the list of those I despise and have discarded, mostly because I’m sick of her record (although yes, it is great) and because she is an idiot, but also because I found out a few weeks later while in the UK that the night she was supposedly too “ill” to play ACL, she was on stage with Prince in London.

A dress I bought made from a vintage slip and a handkerchief picturing famous London sites.

We caught Sahara Smith and Adam Hood’s respective early sets, both of which I found to be mildly sleep inducing, and went our separate ways for awhile. I know my priorities and hit the artists’ tents as they tend to get crazy overcrowded as the weekend progresses. I got a cool dress made of reworked vintage, a beautiful enamel and leather cuff from the supercute Leigh, a onesie for a friend’s baby that featured a gold, silk-screened image of Ziggy Stardust and the best thing….a grey American Apparel polo dress with a silk-screen of Johnny Cash, for me, of course.

The always adorable and amazing Del McCoury Band.

I stopped at the Jo’s Coffee booth to say hi to my friend Tina who managed to get away to catch a few sets with me. We’d both chosen the Del McCoury Band as our next stop. Del and his band are always on, always charming and managed to look dapper in their suits despite the 100 degree heat. They played a Bob Dylan tune that I can’t remember and that Roy and I are still disagreeing about, (I swear it had the word “rain” in it) as well as several classics.

Fire!

The cutest girl ever, Amy LaVere.

I’d agreed to meet Roy at the BMI Stage for Amy LaVere . Although Tina and her friend had planned to see Bela Fleck instead, I’d talked such a storm around Amy that they decided to come with me instead. Amy was cute as a bug and sounded great, despite the distraction of the black smoke and falling ash (seriously) from the giant fire on the other side of the park. After the set, Tina said that she felt like she’d really seen something special, and she had. (Meaning Amy, not the fire. Ha.)

PBJ, otherwise known as Peter, Bjorn and John.

Roy went to see Charles Walker and the Dynamites, while I headed to the Dell Stage to catch Peter, Bjorn and John. I really like PBJ’s record. Though they were one of the hot bands of SXSW 2007 and had just been to St. Louis, I had not yet managed to see them. I was not disappointed. They are very chatty, chipper and energetic chaps (Swedes), and were quite natty in their tight poly pants and dress shirts. Toward the end of the set, a very blonde, very nordic female came onstage to sing with them on “Young Folks”. All boys in the vicinity were visibly flipping out. Admittedly, she was darned cute. As a former blonde, the power of the blonde never ceases to amaze me.

Neil Finn of Crowded House.

Crowded House

I left the PBJ set a bit early to jog across the park to the AMD stage in hopes of nabbing a good spot to eagerly await the reunited Crowded House. Neil Finn always delivers, and was in fine form, his voice strong and clear as a bell and his spirits light. While Crowded House is definitely a favorite band of my youth, the new record does not resonate with me. It is always a thrill to see and hear Neil Finn. I enjoyed the set, but my heart wasn’t down with the music. Unlike other the other musical write-offs of this trip, this loss actually mad me sad. I still love you, Neil! I do. But things are different now. You don’t understand me anymore. You try, but you don’t. I’m sorry, man.

Only M.I.A. could pull off a hot pink jumpsuit.

M.I.A.

En route back to the Dell stage, I paused to check out LCD Soundsystem. And now we touch on the other theme of ACL 2007 for me: Music That I Don’t Get. Everyone in the world except Roy and I is so gay for LCD Soundsystem, but they are just lost on me. Lost. As I stood with furrowed brow grappling with this phenomenon, the lead singer gave a shout out to MIA, which reminded me that I was missing her set at the other end of the park.

Running. Running. Running. And finally, me, at the Dell, for Music That I Don’t Get Part 2. And I SO wanted get M.I.A. I have not heard all of “Kala”, but what I’ve heard (thank you, John Wendland), I’ve liked. A lot. I will probably buy this record at some point. But live? I was just not hip enough to get her. And man, I really wanted an MIA tshirt! They were bad ass, similar to the “Frankie Say Relax” tshirts from the 80s, and designed by a Euro-hipster designer who I later saw in Nylon or Jane or something. But. Sigh. I was just. not. cool. enough.

Ye of little stage presence but a great fucking record: Spoon.

