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SXSW: Austin, Texas' Annual Rawk N' Roll Festival By David Glessner, Contributor Monday, April 26, 2004 @ 11:20 AM
And so it goes ... another sleepless, five-day blur of bands, beer and breakfast tacos. Welcome back to South by Southwest, the music industry mayhem that
teeters dangerously close to something resembling spring break and Satan’s bachelor party. Before it’s all over, thousands of bands from all over the world will
play around the clock at countless venues while your wallet, job and sobriety spiral into oblivion. You wanted the best, you got the best, the most rockin’ good
time on Earth.... SXSW! Somebody pass the aspirin.
Because I’m in the process of moving during SXSW, chronological reporting is as likely as finding a sparkling Port-O-Potty in the alley behind Emo’s. Hell, I’m lucky to
find both shoes in the morning let alone the cameras, jotted notes and other scattered documentation of my various misadventures. Ah yes, my life is in boxes
and the world is my ulcer. Let there be rock!
In no particular order, I offer the following random highlights. Besides bumping into Nashville Pussy, Eddie Spaghetti, the Gearhead Records crew and doing
some supa-sized partying with Supagroup guitarist Benji Lee (who made me completely forget about the Hives and Riverboat Gamblers), the rest of the highlights went vaguely like this:
(Be sure to click on the band names to link to their official sites!)
I’m walking down the sidewalk feeling the early SXSW buzz, when a kid that looks like he’s on a steady diet of Buckcherry and Guns ‘N Roses bursts through
a club door and starts yelping at the top of his lungs. Startled and bewildered the crowd on the sidewalk takes a collective step backward. The band is Austin’s
own Backlit Revolver and it looks like they’ve mistaken Sixth Street for the Sunset Strip circa 1988. Shrieking about cocaine and switchblades, the Revolver
kids would likely earn a nod of approval from their hero, Nikki Sixx. Local rock blaster Jason McMaster is in the house preparing to play bass with his latest
project, Activator, and gives the kids two Dangerous thumbs up. It’s refreshing to see there’s still an appetite for decadence in the gut of today’s young
upstarts.
Next up is a San Antonio-based industrial-metal-goth band called Scary Manilow. The band plays a style of music that recalls elements of Tool, Voivod and
Faith No More. The drummer is phenomenal and the female keyboardist adds some angelic backup vocals that turn almost creepy within the context of the
haunted, tortured music. It’s not light-‘em up, party hard good-time rock-n-roll, but that’s not the point. This is nightmare music and in the hands of Scary
Manilow it succeeds in casting a bleak, foreboding shadow.
Being a local, I’m standing on the corner blabbing to my buddy/doorguy when a dude with mirror shades and a dangling cigarette shoves a CD into my hands.
What could pass for the Backyard Babies is actually the Crank County Daredevils from North Carolina. The fact that they immediately consider me one of their own
has me worried. We shoot the shit and I’m sold on seeing their gig. They slam like Faster Pussycat splitting an eight-ball with Motorhead and for the duration of
SXSW, this motley crew is randomly referred to as "that sleazy, eyeliner band of tattooed drunks" or something as equally endearing. I’ve seen them twice
since we met and against my better judgement will probably see them again tonight. Bass player Billy Velvet is my new drinking buddy and takes great pride in
telling me he’s got a tattooed pecker. He also claims that the headdress he’s wearing is actually his dead dog’s carcass. I take his word on both counts and
start looking for the door.
