Day 3 At SXSW: How To Party

by Elizabeth Nelson

Another early morning, another sweltering procession from hovel to downtown Austin. I tell Timothy I think we should "party," but I don't really know how. I need some indicator, a rabbit hole, perhaps a gateway drug of sorts.

Fortunately, strolling down 4th Street towards Red River, I receive just such a jarring slap to the senses, a harbinger of the reckless fun to come: A voluptuous woman in her fifties, standing in front of the convention center, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes, wearing a pair of stained acid-washed pants and nothing else. Her tattooed nipples heave in our general direction, beckoning us to follow her and find our bliss. Oh Mermaid! I will do thy bidding.

And should this clarion call not have been enough to lead us into bosom of temptation, our mission is crystallized shortly thereafter when we see our friend and NPR Music editor Stephen Thompson, weathered, resolute, storm-tossed, in the middle of the 6th Street sea of humanity, equipment strapped to his chest and microphone in hand, recording sounds of drunken revelry. I salute him as we walk past, but he will not acknowledge us. Dedication!

And in a war, one needs like-minded confederates. Our strongest ally is Tim Quirk. Frontman of beloved alt-rockers Too Much Joy and now an executive at the burgeoning Viacom subsidiary Rhapsody, Tim says he's been to every SXSW since 1998, and the very fact that he is comfortable referring to the entire event as 'South By' confers legitimacy on his claims. We call him and secure our first high-stakes invitation to a SX day party. All that is left is for us to plot our coordinates, scope out the venue, and have our faces melted.

Navigating Austin, the power of cab drivers, and why people really attend this festival in the first place, after the jump...

 

Now Austin is a pretty easy city to get around, especially on foot, but we find ourselves confused by all of the sounds and unable to find the party. We agree to stop into a Mexican restaurant to recalibrate our navigational tools and have a few margaritas in order to sharpen our minds. By the time we realize that we are actually next door to the Rhapsody party, we have missed the entire thing. Tim Quirk is waiting outside the venue, and we are crushed by our loss.

In the manner of Henry the Fifth, Quirk proceeds to dispense to us a pep talk, that perfect combination of uplift and mental cruelty that causes one to soldier on even in the face of the greatest adversity. He sees a woman getting out of a taxi across the street and he waves the car down.

"That was my daughter," the cabbie tells us as we start driving. "Where was she going?" we ask. "I don't know," he mutters and trails into silence. The driver is an amorphous liver-spotted man with long fingernails and something leaking out of his mouth. I like him immediately. He asks us if we're here for the festival and about our experience so far.

As we begin to answer, he interrupts to tell us about a recent fare, a woman (not his daughter) who was playing some shows at the festival. "She gave me a copy of her CD!" We feign excitement and he produces a copy of said record. "Here it is," he says, mouth weeping, and then puts it into the CD player. "I think she's going to be famous." As we listen to the strains of acoustic guitar and the singer's sweet voice, we all quietly acknowledge that even cab drivers have something to promote at SXSW.

We arrive at a bar and restaurant called Threadgills to see our friends Okkervil River performing alongside Austin hero and music legend Roky Erickson. The venue has a spacious outdoor area for the stage, and it comfortably accommodates the crowd. It's easily ten degrees cooler here. The event is populated by a wide mix of fans, many in their late fifties or older.

In the best possible sense, it's like being at a barbecue. Beers are a dollar. There are chairs. One can clearly hear the vocals and the instrumentation. The show is sublime and utterly devastating; it is incredible to see this rock and roll hero performing live, singing and playing without any sense of strain or effort, despite his age, his infirmity and the many, many years of questionable psychiatric treatments that he has endured.

After the show, we entreat our friends who have come out for the show to decamp to a nearby restaurant, which is chosen essentially at random and is predictably wonderful. You can hardly throw a rock in Austin without hitting some establishment with great, cheap Mexican food. The combination of the warm weather, the alcohol-soaked air, and being surrounded by nine of our closest friends from all over the country is welcome nourishment to our taxed souls and synapses.

These hours and events cast into bold relief the persistent attraction of SXSW for many annual attendees. Even those who adore the festival and wouldn't consider missing it generally acknowledge its preposterous hardships and expenditures — physical, mental and financial. But there is another side to the equation: when enthusiasts reminisce about their favorite moments in any given year, it rarely pertains to catching the heavily-hyped band playing 6th Street or taking fastidious notes on the droning minutiae of "industry experts" pontificating about the future of digital downloads on some antiseptic panel.

What really makes this memorable are the moments small and unexpected — the half-crowded show you didn't even know you wanted to see and the hastily convened feast with far flung friends you didn't even realize you missed as much as you did.

Such moments of ease and grace are ephemeral and difficult to maintain, and very shortly, the polarities will shift again.