Roy and I reunited at the AT&T stage for Spoon. So, Spoon. Totally great band, but seriously lacking in presence. Not in their own minds, you understand, as I hear that Mr. Britt Daniel is quite the lady killer, (Not my type, but, whatever.) and the band clearly, collectively give off that rock star vibe. Still, I found them a bit stiff. But, “Ga Ga Ga” is a great damn record. It was a fine set to hear, boring set to watch.

Against our better judgement, we opted not to stay in the sweet spot Roy’d nabbed for Spoon to wait for Bjork, and instead embarked on an ill-fated trek to the other side of the park to see The Killers. On our way, we paused to catch a few minutes of the Kaiser Chiefs. They’d graduated from the small BMI stage 2 years ago to one of the large secondary stages and had drawn in a crowd of at least 20,000. They sounded great, but I’m really only a fan of a few songs. They are a bit too Bouncy Brit Pomp and March for me. So we moved on.

Oh. My. God. The Killers. I know am begininng to sound as if I barely enjoyed this festival, and that is not the case, but I truly wanted to kill The Killers. They played mostly stuff from “Sam’s Town” and attempted to do it quite judiciously, with theatrical flare. It came across as pretentious and ridiculous, sort of Styx “Paradise Theatre”, and I have never been a DeYoung fan. I found myself repeatedly looking at Roy, mouth open, saying things like “they can’t be serious?”. But indeed, they were. We couldn’t take much of it, so we left and walked all the way back to the other end of the park to see what Bjork had gotten herself into.

Even from our less-than-ideal vantage point, it was evident that quite a show was unfolding. Bjork was a spectable of billowing be-robed-ness. She seemed to be floating across the stage as a troupe of fellow flowy be-robed people scooted along around her. It was all quite intriguing, and despite not being a fan since her Sugarcubes days, I wished we’d stayed in our Spoon spot up close.

ACL Lesson: Unless you REALLY hate them (and that means you, Widespread Panic), SEE the headliners and get a good spot. Otherwise it is kind of pointless to be there til the end of the night, and you might as well head into town where there will surely be more great, and possibly even free, music. After a few “songs”, we decided to beat the crowds and call it a night. Well, kinda.

We summoned up some energy and went out afterward, as The Clientele were playing FOR FREE, and Roy and I were both dying to see them. Oakley Hall opened. Although they’d not impressed either of us previously, their set was really good. The Clientele, as expected, were GREAT. They have a very mellow, dreamy sound that I appreciated much more live, although I do like their records. Interestingly, the Nordic bombshell who’d wowed the crowd onstage with Peter, Bjorn and John is IN The Clientele. I recognized her immediately. Also, snaps to the lead singer, Alasdair MacLean, on his sweet vintage leather jacket. When we got back to the hotel room, I was excited to see that I had won what my first vintage leather jackets on ebay. An obsession begins…

Saturday

This dude is taking hipster a little too far. Ladies and gentlemen, the swirly-mullet.

Ike Reilly, the most bad ass dude at ACL 2007.

We started Saturday by getting our heads blasted off by the Ike Reilly Assassination. I’d missed his St. Louis show, and according to Roy, unfortunately so had 99.99% of St. Louis. He is a small but intense guy. Basically, he looks like he could kill you. No one got hurt; we just got rocked. I’m not sure what the thought is behind putting acts like Ike Reilly and Marah on this early in the a.m. To jolt us awake, maybe? Regardless, Ike smoked, and should really have had a later spot and a longer set. Maybe next time.

While hanging out and waiting for Ike Reilly, I saw what was by far the worst hair of the fest. When my sister and I were kids, we’d joke about giving each other swirlys. This of course refers to the practice of placing another person’s head in the toilet and flushing. I believe the hipster in the bad 80s tshirt (see photo) was the unfortunate victim of a swirly. That’s the only way to explain it.

Who doesn’t love a good jump suit? MIA did it better, but the Sound Team gave it a go. I find myself thinking of “Bottlerocket”.

Mr. Smooth, Raul Malo.

Raul Malo

After Ike Reilly, we caught a few minutes of the Sound Team. Really, the only thing I remember about them is the bright orange jumpsuit. Not a good sign.

Next up was Raul Malo. He was soooo smooth and the crowd totally loved him. This was the best Raul show I’ve seen. Really, he was fantastic, looking good and seemed to be in a great mood.