It wasn’t all complete lunacy, however, as I found myself in Michael Monroe’s hotel room chatting about the past and future of his legendary band, Hanoi
Rocks. It’s 3 p.m. and I feel spaced-out and weak after the previous nights’ thrashings from Supagroup, The Ends, Broken Teeth and others. But Monroe has
a way of shooting you to Cloud Nine. What can I say? Even in the privacy of his hotel room, the guy is a 24-7, glam-punk, rock god. Makeup, ratted hair, jewelry and charisma to spare, he’s an engaging and most hospitable character. He’s not here to play a gig, but rather to promote the latest Hanoi Rocks album, Twelve Shots on the Rocks. Reunited with detoxed guitarist Andy McCoy, the real news is that Twelve Shots is an amazing comeback that continues the band’s legacy as opposed to harming it. "If I wanted to whore myself out, I’d be a gay prostitute," cracks Monroe. A tour is in the works with a revamped band. For the record, original bassist Sammy Yaffa is now with Joan Jett and guitarist Nasty Suicide is now a pharmacist. Would you buy pills
from a guy named Nasty Suicide? Of course you would.
Many thanks to Liquor and Poker ace Brandon Stratton for welcoming me and my wife to Monroe’s room and, of course, to the eternally cool Michael Monroe for making me the envy of Austin’s punk-rock underground. Hanoi Rocks, indeed.
Perhaps the best moniker I happened upon belonged to Bible of the Devil. The band ripped through old-school Flying-V metal that recalled UFO, Thin Lizzy,
Paul Di’Anno-era Iron Maiden and Accept. I’m not a gambling man, but it’s a safe bet "Strangers in the Night" is rattling around the band’s van when they
bang their heads back to Chicago.
My buddy Rick Canny has hooked me up numerous times while road-managing Buckcherry and the The Cult so I decide to show up at Stubb’s to watch him
babysit the Von Bondies from Detroit. Courtesy of Rick and his cigar, we watch the band from the side of the stage where it’s apparent that frontman Jason
Stollsteimer has healed from the black-and-blue publicity campaign doled out by White Stripes frontman Jack White. The Von Bondies turn in a decent set of
revival-style Motor City garage rock with the added spunk of female backup vocals courtesy of the guitarist and bass player. The drummer flails like Animal from
"The Muppets" and gets my vote as the Von Bondies’ star attraction.
As the Von Bondies exit, Joan Jett’s security clears a pope-worthy path that makes me hate myself for loving her. Privilege is fleeting and my up-close Jett set is cut painfully short. Boo-hoo. Next.
Ah, the familiar smell of Jack and Coke can only mean The Dragons have arrived despite another tour van mishap. This is the band’s 11th appearance at SXSW and as usual (to paraphrase their album title), they rock like fuck. Their latest album, “Sin Salvation,” is another potent blend of Motorhead muscle and Stones swagger spiked with all the woo-hoo and whoa-yeah shout-along vocals you’ve come to expect from these rock-n-roll kamikazes.
Pairing up with The Dragons are British underground legends, The Wildhearts led by dreadlocked frontman Ginger (who could pass for former White Zombie guitarist, Jay Yuenger). The band gets the award for most-anticipated SXSW act (at least among the in-the-know rock-n-roll lifers… Dragons guitarist Kenny Horne even has Ginger’s autograph taped to his Flying-V). Onstage, The Wildhearts sound like a punk-rock Cheap Trick. The band is worth the hype, especially onstage. The band recently released a compilation album called Riff After Riff on Gearhead Records and while it is a great rock record, I’m told it’s worth shelling out for the earlier imports, The Earth Vs. The Wildhearts and The Wildhearts Must Be Destroyed. (Note: I have since found out The Wildhearts are soon re-releasing 'Must Be Destroyed' on Sanctuary Records, which would make it more widely available.) By the way, if you’re planning to see The Darkness on tour, make sure you get there early to see The Wildhearts open.
And there you have it… another blurry SXSW snapshot from Austin, Texas. The members of Ozomatli may not have fond recollections (two band members and a manager made headlines after being arrested for allegedly tussling with police), and there were bands I wished I had seen (The Burden Brothers and Hardcore Superstar come to mind), but all in all, it was insanity at its finest and once again reminded me that SXSW and the entities that feed off its spirit help make my fair city the envy of music freaks everywhere. Thanks for coming. Now go home!
(Photos contributed by David Glessner. Crank County Daredevil live photos by Chucky)
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