David.  Freaking.  Johansen.

Closing out a seriously weird evening with The Wrens the night before allowed us to awake having shaken off any disappointment we may have had about Thursday.  We really didn’t have a plan for Friday, but as always, the options were many and we quickly formulated one and plunged in.

Bishop Allen.  Who do you remind me of, Justin Rice?  It’s driving me crazy.

We started our day once again at The Mohawk to see Bishop Allen, a Brooklyn band whose lead singer looks pretty much exactly like somebody, but dang it, I can’t place WHO.  The music was solid, enjoyable if not dramatically original indie rock.  A good choice first off.  It was only later than we figured out we could have seen The Wrens again (they’d played just before Bishop Allen) if we’d only made it out an hour earlier.  Shit.  Oh well.

The Faux Depp.

Roy and I were both interested in checking out Great Northern, who were playing a little later at The Red Eyed Fly.  In the mean time, we wandered into a few other bars along the way.  Nothing exciting was gained (except being highly amused by this random band guy who was reeeeally trying to look like Johnny Depp), but nothing was lost and we had our first and second, and maybe even third beers of the day.

Great Northern.  It should’ve been dark outside for this set.

Back to The Red Eyed Fly for Great Northern’s set.  Rachel Stolte, the lead singer, was the epitome of rock goddess femme fatale with her jet black hair and shredded black hose.  The band’s sound is somewhat dark and melancholy 90s west coast rock, with a little bit of an 80s undercurrent.  All good in my book.  And I have zero fashion criticism for Rachel.  She is awesome and reminds me why I ditched the blonde a few years back.  I do not miss it.  (People treat you completely differently when you are not blonde.  REALLY.)

I was VERY excited about our next stop, Little Steven’s Underground Garage Party at Antone’s.  I was expecting a line for this one, but after our long hoof across town we were able to zip right in in time to catch The Living Things’ set, just as I’d hoped.

Our first dose of swagger: The Living Things.

So okay, The Living Things are from St. Louis, but according to Roy, now live in LA.  Why I never saw them in St. Louis, I have no idea.  I tend to think of myself as more on top of music than the average bear (With the exception of The Lost Decade, when I was in a relationship with someone who did not love music in the same way that I did, and for whom I suppressed that part of my life.  Not his fault, although I’d love to be able to blame him.  But I was the dumb ass that did that to myself.  Needless to say, never again.), but it seems that every SX finds me scratching my head and saying “Why didn’t I know” endlessly.  Bla bla bla.  You’ve heard it.  Even I’m sick of hearing myself say this.  Anyway.

The Living Things’ mod and punky take on garage rock was right up my alley, as were the moves of Lillian Berlin.  He twisted, slunk (is that a word?) and swaggered, evoking the beloved (for me, anyway) late, great Michael Hutchence until a friend reminded me that, uh, those moves really belong to Mick Jagger.  Right.  What can I say, I have have had sort of a reverse rock-n-roll maturation, so Michael Hutchence actually meant more to me than Jagger until this most recent decade of my life.

Little Steven outbid me on ebay for this shirt.

Much to my star-stalker amusement, Little Steven actually came out to introduce each set.  Here’s another example of my double secret backward musical development:  When I see Little Steven I think of The Soprano’s before I think of Springsteen.  I know!  It’s ridiculous.  Can you believe I even admit to these things?  I have no pride.  Anyway, I struggled to keep Steven looking Little in my photos given my proximity and the angle.  You can be the judge of whether I succeeded.  Liked his shirt tho.  I would totally wear that as a dress with some boots.  Probably my grey suede knee-high vintage Zodiacs.  Maybe he would let me borrow it.

Swagger Master Greg Prevost, of the Chesterfield Kings.

Now, if I’d thought I’d just had my major “Why didn’t I know (about this band)” moment for the day, I was wrong.  The. Chesterfield. Kings.  HOLY HELL.  I seriously need to do some time travel and figure out how this band escaped me for the past THIRTY YEARS.  OH.  MY.  GOD.  The Chesterfield Kings OWNED the stage.  I had to remind myself that it was mid-afternoon as the teased hair, makeup and costume of Greg Prevost evoked late night smoky NY rock club and for me, the day was completely transformed.  I’m fairly certain that I turned to Roy shortly after they took the stage and poked him in the arm so that he could see my jaw hanging open.