We jumped over to the nearby BMI stage to catch a few minutes of Cary Ann Hearst. Uhh. That girl is too butch for me. Not that there’s anything wrong with butch, but I was a bit a-scared of her. Not to mention that there was absolutely nothing unique about her sound. She sounded really pissed off, actually.

Pity the man who’s lost his cajones. Mr. Steve Earle.

We headed back to the Dell stage for Steve Earle. While we waited, I spied a sight even more horrifying than the swirly-mullet dude, and rue the decision not to photograph it. A shirtless guy in front of us sported a very large (as in covered his whole back) tattoo tribute to Bruce Springsteen. At least I THINK it was Bruce Springsteen. C’mon, you know just the situation I’m talking about. You see a tattoo of a famous person, and it’s so bad that you know who it is but you think, nawww, that’s TOO bad, it can’t REALLY be that person?! But it is. It IS that person and it IS permanently tattooed on a live human body standing in front of you. And this tat had not just one bad Springsteen image, but a montage of bad images. There was Hoodie Springsteen, Leather Jacket Springsteen, I’m sure there were guitars and I think there was even a flag. DANG. It was BAD. And the worst part was, you know this guy was really proud of it. If I’d've asked to take a picture, he would’ve loved it. Loved it until he saw this post. Yikes, man. My sympathies. I don’t know what else to say.

After many, many minutes spent drinking beer and reveling in the hypnotic power of the Springsteen Tattoo Montage, Steve Earle appeared. Y’all probably know that Mr. Earle has moved to New York. And while I appreciate his attempts at being “street”, and understand that he probably feels extra pressure to be hip now that he lives in NYC and all, in my opinion, it ain’t working. I did not like the new songs, I did not like the sampling. It seemed silly and contrived. By the time the inevitable Allison Moorer appearance rolled around, I was ready to poke my eyes out.

The first time I witnessed Allison join Steve onstage, I thought it was cute. Now I think it’s predictable, boring and lame. Steve! You have been totally emasculated! Maybe I read a little too much Us Weekly, but when I think of the Earles in NYC, I envision this scene: Allison skips down the steps of their brownstone. She is carrying her dogs Paris & Brooklyn in a Louis Vuitton dog carrier. She calls “Steeeeve. Steeeeeve!!!” as Steve dashes out the door and scurries to catch up to her. LAME guys. LAME. Your set was LAME.

Andrew Bird, a-whistlin’.

We shook it off, then caught a bit of Blue October’s set before moving on to see the great Andrew Bird. We didn’t even see his whole set, but we saw enough to appreciate that the intensely private, quiet, seemingly neurotic Mr. Bird was easily commanding a rapturous crowd of 20,000+. The scene was a far cry from seeing Andrew at our beloved Off Broadway back in the day.

Kelly Willis

At some point during Andrew’s set, we wandered over to the Austin Ventures stage for Kelly Willis. Kelly looked and sounded great, as always, and it’s fun to see and hear our friend Andrew up on stage with her band. After, we chatted a bit with Mona and Andrew before they left for the night. This was the point at which I found out about the aforementioned private party at the San Jose (with Drew Barrymore, Spoon and the Arcade Fire) and tried to keep my head from spinning off my body in a blind rage.

I managed to recover, and we went on to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah briefly (again, totally lost on me) and then the Arcade Fire. This was the night that the White Stripes were supposed to headline, and if they had, I would not have seen the Arcade Fire. I actually saw them 2 years ago at ACL, and although the world was literally swooning over them at the time, I was completely bored by their show and thought that it was so theatrically over the top that it was stupid. I really did not like this band and did not really want to give them another chance. Then I heard them on NPR (”Fresh Air”). Although Teri Gross was out of her element, they were fairly interesting and came off as less pretentious that I’d expected, so I gave “Neon Bible” a listen. Again, I did not WANT to like it, but dammit, I did. Kind of a lot. But then, I dug the 80s and 80s music, so I guess I should not be so surprised. So, I decided that I wanted to give them another go. And they were great. They sounded great, and I’m pretty sure they looked great, but we’d again made the mistake of not staking out a good spot for the main act, so we had to rely on the big screens. I completely missed Win Butler’s Brian Ferry resemblance (in look, mannerism and sound) the first time I saw them. Huh. And to think I could’ve partied with them at the San Jose.

Sunday

Best dressed girl of the festival, Ms. Jennifer Nicely. I know. You thought I’d pick Bjork.

