That dilemma affects virtually everyone at SXSW every year, and it brings to mind an ongoing debate I've had with my dear friend and fellow NPR blogger Neda Ulaby. She and I have engaged in a few philosophical discussions about how to approach the festival -- okay, we drank beer and talked about what bands we wanted to see -- and we follow virtually opposite guidelines. She only wanted to check out things she'd never seen before, whereas I refused to pass up stuff I knew I already loved. She was looking for illuminating angles and ways to tell a story, and I followed "The Babysitter Rule," wherein I wouldn't skip a show I'd hire a sitter for at home.

Both approaches are understandable given our respective circumstances: Neda is a gifted reporter who loves to view subjects from many perspectives over time, while I'm an obsessive fanboy recluse who spends far more time wolfing Cheetos Puffs, shelving CDs, and watching The Amazing Race after the kids go to bed than he spends exploring the D.C. nightlife. Both of us found a lot of what we were looking for -- Neda gathered stories and I bought a Bloodhag T-shirt -- while rarely seeing shows in the same place at the same time.

Sampling hundreds of recordings in preparation for SXSW made me think a lot about the endless diversity of music, musicians, and music fans today. There's a saying that goes, "90 percent of everything is crap," but it's fascinating to see how that 90 percent is different for each individual. One of the joys of SXSW lies in its ability to provide a different experience and different epiphanies for each music fan. I only hope that this blog -- not to mention the dozens of live sessions we've streamed with the aid of NPR member stations -- has been a worthwhile reflection of what readers would want to get out of the festival. If not, there's always 2008, right?

It's an odd experience to take in live music in the daytime (audio), but that's part of the experience in Austin. Then again, it's pretty unusual to drink margaritas at noon, too. [Wait... it is? --ST] It actually all started for me with Forro in the Dark at breakfast! Next time you're in Austin, you must check out Las Manitas -- I recommend the vegetarian Huevos Especial con Migas washed down with a watermelon aqua fresca. Two tables down offered me the opportunity for the first pounce of the day: Martha Wainwright. Alisa wasted no time pouncing on her faves, Cold War Kids, who will likely emerge from SXSW with a much higher profile. A stop at a Starbucks for a mid-day, post-margarita pick-me-up was music-filled, with the CSNY-style pop of Low Stars, who played acoustic over the din of barista calls of "Venti Venti Venti." Alisa headed south while I went east; she found Money Mark, Aqualung and a grilled cheese, while I found some fancy sushi and sake.

The Fratellis, "Flathead" (audio)
Lily Allen, "LDN" (audio)
Amy Winehouse, "Rehab" (audio)

Outrageously long lines discouraged entry to the likes of Field Music and Midlake, whose "Roscoe" (audio) is fantastic either because or in spite of the fact that it starts out sounding just like Fleetwood Mac. At one point, so many shows were inaccessible that I passed the time by ducking into a club just because I knew it would be selling Bloodhag T-shirts. Bloodhag's inscrutable grindcore metal songs are written entirely to celebrate science-fiction writers -- here's "Anne McCaffrey" (audio) -- but in my mind, it's all window dressing for awesome album art and merchandise. Even though popping in to buy a shirt meant listening to some of Jello Biafra's joyless spoken-word hectoring, it was totally worth it: My new Bloodhag shirt features a horned skull wearing reading glasses. Seriously, what the hell could be better?

Buying a Bloodhag shirt provided a natural segue into the adult-contemporary song stylings of Irish singer Fionn Regan -- a major up-and-comer who, like about 350 other Europeans with acoustic guitars, sounds like he might be the next Damien Rice. Fortunately, and crucially, he's got some nice songs to back up his aims: Here's "Be Good or Be Gone" (audio) from his debut album, which comes out here in June.

After a much-needed stop to see gifted Twin Cities rapper Brother Ali -- here's his wonderful celebration of being ugly, "Forest Whitiker" (audio) -- the night's remainder was all about raging against the dying of my feet. But I did get to see one of several SXSW performances (here's one from NPR station KEXP) by the reunited Stooges, led by singer Iggy Pop, who turns 60 next month and has probably never complained about his feet in his life. Given the abuse his body has taken over the years, watching Pop jump around like a 19-year-old gave me much-needed perspective as the festival wound to a close: Iggy Pop is a spastic force of nature, whereas I am a weak, creaky-jointed, prune-eating crybaby old-timer who can't wait to go to bed. Rock 'n' roll!

Around that time, my friend Nathan was at some party or other, and he ran into a guy who unleashed an unsolicited tirade against The Promise Ring -- which was, a presumable byproduct of having attracted attention outside Wisconsin, a bunch of pitiful corporate lapdog sellouts. "Did you know," the guy asked Nathan, "that those guys made fifty thousand dollars last year?" This was, of course, an appallingly ostentatious sum of money for four guys to collectively make in a year of appearing in magazines, releasing an album, and touring the country.

Nathan and I always used to laugh about that -- the idea that successful musicians are constantly at risk of "selling out" every time they entertain the idea of signing with a major label or getting their music on a TV commercial, when most of them make less money than the average sandwich-assembler at Subway. A member of The Promise Ring makes $12,500 in a year, and that makes him a sellout? I'm thrilled when my favorite bands get Gap ads or TV themes, because it means they're far less likely to become customer-service reps somewhere.