Lillian Berlin, you are good, but my man, you got nothing on Greg, who could practically outslink Mick.  I LOVED the persona he completely inhabited, as well as the band’s 60’s & 70’s take on garage rock.  The Kings are tight and amazing and DAMN I just loved them.  They were most definitely one of my favorite discoveries (embarassed as I am that it took me 30 fucking years to discover them) of SXSW 2009.  I RAN to the merch table and was rewarded with a cd and a ridiculously cool t-shirt.  Yay!

At this point, I forged out on my own to hit the New Zealand party put on by the NZ Music Commission in a tent near the convention center.  On the bill: 2 bands I really wanted to see, Cut Off Your Hands and Ladyhawke, as well as 2 others.  I hadn’t eaten ALL day, and managed to divert briefly to 6th St for a slice of pizza that tasted heavenly but turned out not to be such a good idea.  Enough said.

On my way back, I caught a glimpse of  Pip Brown (aka, Ladyhawke) stopping to take a photo with a fan before slipping into the tent.  Amazingly, I resisted the urge to be a fan girl and after stopping dead in my tracks and again, dropping my jaw, managed to keep walking.  I got in line for the party, and for the first time it actually paid off having RSVPd AND having a badge, as people with this magic combo were the only ones guaranteed entrance.  I’m not proud, but I admit to feeling a bit superior at this moment.  Extra bonus:  FREE NZ wines and beer!!!  There was nothing bad about this party.  In fact, a friend later told me that a few years ago at SX, Flight of the Conchords played this gig!  Back when they were nobodies….how cool is that?

Nick Johnston of Cut Off Your Hands.

I grabbed a fine NZ Sauv Blanc and staked out a spot up front.  Mmmmmm….light grassy, yummy goodness. First up were Cut Off Your Hands, who appeared, for whatever reason, much younger than I had expected.  As with most of the bands I choose to see at SX, I’d not heard much of their music, but I was not disappointed by their energetic 80s tinged rock.  I think I heard some Cure in there, and that is always okay with me.

Simon, Paula, I know you’re reading this, so weigh in already (on Midnight Youth).

Next up, Midnight Youth, who I would describe as very “American Idol”.  Just not my thing.  They are a very tight band, solid performers, but their music was just too radio ready for my taste.  Bleh.  As it turns out, the band stayed at our (ha - our!) La Quinta and I ran into them on Sunday on their way out “To New York!  We’re making a video!”.  They were very nice and very well put together boys and I wished them well without saying anything insincere.  They ARE decent musicians, just not particularly original.

The blur (and the seemingly innocent girl) that is Bang! Bang! Eche!

Bang! Bang! Eche! followed, and although I more or less rolled my eyes through the first few songs (not into the Red Hot Chili Peppers meets thrash skater boyz punk thing), Zach, the lead singer’s INSANE jumping around eventually got me to loosen my ear plugs and pay attention.  I was also intrigued by the very innocent looking girl bass player.  How on earth did she wind up with these dudes?  I mean, look at her!  These kids seriously THRASH, and I wondered if she’d ever broken loose and thrashed along with them, or conversely, wound up victim of a bloody nose, having been wacked by a random flying limb.

The whole scene suddenly all became very captivating, although I had to to laugh at these lyrics coming from what looked to be a 16 year old:  “I don’t smoke cigarettes, I don’t take any drugs, I don’t go out at night, I just fuck.”  Yeah, sure you do, Zach.  The fact that I would never sit around listening to a Bang! Bang! Eche! record was beside the point.  These kids were a blast to watch and were actually pretty great.  Huh.  Go figure.

Aaaah Ladyhawke, you pass all my “tests”:  Rock chick style = Check.  Presence = Check.  Great and original songs = Check.  I think I love you.