We arrived early on Sunday to see Jennifer Nicely’s set, which was lovely, as is she. And another thing: the girl has great fashion sense and always looks classy. This is not easy to do in the Austin heat. After Jennifer was Amy Cook, of whom I am ashamed to say I have zero recollection. Sorry Amy. I need to blog in a more timely manner. And find a time machine so that I can go back to the 90s and locate my memory.

Yo La Tengo

The earplugs went in for Yo La Tengo’s set. I’d never seen them before and really knew nothing of their music other than that they’d done the soundtrack for “Junebug”. I found Yo La Tengo’s music interesting and intelligent, in addition to screamingly loud.

The Broken West. For the life of me, I can’t remember what was up with the wacky dude on tambourine, but he was a sight to behold.

Roy had missed The Broken West’s St. Louis appearance, so we caught their set at the Austin Ventures stage. They were good, but it was not their best performance, unfortunately. Roy insisted that I take the VIP wristband for the day, so after the Broken West’s set, we split up for awhile and I went to investigate what the VIP area had to offer. It was cool, literally; a shaded area near the main entrance with tables and chairs, a fountain, a food tent, and best of all…air-conditioned trailers with real toilets. I was hoping for some VIP sightings and piles of swag, but was more or less denied. Swag was limited to free programs and a few SmartWater lip balms. I pounded a few glasses of free wine and went out to meet Roy and catch a few minutes of Ben Kweller’s thankfully nosebleed-free set.

Midlake

We grabbed some food and walked back to Austin Ventures to see Midlake, a favorite discovery of the festival. There don’t seem to be many “new” (to me, anyway) bands that have the real (again, to me, anyway) alt-country sound anymore. Why have they never been to St. Louis?

Next up, Lucinda Williams. And sorry Lu, but I really hated your set. I don’t like her new record, so that was part of the problem. Add to that poor song choices. And also, I am sorry to say this, but Lucinda was not looking good. Call me shallow, but I like it when Lucinda looks good. She is one of my style icons, so my expectations for her are high. Lucinda’s set was….well….boring. It really was.

Winner of The Most Excited To Be Here Award: Regina Spektor.

Regina Spektor was up next on the adjacent stage. I don’t think she did much for Roy, but I thought she was incredibly cute. Granted, her sound can get really old, really quick, but you have to smile at someone who is clearly giddy with awe and excitement at playing for such a large and enthusiastic crowd. I’m sure ACL was the biggest crowd she’d ever played for.

Wilco, leading the be-Dockered Yuppie Sway-along.

Roy headed off to the other end of the park to see My Morning Jacket, mostly to stake out a space for Dylan. I went back to the AMD stage for Wilco and managed to weasel a pretty good spot up front. I tried to get excited, but found myself once again, totally bored. I don’t like Wilco’s new record either and I am just done with their schtick. Done with the sing-song-y tempos and the feedback and the experimental bla bla. Just done. The ambience of boredom was not helped by my horrifying realization that the Wilco fan base now consists of middle-aged Dockers shorts wearing yuppies and their wives, attempting to reconnect with their former coolness. This is not easy to do when the sitter keeps your cell phone buzzing. Yawn.

Uhhh, yeah, it’s an actual picture of Bob Dylan.

And another!

SO, I left the set early. I was afraid that if I waited until it was dark I would never find Roy in the crowd camped out for Dylan. It was a good thing I did leave, as I made it across the park just before sunset. Although I knew approximately where Roy said he’d try to be, the crowd of 60,000+ was more than a little intimidating. I walked the crowd’s edge until it felt right, then plunged myself in. Progressing through the mob was not easy and more than a bit scary. People were very tightly packed together and more people than usual seemed unwilling to move or let anyone through. Amazingly, about halfway in I saw Roy about 15 feet away and managed to get his attention. After begging to pass through a crowd of bitchy college kids, I got to my destination and claimed approximately 6 inches of personal space.

As for Dylan, well, it was the best Dylan show I’d ever seen. For the first time in my experience, he was in a good mood and seemed to be enjoying himself. He played guitar for a few songs, and his lyrics were actually intelligible.

We capped off the festival with a trip to our beloved Taco Cabana. Taco Cabana never lets us down.

Monday

Kick ass vintage western squirrel purse at Uncommon Objects.