A few years back, I ran into singer Davey von Bohlen and drummer Dan Didier, who've since disbanded The Promise Ring and formed Maritime (which played here last night). I told them Nathan's story, and they laughed heartily before Davey said, "The awesome thing about that is that we never made that much money in a year. I have no idea where that guy even heard that."

Food for thought the next time you're debating whether to drop $10 for a T-shirt at a rock show.

For one thing, a bar may well be a church where they serve beer, but every SXSW, the Central Presbyterian Church turns into a bar where people actually shut up and stop networking long enough to listen to shows. The awed hush and ample seating more than compensate for the lack of alcohol; I guess they didn't want the sound of clinking bottles to detract from the music, huh? Anyway, NPR station KCRW sponsored an appealing lineup inside what emcee Chris Douridas appropriately called "a sanctuary," leading off with Norwegian singer-songwriter Thomas Dybdahl. The oft-wonderful Dybdahl -- for evidence, here's "A Lovestory" (audio) -- even took questions from the audience without fear of Norwegian-accented heckling.

From there, the agonizing choice between Clem Snide and Adem -- two acts I'd happily drive at least an hour to see on any given night -- was decided in part by a chance encounter with friends heading to the former. As I've noted in a previous post, Clem Snide's new songs sound amazing, though my long-running fandom could theoretically qualify as bias at this point. And skipping Adem was probably a wise move anyway: Superb singer-songwriter Laura Gibson played the same little tent/patio stage an hour later, and she spent the entire set fighting to be heard over what sounded like five nearby metal bands. (Which would probably have put a damper on my traditional Adem-viewing ritual of snorfling like a little girl.)

After Gibson, the night turned into an epic grudge match between two overpowering impulses -- soaking in more bands vs. soaking my aching feet -- and believe it or not, the former more or less won out. The Swedish power-pop band The Faintest Ideas proved as charming onstage as it does on "You're Beautiful" (audio), though I ultimately regretted skipping a big chunk of its show to see Chad VanGaalen: After walking for what seemed like a mile, I arrived to discover that the Canadian had been denied entry to the U.S. for SXSW. Which makes sense, because nothing says "grave national-security risk" quite like reclusive singer/songwriters from Calgary. A grateful nation breathed a sign of relief, but asked nicely for me to post the sweet-but-unnerving "Build a Home Like a Bee" (audio), from VanGaalen's Infiniheart.

Midnight's slot belonged to an old favorite, the Milwaukee band Maritime, which combines two of my favorite things: sweetly infectious power-pop and being from Wisconsin. "Tearing Up the Oxygen" (audio) sums up the group's appeal nicely, but I'll post more on Maritime after taking a shower -- speaking of a grateful nation -- and recommending a moment with the lovely Beach House. The Baltimore band closed the long night with some dreamy and inscrutable atmospherics; here's "Saltwater" (audio).

That said, the day's true highlight was a come-from-behind victory by the Wisconsin Badgers over the hated University of Texas A&M-Corpus Christi Islanders in the NCAA men's basketball tournament. If UTAMCC had won that thing, I'd have had to cancel the blog due to sadness and rage -- the very things that fuel so much of my personal expression. Ironic!

Tonight? Terrific Norwegian singer-songwriter Thomas Dybdahl plays soon, followed by a punishing choice between Clem Snide and Adem (see below), not to mention a whole bunch of other stuff I'll figure out once I'm done freaking out over how close the Badgers came to becoming a national joke this afternoon. Whew!

Where to start?! Wednesday night was the Austin Music Awards. Thousands trek here from all over the world, but this event is ALL about celebrating the local scene. And what a way to kick off. This is where I caught up with SXSW veteran Michelle Shocked and first-time solo performer Carrie Rodriguez, playing back in her hometown. The show is like the Grammys: So many people are really dressed up -- some fancy, some freaky. Too bad my camera battery was dead. Meanwhile, Alisa Ali hit the street to talk to festival-goers. And yesterday, I had a chance to sit down with the incomparable Emmylou Harris. Wandering around SXSW with a mic in your hands generates all sorts of responses. Some have run away and some have opened up and some have talked and talked and talked. Here are some of the highlights (audio).

In the meantime, I'm sitting in the studios of NPR station KUT, listening to a lively roundtable discussion featuring KEXP's Kevin Cole, WFUV's Rita Houston, KUT's Jeff McCord, and WXPN's David Dye. The whole shebang, moderated by NPR's Bob Boilen, will run soon as a special episode of All Songs Considered, and I highly recommend it. In fact, not that I'm absurdly biased or anything, I highly recommend subscribing to the All Songs podcast; no matter how much you know about music, you'll still discover something new and amazing there.

Speaking of discovering something new and amazing, I'm gonna go drink! Aw, I'm kidding. I meant to say that, speaking of discovering something new and amazing, I'm gonna go see some bands, probably while drinking. Later!

As for the rest of the evening, highlights included Micah P. Hinson, whose weary warble conveys genuine depth; here's "The Day the Volume Won" (audio), from a great EP he released last year. Rocky Votolato is always worth hearing -- as evidenced by his gorgeous "White Daisy Passing" (audio) -- though his music got a bit lost in a cavernous venue. And Okkervil River played an extended set of its crushingly sad dirges; here's the band doing one of my favorite songs of last year, "The President's Dead" (audio). That's a bleak lot of songs right there, but the music should perk up tomorrow. Maybe I'll track down some Mando Diao once I've finished my sound check.