And finally, the person I’d really come to see, Ladyhawke, took the stage. Pip started off a bit reserved, but warmed into a fantastic set, alternating between rock and dance and blurring the lines in between.  A little bit Stevie Nicks (may have been the hair?) and a little bit Madonna or Kylie (sans the ego and the flash, and just much cooler than either or both of them), her music was right up my alley.  When Pip played her “hit”, “Paris is Burning”, the tent erupted into a bit of a dance party, led by an overzealous young man who somehow thought we’d all enjoy seeing him dance on top of a monitor, directly in front of Ladyhawke.  Luckily, I was standing off to the side or my latent bitchiness might have emerged to take charge of the situation.  I think the wine buzz helped, too.  This set was one of my SXSW highlights, and I left the party smiling and pretty darned pleased with myself.

I hoofed across town to meet Roy at Cedar St. Courtyard to see Beach House.  After some minor issues connecting that were pretty much what you’d anticipate when one person tries to find another person in a massive crowd and only one of the 2 persons has a cell phone, we managed to find each other.  We were able to hear a few of Beach House’s songs (very mellow indie pop, I liked them), but we couldn’t see anything and moving forward would’ve been just too painful, so we bailed and headed toward La Zona Rosa to see Camera Obscura.

Tracyanne Campbell of Camera Obscura rocking us, as well as her Gloria Vanderbilt dress.

Now THIS (as opposed to the church) was a cool place to see this band.  I’d never seen Camera Obscura, but I love all the songs I hear Roy and our friend John play on KDHX, so I was psyched.  When the band walked on stage, I was very amused by the twee pastel vintage 80s dresses worn by lead singer Tracyanne Campbell and the keyboard player, Lindsay Boyd.  No similarities to anything in my vintage closet, but all girls who wear vintage a-okay with me. Fashion commentary aside, Camera Obscura were great, and did some new songs from their upcoming album (”My Maudlin Career”) as well several older and more familiar.  Tracyanne’s voice is amazing and kind of precious (in a good way), and combined with the band’s orchestration, lifted the music way beyond what I’d ever gotten from listening to their records.

“Frosted Lucky Charms, they’re magically delicious!”  (Loney Dear)

I was soon knocked off the happy indie pop cloud I’d climbed onto by Loney Dear, who we saw next at the Habana Calle.  Although I generally mistrust anyone who wears suspenders, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  Emil has some good songs, but his goofy persona and mostly pre-recorded accompaniment brought him off as a lame Jens Lekman wannabe.  After having revoked the benefit of the doubt, my true evil nature came out and I decided that Emil resembled a cross between one of those leiderhosen-wearing lawn ornament boys and the Lucky Charms leprechaun and I tuned out.  Roy wasn’t into it either, so we moved on to our last stop, the New York Dolls at the Smokin’ Lounge.

We were way early, but still, even with badges I was afraid we might not get in.  We did with no problem, and went straight for the American Spirit peeps to get more free smokes for Roy before retiring to the outdoor courtyard to hang with the smokers before the show.  Despite the fact that we were about to see THE punk band, the courtyard crowd vibe was friendly and mellow.  We ran into and chatted with the always charming Binky of the fantastic Sarah Borges and the Broken Singles.  It seems that most people, including us, had never seen the Dolls and that most people, including us, had agonized over choosing between seeing the Dolls or seeing Devo, who were playing at the same time at the Austin Music Hall.

St. Louis people, tell me that David Johansen does not look like Fred Friction.  Seriously!

We did not regret our choice.  Although we were somewhat embarrassed by the lame-ness of the crowd (too many bald 50 year old guys for a punk show, although one brave kid did climb up on stage after David Johansen tried to incite some signs of life out of someone, anyone….), the Dolls were great.  As if it’s not wonder enough that the man is still alive, David Johansen, amazingly, still absolutely has it going on and lives up to his icon status at the age of 59.  I was basically in awe of him, as well as of his uncanny resemblence to our town’s Fred Friction.  Sylvain Sylvain (the only other original band member; NOT Johnny Thunders, RIP, as I had originally posted - - thanks Spencer, for setting me straight!) was also great, and it was obvious that he and Buster had a history together.  I am sure I was not the only Dolls virgin in the room who wondered what it would have been like to have seen them back in the day.  I’ll bet even the 2 bald dudes in front of me would’ve been moshing.

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