I really wanted to buy these vintage felt flowers, but they were $16 a bunch. This photo includes 4 bunches! Too spendy even for normally extravagant me.

An example of the fine styling at Uncommon Objects.

Before embarking on the drive home, we decided to spend the day chilling on South Congress. Roy planted himself at Jo’s. I, of course, shopped. While perusing vintage clothes at New Bohemia, I ran into our waitress from Guero’s Thursday night. She was paying for a sequined top I wish I’d seen. Dang. I recovered, and asked her if she’d seen Bill Clinton while he was there having dinner. Not only had she seen Bill, but she’d waited on his party. She said that Lance Armstrong was a complete asshole, that he’d had a lot to drink, and that despite the meal being comped by the manager, they stiffed her on the tip! Can you believe it? So I missed the big Well, I may have missed the big celebrity-laden party, but at least I got some good firsthand gossip.

The beach at Yelapa. Notice there are no people. Yes, it’s really like this.

It has been 4 weeks since I returned from my yoga retreat in Yelapa, Mexico. Amazingly, I have managed to keep a bit more of the bliss I accumulated on the trip than usual. I’m not sure why. Maybe as this was my 3rd time on this retreat in half a dozen years, the true purpose of such a venture has finally been allowed to permeate my thick and committedly type-A skull and settle in. As Thomas, our beloved retreat leader and teacher would say, Omnimashivaya!. (For all non-yogis out there, interpret that as the yogi version of Holy Whatever.)

My palapa. Door on the right.

Yelapa is both easy and difficult to describe. It’s south of Puerto Vallarta (which is an armpit, by the way….bleh), and has the feel of an island even though it is not. There’s a horseshoe shaped beach surrounded by mountains, our hotel, the lovely and peerless Hotel Lagunita, a beach bar and restaraunt next store, and not a whole lot else.

A view from my room.

The Lagunita consists of 25 or so palapas (huts a la Gilligan’s Island) that stretch up the hill from the beach. There are no cars, and no phones, TVs or computers in the rooms, and each has multiple “windows” (no glass, just shutters) that open to the inescapable sound of the ocean and a view of the beach. The doors to the palapas “lock”, but security isn’t really an issue. However, as the hotel was just featured in Sunset magazine and is gaining popularity, questions have been raised by the increasingly uptight city-types who’ve started to find Yelapa and the Lagunita.

I wanted to pick this up, but I’m pretty sure it was alive.

Lucas, the owner of the hotel, told my friend Perry that he’d responded to one such security inquiry with the following story: “Well, once someone in town took somebody else’s saddle. Everyone pretty much knew who did it. So one day, as the thief wouldn’t return the saddle, a few of the men grabbed him and tied him to a tree for 3 days.”

Art Studio back behind the yoga room. I have no idea what goes on here.

The trip is all inclusive except for booze, and the food is fabulous. Read: best guacamole, ceviche, tortilla soup and margaritas you’ve ever had in your life, fresh fish, chicken mole, fresh pico de gallo and tortillas served with every meal, and desserts such as homemade flan and a chocolate cinnamon brownie cake with warm fudge filling.

First creature sighting on our walk. Handsome devil, however, for whatever reason, they take to crowing for a good part of the day, not just at dawn!

Our daily schedule consisted of 6:45 coffee, 7:00 meditation and 8:00 yoga that lasts until 10. Then breakfast on the beach and no other scheduled activities until our restorative (very low key stretching) class at 5. There is literally nothing to do in Yelapa except just be, which is exactly what I never let myself do and exactly what I needed. I spent my days lolling about on the beach and reading, and taking walks to collect beach glass, where my skills as a queen scavenger came in handy. I have eyes like a hawk for even the smallest remnant and amassed a substantial haul of beach glass. Oh and eating pie. A few local ladies make fresh pies daily and peddle them on the beach. BEST lemon meringue pie I have ever had. Seriously.

One of a zillion notecard worthy nature scenes along our walk.

Antsy people who feel the need to fight the allure of the beach can parasail, paraglide or hike to either tip of the horseshoe, or to a small but pretty waterfall. I actually lifted my ass off my beach chair and hiked to the waterfall with the rest of my group one day and did not regret it.  This is saying something as I don’t relinquish a perfect day on the beach very easily. Especially a day that’s 85 degrees, sunny and breezy as was every day on this trip. Yeah. Hate me now for that.

