Day 2 At SXSW: The Mechanics And Economics Of Access

by Elizabeth Nelson

Early on Day 2, we descend upon downtown Austin. It is very hot here, and our walk is a two-mile trail of tears. I pass the pawn shop/check-cashing place near the cottage and head towards 6th Street, towards the action. Dubious-looking entrepreneurs who stop us to "just ask a quick question" give way to shrugging, hung over, skinny kids with green or yellow bracelets hanging off of their bony wrists.

Civilization turns to havoc shortly thereafter, with city streets closed to car traffic and monitored by non-threatening-looking city police. It is here that I first peep an unkempt beard and plaid shirt worn by the non-homeless and a preponderance of low-cut jersey tank tops worn with little else besides a pair of slouchy boots. It is exactly like being on either the set of Pirates of the Caribbean or on the ride of the same name, take your pick. Yo, ho, indeed.

It is noon, and already, people are drinking. They are alternatingly appearing not to care about what is happening, listening intently, and vomiting on one another. Area businesses have cloistered themselves with high white tents to facilitate the hosting of 'day parties,' a SXSW phenomenon that tacitly encourages drinking at this early hour.

Guitars, drums, and dirty Rhodes sounds punctuate the air. Is it possible to just walk into a day party without any credentials? It is not. Timothy has informed me that we need to go and pick up his credentials. I have decided to forego obtaining credentials for populist reasons, but evidently, he needs them for one reason or another.

Full NPR coverage at NPR.org/sxsw. Plus: the magic of credentials and the price of admission, after the jump...

 

SXSW access is dictated by credentials. The options are, as far as I can ascertain: all access, which involves a series of laminated badges tied to a hugely ugly lanyard; artist: a hugely ugly green lenticular slap bracelet; volunteer: a fugly XXL baby blue tee-shirt and hugely ugly bracelet; and paid visitor: a hugely ugly lenticular bracelet dispensed by a volunteer with a side of bile. In order to obtain a bracelet, one must show up at the downtown convention center and queue accordingly. Like the DMV, only more depressing. Attending SXSW as a paid visitor will cost just shy of $700.

This, for me, is where things get weird. I don't mind queuing up for things. I don't mind bracelets. I don't mind matching t-shirts. But where I bristle, finally, is at the notion that it actually costs the lay observer upwards of $1000 to just attend a festival dedicated to celebrating music, largely from independent bands that don't see anything like $1000 net at the end of a tour.

Fair enough, you say, it is an industry event, AND it is meant to bolster Austin's economy. But let's just pretend I am an indie music enthusiast with a few days off of work and some proximity to the city. I would still not be able to attend without a huge cash layout at the outset — and this does not include the costs of lodging and food, etc. (and there is much etc. that one requires here, just to deal).

In many ways, SXSW is no different than any business convention, despite trying to be something different. The 'party' atmosphere is diluted by the massive amount of corporate influence, commerce, and gatekeeping. I watch everyone walk out of the convention center, watch as their eyes acclimate to the sunlight, one after the next. Lanky? Check. Unkempt facial growth? Check. Skinny jeans? Check. Overstuffed canvas bag that mom takes to the library once a week?.... Check. I have met the enemy, and it is us.

We meet up with Timothy's bandmate, gullet a pitcher of frozen margaritas and try and make some sense of the Guide to SXSW, A 100-page pamphlet that reads like the tax code: columns and columns of anonymous band names and venues with precious little clarifying context. I must figure out some way to decode this manual before the morning so we can navigate our way into the eye of this storm.

Night gathers around Austin as I evaluate the accumulating spectacle. A basic maxim about living in New York City is that one cannot at any point not be within one mile of a drum being played. At SXSW, this field gets narrowed to about two feet.

In the Old Testament, the people of the city of Babel failed at tower-building and were flung asunder by their maker in a roaring cacophony of confused languages. Soon we will be awash in a heaving sea of facial hair, empty PBR cans, and 16,000 bands stomping a fuzz pedal in unison. But today is more prologue than text. I am coiled, playing the waiting game. Also, I can't remember the address where I am staying.

Elizabeth Nelson is regular contributor to VH1, the AV Club NYC, and the Brooklyn Rail. Her recent column on the program STELLA — hailed by Michael Ian Black as "Intelligent!" and "Difficult to understand!" — appears here.