The waterfall. I stood under it and managed not to drown.

Sights along the walk were varied and numerous (the biggest pig I’ve ever seen, pretty chickens, lush vegetation, interesting iron work and people just living their lives), not to mention that standing under a waterfall is an experience not to be missed. I’ve only done this one other time, years ago, in Brazil. This will sound ridiculous, but the only way I know to describe it is that it feels like being reborn into a really clear, bright and blissful place. See what happens to me when I immerse myself in yoga?

Notecard worthy scene #2.

And yet another NCW scene. Colorful twine just lying around.

And my compadres! I was very lucky to be part of this small and eclectic group, whom I’m guessing ranged in age from mid-30s to late 50s, who came from California (one via Italy), Oregon, Washington and St. Louis, who make their livings in business, as artists, as teachers, body workers and muses and who befriended me and made me laugh and cry all week.

I wonder if this was the scene of the saddle theft?

The aforementioned fattest pig I’ve ever seen.  The photo doesn’t do her justice.  Seriously, she was the size of about 6 of me.

Yes. This is a yoga retreat. All of you who know me but don’t know the yogi side of me are likely thinking, wow, this is a really serene, philosophical, non-surly post coming out of this girl. Without yoga, I would be the moodiest most extreme type-A spaz you have ever seen. For reals.

A friend I made on the beach.  I did have pause to consider taking her home, but Cricket and Cash would be pissed.

Lest you leave this post without so much as a smirk, however, although I felt really fit and strong after the trip, I did learn an important lesson in beach vacation planning, and it is this: Either try on your bathing suit 3 months before the trip, or don’t try it on at all. I donned my bikini a week before my departure. Not wise. I will henceforth refer to this experience as the Unfortunate Bikini Incident of 2008. Omnimashivaya!

(Boots and guitars of the stars at Marty Stuart’s Sparkle & Twang exhibit.)

Has it really been 5 months since our trip to Nashville? Well. In a very belated effort to continue documenting my escapades of 2007, I blog on.

Friday, August 17

Believe it or not, before our visit in August, I’d never been to Nashville, only driven through. Roy needed to connect with his friend Barry for a project, and Barry and Nina generously offered their spare bedroom for the weekend, so I drove up to meet them on a Friday afternoon. (And made damned good time, I might add. Until I got lost trying to find their house. But I blame Yahoo maps. Seriously.

On Friday night, despite being really fried, we dragged ourselves out to the Mercy Lounge to see Centro-matic and Jason Isbell. Cool club. Centromatic opened, and although I totally dug them at Twangfest this summer, I did not really enjoy their set. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but they weren’t as tight as I remembered or as enthusiastic. They came across as just a sweaty dude band.

I’m not really a fan of Jason Isbell’s record. His record is certainly not BAD, but the songs just don’t have the soul or the ragged edge of the DBT records. He’s got a great band and put on a solid show, but I’m not yet connecting with him as a solo artist and band leader. His set included a lot of Truckers’ songs, which surprised me. The other surprise of the evening was the less than lovely rear view of the crowd of die hard Truckers fans. I’ve only ever seen DBT from a well-earned (by camping out) up against the front of the stage vantage point, so I’d never witnessed the sweaty mayhem or the, uhh, “visual” of the scruffy, scary Truckers fan base. Yikes. It was a fun night though, and the Mercy Lounge is a cool club.

Saturday, August 18

(Details on the excellent ’40s vintage bolero jacket I scored at Silvery Moon.)

Because he’s a nice guy, on Saturday Roy indulged me and we hit a few vintage stores, the best of which was Silvery Moon, which I’d heard is frequented by the likes of Gillian Welch. Although, as usual, I was denied a celebrity sighting, Silvery Moon is a friendly little store in a cute old house, and was totally worth the trip. I scored a really fab 40s bolero jacket and a grey fleecey 80s jackets with ruffled trim that I will wear as a coat, because you know, grey is the new black. Ha. Decent prices, too. Bonus.

After having one of the best sandwiches in recent memory, a fried green tomato BLT at Merchants, we checked out the tourist-y must do’s of lower Broadway. The screechy stripper-like “country singer” upstairs at Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge was not impressive. Actually, it was the first time in memory in which I wore my ear plugs in hopes of drowning out all sound versus just taking the decibel level down a few notches. The slow twang at Robert’s Western Wear next door was much better beer accompaniment.

(Hatch Show Print)

(Old stuff at Hatch Show Print.)

(The prints of Hatch Show Print.)

The highlight of our stroll was most definitely Hatch Show Print. I LOVE print shops, especially old ones with cats.

The work speaks for itself. It was hard to choose just one print, but considering my dearth of wall space, tough decisions are a necessity. Although it’s always hard for me to resist Johnny Cash, and the carnival prints were great, I went with Loretta Lynn.

Our last stop was the Ernest Tubb Record Shop. It was very cool to see the stage where the Midnite Jamboree takes place. When not in use, the stage is loaded with mannequins and cardboard cutouts decked in astounding vintage western wear that would cause my head to spin right off my body were I to find it for sale in a vintage shop. BUT, my favorite part of the shop were the portraits.

I love old portraits, and these, of various country music stars, are so, so fabulous. I’m don’t know the artist, but from the looks and style of them versus similar portraits that I’ve seen and own, I’d guess they were done in the 50s. If anyone reading this (yes, I like to pretend that people read my blog…) has any information on these portraits, please do post a comment. I’d love to learn more. Anyway, they are cool and totally worth a trip to the record store.

(Johnny Cash and Marty Stuart.)

Next stop, the Tennessee State Museum for the unbelievable and FREE exhibit of Marty Stuart’s country music memorabilia collection, appropriately titled “Sparkle and Twang.” As we’d heard the story told by Marty when we saw him at the New Salem, MO sesquicentennial celebration a few months back, he began his collection when he realized that country music’s treasures were being sold for a pittance at local junk shops. One of his early finds was a tooled leather train case that had belonged to Patsy Cline (evidenced via engraving). He paid $50 for it. !!!!

(The first black suit ever worn by Johnny Cash.)

(Hank Williams’ suit. Look at this thing!!!!!)

(An outfit owned and worn by Patsy Cline.)

His collection is amazing. I’ve included photos of some of my favorite pieces in the exhibit, but honestly, there were so many incredible things, it’s hard to call out “favorite” items. Also cool was the accompanying artwork by Jon Langford, seen throughout the exhibit (one of these days I will own a Langford Johnny Cash piece!) and one random piece by Lamar Sorrento.

(Some of the coolest vintage ties I’ve ever seen, made even cooler by the fact that they were owned by Hank Williams.)

(This adorable sketch is part of a letter from Patsy Cline to the infamous country music outfitter Nudie. In the letter, Patsy asked that Mr. Nudie custom make this dress for her. Unfortunately, she died not long after writing the letter. Note that at the bottom of the letter she’d included her measurements: 34″/25″/38″!!)

(One of my favorite things in the Marty Stuart collection: an autographed record that Johnny gifted to Marty early in his career. Read the inscription!)

Saturday night, I expressed my utter confusion over which Johnny Cash dvds to spend time with after viewing the wide (putting it mildly) array on display at Ernest Tubb. Barry had received an advance copy of the newly released Johnny Cash TV series boxed set, and the 4 of us embarked on a marathon preview.

Anyone who (1) loves Johnny Cash (2) loves old variety shows and misses the days when people didn’t lip sync and (3) remotely enjoys a variety of musical genres should own this dvd collection. I don’t even know where to begin, there are so many astounding performances included. Besides Johnny himself, and of course, June, everyone from Linda Ronstadt to Bob Dylan to just about any country music star you can think of is featured. And the really cool thing is that Johnny chose all the guest stars himself. Sigh. I can’t really adequately describe the basis of my admiration for Johnny Cash. Easily though, if I were asked the “if you could have dinner with anyone, alive or dead, who would it be?” question, my answer would be Johnny. (Second choice: Bill Clinton. Third: Viggo Mortenson, and I would need a chaperone.)

Sunday, August 19

Sunday, the 4 of enjoyed brunch at the Alley Cat Cafe, then Roy and I made tracks for our final destination before heading home, the Country Music Hall of Fame. Despite being a non-resident of Nashville, I am proud to say that I am now a member of the Country Music Hall of Fame. How could I NOT think it worthy to shell out $25 in support of Country Music and it’s memorabilia? God knows I appreciate “stuff” more than the average human, and the membership was just a few bucks more than the price we would’ve paid for admission. Plus I got a cool Hatch Show Print poster that I will probably never hang anywhere. Anyway, the Hall of Fame was fab. As with the Marty Stuart exhibit, I can’t name a specific highlight as there was so much to see and I was amused by pretty much all of it.

Next visit, I would love to tour and catch a show at the Ryman, revisit Silvery Moon, and check out some of the multiple antique stores I spotted downtown. You never know. The boots of someone famous could be tucked away in a dusty corner somewhere in Nashville, just waiting for me to find them.

(This photo makes me cry. It is the last photograph taken of Johnny Cash before he died. It was taken by Marty, and featured in his book of photographs, which I hope to own some day.)

(Mail Order Bride Vintage notepads on display at RRCS4.)

Has it already been 3 weekends since Rock n Roll Craft Show 4 blew through the Mad Art Gallery, raising the bar for handmade gift giving everywhere? Wow. Time flies when you are a negligent blogger.

(More MOBV at RRCS4.)

So yes, RRCS4 came, went and rocked. I attended the Friday night pre-party for vendors with Cat. The first view of the gallery, before the onslaught that occured over the weekend, was stunning! We both, (I think I can speak for Cat….) once again thoroughly enjoyed gorging (okay, I was the gorger) on Mangia’s fab spicy pasta salad and other offerings, sipping wine, and of course, having first crack at all the excellent handmade wares.

(My cool necklace by Andria Powell of Circa.)

I am proud to say, after having taken the Buy Handmade pledge, that I did a whole lotta my holiday shopping that night. Of course, me being me, I bought a few things for myself as well, the best of which are a silver and multi-stone necklace by Andria Powell of Circa and a silkscreened vintage shirt by Junk Drawer. I did not meet Andria at the show, but must give her extra snaps as her jewelry had both Cat and I anguished over choosing which of her pieces to buy. Once my bank account recovers, Circa (in Belleville) is on my destination list.

(The silk-screened bunny on the vintage shirt I bought by Junk Drawer.)

The show itself was amazing. Final totals and top sellers haven’t yet been released, but I am completely thrilled to have sold close to 100 items! The resulting chunk of change just paid for much of the balance due for my end of January Mexico yoga vacation. Excellent.

(Oh how I loved, and wish I would’ve purchased, this doll made by Mitch Huett of Panorama!)

Commerce aside, I had a great time. I worked a Saturday afternoon shift, and could barely make it to my station in the paper section, the room was so packed. Thank you, shoppers! I pushed my way through, and as with last year’s show, had fun just straightening, restocking and chatting with customers and friends about all the artists in my section.

(The throngs on Saturday afternoon.)

Probably the coolest thing for me was when a customer picked out several of my female nude and pinup girl notepads and told me she was sending them to soldiers that she knows in Iraq because she thought they’d make them smile. I got a little choked up, actually, but needless to say, that thought made me very happy. MOBV, supporting our troops. Now if we could only get them home. I won’t start.

(Wearables for sale. I also wanted the cookie scarf. Very Sarah Silverman/Cookie Party.)

Although I did make a VERY nice amount of $$ at RRCS4, I am not in this craft thing for the money. Sappy though it may sound, I am in it for the sheer joy of transforming something old into something new, and for experiences like the one I just described. Not much makes me happier than seeing someone laugh or smile when they pick up something I’ve made. It rocks.

I have obviously proven that I am lame, because in fact, I have NOT blogged about all the things that I said I would blog about. I still intend to blog about them. You just won’t care about them anymore by the time that happens.

However, I HAVE been doing something with my time in lieu of blogging. In addition to visiting with my sister and her husband (who I’d not seen for 3 years!) and undergoing a very arduous allergy testing process, I have been cranking out mass quantities of product for the upcoming Rock N Roll Craft Show on December 8th & 9th at Mad Art Gallery. I am very excited to be in this show again. It’s fun to be a part of…lots of great artists, well attended and well organized, foods, bevs and bands, excellent pre-party…what more could a crafter want? Here’s just some of what Mail Order Bride Vintage will have to offer at the Rock N Roll Craft Show:

I have several new packs of playing cards in rotation in their new lives as notepads:

I’ve had these cards for a long time….way before I started making things. It was hard to punch that first hole, but who am I kidding? I never play cards.

These are so dang cute, I could just cry. They may be my cutest cards EVER.

I’ve also been making notepads from children’s card games. These are from a game called Snap: