Let There Be Music

Without music my life would be an empty shell. Music has been the virtual soundtrack for my life. Music has provoked thought. Given me pause. Taken me way from the drab, dull, mean ol’ world. Filled my heart with gut wrenching emotion. Made me smile. Laugh. Gives me hope for a better tomorrow while pointing a finger at what ails us, shining a light where light is needed. Music has been my psychiatrist, my mistress, my mentor, all rolled into one. Music continues to inspire me, challenge me, awaken in me the slumbering beast who has an endless appetite for everything this world entails. And just this morning, the beast was awakened by some music that has, once again, made my heart sing, transporting me to another world where I feel quite at home. I belong. And for this discovery, I’m eminently grateful.
I’ve got this Mac computer. It has a program called “Dashboard”. On this dashboard -a desktop apparition which appears with a click of your mouse- you are able to import “widgets”, small pieces of software that do the most outrageous things.
On my dashboard I have a variety of items. I have a working lava lamp (it changes colors while it bubbles and oscillates), local time, current weather complete with graphics for atmospheric conditions, be it rain or shine, a grass skirted hula girl who goes into action with a touch of my cursor, a thesaurus, an online yellow pages directory (incredibly handy in this day and age of stiff charges for directory assistance), a genies lamp that spouts wisdom with a simple click, a fart emitting whoopee cushion which gives me far more delight than I care to share with you, the current moon phase, a chameleon who snarls at me when I scratch his tummy, and then, only last night did I discover the widget to end all widgets. It is called “Radio by Wu”. A most outstanding James Bond like device, one whose time had come in my quest to be further seduced by this thing called music.
This “widget” allows you to import different web radio stations that you can engage with a simple choice. In any moment I can be in New Delhi, Helsinki, Buenos Aires, Morocco, Sao Paolo, Madrid, London, San Francisco, you name it, I can go there and immediately immerse in the culture. And all from this seat at my desk in Austin, Texas. Glory be! But last night I discovered the station of all stations -for my personal tastes, that is, but hey, who counts here?!
The station I’ve discovered has reawakened a portion of my youth where I left the innocence of childhood behind and dove in head hands and feet into the most fantastical world of mystery and wonder; New Orleans, Louisiana, one of the premiere cities on the face of the earth.
This station is WWOZ, broadcast from the Farmers Market section of the French Quarter. How apropos.
In this station I’ve been taken on a ride which makes my whole being glow. Again, that heart singing thing. This station plays some of the most enchanting music, a lesser known and under appreciated music in this hurry up day and age, music that stirs something deep within my soul.
Last night the deejay was playing the most sublime jazz, all cuts I’d never heard before but were so elegant, so full of majesty and integrity I found myself swooning like a young man falling in love with his first gal all over again.
The musical choices were so pleasing I fell asleep with the collage of tunes my background accompaniment for a night filled with exotic dreams.
This morning I awakened to a Tom Waits track I’d never heard, followed by some obscure Coltrane, Duke Ellington, a most exquisite Billie Holliday track, the ever adventurous John Vidocovich with Astral Project, then Norah Jones subtly singing the piss out of “Wild Horses”. To awake with a smile on your face, feeling totally invigorated, is the only way to greet a day. This morning, I awoke happier than I can recall, and this coming from one of the most upbeat people on Planet Earth!
I sit here tonight, writing this paen, continuing to be transported by this station that has made my dreams reality, my past my present. Just now, Louie Prima, Fats Domino, Artie Shaw, Ella Fitzgerald, Peggy Lee, Nat King Cole, all in a row... I mean, DAMN!
And then there is the wonderful patois that is the New Orleans vernacular, a vernacular of which every WWOZ deejay was in unique possession. This morning the deejay had some live guests in studio, some members of Wynton Marsalis’ big band, in town to help revitalize a city still in shock over the recent disaster by bringing the gift of music. The musicians and the deejays were exchanging some lively banter, just plain having fun! A relaxed, slightly mischievous, very colorful exchange Most comforting hearing this language that formed me in my youth, transporting me back to a time when the world was young and sweet, when new worlds and vistas were emerging. My home. My people.
And then there is this music, this music which makes life worth living. This incredible music that catalogues America, echoing the moods, the emotions of the day, the gris gris in full bloom.
Thank God for this music. Thank God for these beautiful individuals who struggled all their lives to make this glorious music. My brethren. My people. My heart. My soul.
And to think I have this widget to thank for opening yet another chapter in my life. Will wonders never cease?
Thanks to this widget, and especially WWOZ in New Orleans, I am alive today. I am truly alive.
Now and forever more, Let There Be Music!! And thank you again, God, for one of the most magical cities on earth, New Orleans, Louisiana.
What a lucky man am I.

Taken from Whence

You know the shit's getting grim when you start rationing the last dollop of sea salt you have in the world.
However I’m not worried in the slightest. I have faith. Everything’s going to be okay. As it should be. And this episode will be yet another memory, one to add to the many and counting.
What an amazing thing, this experience we call life. The winds keep blowing, the world keeps spinning.
I guess it’s not too hard to tell I’m one happy white man today. Just got to figure out how long to make this salt last, is all.

Springtime for Hitler

I sit here today with about twenty-seven cents to my name. I got a quarter tank of gas. A few groceries. Not a job on the books for at least another couple of months. Yet I sit here today with nary a ripple in my fabric, not a bone rattled. And there’s damn good reason, too...
I am living a dream come to life, you see? One many years in the making. Right in front of my very eyes, in my beating heart, in every step I take, in every friend I make, my dreams are becoming my reality. It’s springtime again.
I allowed myself to be swept downstream, surrendering all, continually tossed and pummeled by an indifferent white water current. Much of what I endured I wouldn’t wish upon another living creature. And when truly committed to the process I was unexpectedly and unceremoniously kissed by a foul-breathed demon. But I survived that, too, if nothing else only to see what was possible. A better, stronger man am I for having survived, made to understand all too clearly my purpose, while layer by layer by deliciously agonizing layer of useless, bloodless skin was carved away. Scars from this epic stand off are mine. Ones I wear proudly on this field of battle, especially on this day, a day when I can literally smell victory.
As a result potentially many lives will be touched, many prayers shall be answered; sunshine to a cloudy day; water for the thirsting, food for the hungry, nourishment which balms a troubled soul. And hope. Above all, there will exist hope and faith in a better day.
And to think ...I was chosen.
Long time comin’; worth every drop of fevered sweat, every silent, soul crushing moment when I stood beneath a blood moon, patiently waiting for answers, the only one alive on the face of the earth.
It's springtime again. Flowers are blooming. Birds are chirping. Dogs are barking. Breezes are blowing. The air is fresh. The sky is blue. ‘Tis the moment to shine. And shine is just what I’m gonna do, goose-stepping into town while the devil in the calico dress weeps openly at her dismal failure.

In The Evening

It was just me and the world. No one else. And there it was, blocking the night sky. Its unheralded majesty unparalleled, towering over me, dwarfing me, yet it might as well be a million miles away; the power, the glory, spread before me like a sumptuous banquet of light.
The thunderhead moved silently to the east. I stood impassively in the field, a voyeur impervious to the terror it certainly wreaked upon the ground beneath it, a terra cowering and trembling under its mighty breath, groaning under the onslaught.
Not a sound. Only triumphant explosions of brilliance cascading throughout the belly of this beast.
I stood safe. Protected. This vision a gift, reminding me how close we stand to constant peril. Choice, the all important stake you drive into the ground with a vengeance.
It’s a new day rising. I’ve chosen to walk it like I talk it, be it instead of think it, and for now I reap the bounty, privy to all that’s beautiful as well as dangerous. The mystery less with each passing day.
I can hear the beating of wings, feel the soft touch of hands reassuring me, guiding my every step.
I walk on gilded splinters.

Jump Down Smilin’

For a long, long spell the wind howled in my face. That was okay. I asked for it. It was certainly given.
Today a breeze lifts me. The magic has returned. This swell building to a curl, headed for redemption’s shore.
Of all I been through, and survived, and lived to tell about, this strikes me as good.
Um-hum.
Work to do. Work to do....Got work to do and love to give.
Breakin’ them bones on the anvil of Levi.

Passing the Time

Per my usual I was reading my fourth newspaper of the morning when I ran across a photo of Sarah Silverman. Something in her smile hit me, aroused me, made me really horny. I can’t say for certain that she does anything for me, in that sense. As a comedian I dig her stuff. Call it earthy. So does her brain make me horny, or is is that smile, that smile that makes her look like some cute little furry creature that you just gotta have?
I got a lot of shit to think about today, don’t I?

Goes Far, Flies Near, To The Stars Aways From Here Pt. 2

The Dobie and another series of short reels were in my crosshairs next morning. I threw caution to the wind and didn’t check the website to see just exactly what it was they would be showing, which made what I eventually witnessed that much more interesting. As it turns out, all these were experimental films dealing with sight and sound. There was the boy who found an angel in his pocket, filmed in 1.5D, only one side of the 3D glasses were used to view it, there were multi screens of constantly changing images of post W.W.II Berlin while a computer generated voice with a German accent recited some very odd repetitive poetry, there was a long drum solo filmed in one take where the sound constantly morphed and roman candles exploded and sparks flew everywhere building to the drummer’s grand finale’, there was a woman very methodically eating hot dogs slathered in mustard and pieces of cake, olives two at a time, while she gesticulated for reasons only known to her, there were three women dressed in flowing satin dancing in odd choreographed movements, juxtaposed with old people dancing at a wedding, there were women seated on commodes in a punk rock bathroom doing god knows what, there were clips taken from train towers in Vancouver and as you went up the elevator the scenery changed from one location to another without ever stopping in either descent, or ascent, there were three women in three separate screens simultaneously all playing varying parts of either victim or knife wielder based on Hitchcock’s Psycho, there was landscapes that kept changing with the inclement weather and changes in season, there were two of flickering, hazy images that I don’t have a clue what was what, and then there was “spam letter + google image search = entertainment”, my favorite of the lot, a hilarious farce based on the ubiquitous Nigerian scam letters that circulate like mad over the Internet. In the film a computerized voice reads the letter and each word has a Google image attached to it, so the letter is both being read and told in pictures. All I can say is, lots of coffee and herb went down on this one, but well worth the effort.
The Q&A that followed kept in the surrealistic tone as no one from the audience had any questions, especially me. The filmmakers engaged one another in a mutual love fest though, frothing and wheezing over how great the other was concerning items of the others films which bore no relevance to anything that I know as reality.
I left the theater feeling as if I’d ingested some acid. Entertained, but what was all that about, and like a thermos, how does it know?!
I then tooled back over to the Alamo on South. Lamar where I was witness to a film that moved me to my core, as much as “Cowboy del Amour” did last year. What I saw was “51 Birch Street”, a movie based upon a family who don’t really know exactly what is happening under their very noses, living the Ozzie and Harriet dream. Not until the mother dies, whereupon the filmmaker finds his mother’s journals and diaries, does all come clear. The family then learns the truth, and it isn’t what they thought or imagined.
What prompted this was the filmmakers attempt to make a short film so his daughter would know her grandparents better, conducting many interviews on film, getting them to tell how they met and such. But, in the middle of filming, the mother dies, he finds the journals, and the real story emerges, and the filming takes on a much different purpose. To complicate matters, only three weeks after the mother’s death, the father travels to South Florida and returns with a new woman, his secretary from over 25 years ago.
The film is so well done I really don’t want to tell you anymore about it, as I highly, make that HIGHLY recommend that everyone see it. It will be showing on HBO in January of 2007, from what I gathered. As a matter of fact, this film should be required viewing for anyone whose parents are getting to get up there in years. This film will help you deal with those feelings that come with age and loss and change.
“51 Birch Street” is one of the most beautiful movies I’ve ever seen. And the people involved were all so honest. A total joy to watch. I cried more than I’ve ever cried in any movie ever. Tears of joy, tears of sadness, tears of redemption and understanding all too well. The editing, and the music, all were superbly done, too. In a word, fantastico!
The Q&A afterwards was equally emotionally charged, as there before me stood the father and his new bride, and the son, the filmmaker. And just like in the film, these people were incredibly forthright and honest, wonderful, wonderful human beings. And the greatest part was I got to meet the father afterwards where we had a most insightful, generous exchange.
SXSW is tits up, folks!
I had plans to try and catch some more moves later during the week, but knowing how much I’d be playing during the music festival I deduced that would be all but an impossibility, not to mention, after seeing such a glorious film I decided to end the film portion of SXSW on a high note. So I did.
Later that evening I had a rehearsal with a Los Angeles based singer songwriter, Kelly Dalton. A humorous side note, Kelly’s mother was a session singer in the 60’s and one of her credentials of note was she was one of the singers on the Brady Bunch theme. Ah, life is a carnival... A cool addition to his presentation was a talented multi-instrumentalist from the Flying Burrito Bros., John Beland, who added a most luxurious voice to the affair. A groovy shindig, all in all.
After that rehearsal I went directly into another one with Emile and our new super band. All I got to say is keep your eyes and ears peeled for anytime Emile Millar plays in town. Come on out, you’ll be glad you did.
Last year’s SXSW music portion was for me like wrestling with a 20 ft. pissed off alligator. The gigs were grueling, parking worse, and load ins were agonizing. So I began this years with varying degrees of trepidation. Imagine my surprise when I venture to the first gig and I find a parking place to unload my gear right next to the stage! What hath God wrought? thought I! Little did I know but that singular occurrence was a foreshadowing of the next few days to come. A wild, glorious, and freewheeling few days it was to be, jam packed with a kaleidoscope of experiences that would greatly expand my horizons while adding luster to the fabric which constitutes my life.
The gig with Kelly and Emile at Opal Divine’s was get down fun! Everybody onstage had their ears wide open and the musical interplay was what you live for as a musician.
After a fat Opal’s burger, I came back home more tired than I could ever remember, so I hopped in the bed and said good-bye to the world until tomorrow.
First gig of the day was at Lucy’s Boatyard where I performed with Patricia Vonne for her Scottish label, Measured Records. The site they’d chosen for this showcase was exquisite. A gorgeous day on the lake surrounded by the gently rolling mountains was inspiring to the nth. Sat at the bar and noshed on some crawfish egg rolls and listened to two sexy young sisters whose voices blended terrifically. Great harmonies. Next up was Patricia and all I can say is we body slammed the set. Again, big ears, lots of energy, just what you want from a performance.
Ended the evening by appearing at Spill with the creme de la creme of Austin singer/songwriters featuring Johnny Goudie, Billy Harvey, and Kacy Crowley on the bill. I performed a rather spunky, spirited set with Billy. Each of the performers gave their all, threw down until they were empty vessels. Big time fun and lots of hosanna heys afterward. What an amazing night of music this was!
I then hitched a ride with my buddy, Alex Gonzales, over to the Fox and Hound where we lay witness to what I think is the best new band in America, “The Brazilian Girls”. They didn’t disappoint and got to hang with them afterwards as I’d met them when they played SXSW the year before. Cool folk. Period. Exchanged some numbers with them and made plans to meet up the next day.
Caught a cab home as Alex had left before they finished and only when exiting the cab did I realize my mistake. My keys were in my drum case which was in Alex’ truck! YIKES! I called his cell but he was fast asleep, long gone. I then began to ponder exactly where I’d sleep as I was locked out of my house. The flower beds began to look very inviting. Right when I was about to give up a guy walked into his apartment and the lights inside were all on. What did I have to lose? I knocked on his door and asked if there was an emergency number to call to be let in in situations such as this, or did he have a ladder? He didn’t have either, but he did have a drunk friend that he said could climb like a monkey.
Luckily my girls, Lily and Bela, were hanging out on the balcony, the back door to the apartment wide open. After I gave them the command to chill we hoisted brother man up by his standing on our upraised palms and the drunk monkey scampered up and into my apartment.
I can’t tell you how happy I was to get into my own bed! Joy to the world!!
Next day was a doozy. Yes, Alex brought my keys by and we had a good laugh on that one.
After a quick meet-up at Factory People with Jesse and Aaron, the rhythm section of The Brazilian Girls, I made my way to my first gig of the evening with Billy Harvey at Threadgills. Lots of cool folks, faces who make me smile, were in attendance. The chicken fried steak was mighty fine. The gig was spot on, too. We ended the set with Billy playing a stylephone, a musical toy that Billy played with a fevered abandon. Afterwards all those people who make me smile gathered ‘round and the feeling of community struck me then. What a great town we live in!
Next I ventured over to The Copa where a fantastic night of music was ahead. Michael Ramos and Charanga Cakewalk began the evening. Really soothing vibe. Patricia Vonne was up next, and despite some monitor problems, we turned up the heat a notch or two and really got some butts moving. David Garza followed and was his usual genius self. Lots of love was in the room with many of my friends from the Latin music community in attendance.
The night was far from done though. I stumbled over to Eternal on 6th St. where I caught the last couple of songs by The Brazilian Girls. They were in mighty form and Sabina, the ever soulful and outrageous singer, was wearing one of her trademark outfits from Saturn, a multi-pronged furry contraption that looked like big hairy tumors had glommed themselves onto her in a very obscene way. Gotta love that gal! The hour was late and after some jawing between establishment and Jesse, the bas player, right in the middle of the next song the club cut the power. Unfazed everyone flocked backstage where the bouncers got a little carried away and began physically tossing people out. To me this was the perfect ending to the night; total out and out chaos!!!! I visited with Jesse and Aaron and Sabina on the sidewalk for a few minutes, but I left them with their adoring throng, having had my fill for one night.
I was waiting on a pedi cab when right next to me two guys who were talking suddenly erupted into a balls out fist fight. And both of them had several friends and then they all starting duking it out, too! Utter pandemonium! I stood in the vortex with fists and bodies flying all around me, within mere inches of me, writhing forms piling out into the street, crashing over cars, and there I stood untouched. Girls were screaming and the gang fight continued for about another thirty seconds and then, almost like they all heard a silent command, they all stopped and took off running. ...Man, that’s what I call entertainment! Right about then a pedi cab appeared as if by divine providence and he took me to Caesar Chavez where he said I could get one of the few cabs left at this time of night. I hailed a cab almost immediately. The gods were smiling upon me!
Got home and felt a hankering for a cookie and some chocolate milk, so I waked across the street to the local 7-Eleven. When I was exiting the store a man appeared out of the dark and walked straight up to me. It was unnerving in that it was really late, around 4 PM, and there wasn’t a soul in sight, but here comes this guy right at me. As it turns out, a very pleasant chap. He introduces himself, says he caught the set at Threadgills earlier, and proceeded to tell me that after talking to my drumming friend, Rafael Gayol, about me, he knew I would have the answers. And by some stroke of divine intervention he is walking aimlessly, deep in thought, then he spies me across the street! How weird is that?! He then hits me with some really heavy questions about what he should do with his life, being a drummer approaching his later years and all. I live for situations such as this. I took him back into the store where I bought he and I another cookie, then we walked outside and sat on the corner and got into the meat of the matter. After I’d given him as much advice as I could, we shook hands and he departed, disappearing like an apparition. Crazy wild wacky wonderful, all rolled into one.
I returned home, drank my chocolate milk, crawled into bed with Bela and slept the sleep of the gratified and thankful.
Woke up and got to cranking as I had an early afternoon gig with Emile at Treasure Isle. All I can say is this; rock and roll isn’t pretty in the daylight; the worst haircuts, the worst clothes, the worst skin conditions I can ever remember seeing. Go ugly week for sure. And to my amusement, I got the feeling this day of the living dread thought they looked real cool. Oh well, just don’t come out when the sun is up, spare us all!
Despite the horror show outside our set went well. This band really has something. The crowd was small but enthusiastic, a group of lesbian girls who seemed to dig what we were doing.
Got home, took a nap, and then got ready for phase two of the day.
Barbara Holden, a most incredible, dynamic woman whom I’m privileged to have met, accompanied me to Big Red Sun where we noshed on some scrumptious pot stickers and truffles, juked and jived to the energetic strains of Ian MacLagen, then the K-Tel Hit Machine got some butts moving under the moonlit sky. Again, a great sense of community, lots of hugs and laughter, and a sense of belonging. Big Red Sun rocks, too!
We then ventured over to 6th street where at Eternal we caught a haunting Lisa Germano on solo piano. This woman writes some really gorgeous, compelling songs. A real artist. Not for the average listener, but she sends me. Got to meet her afterward as we know a lot of the same folks so I was afforded the opportunity to tell her just how much I dug her. And I did.
Barbara and I left then without knowing just where we’d end up next. Just in the flow you know... Whilst traipsing down 6th a friend of mine from San Antonio, a French expatriate named Delphine, appeared out of nowhere and grabbed me by the arm and drug us into a club to hear someone she thought I should. Lanky was his name and admittedly he had some incredible melodic content, and furthermore, we are now looking to do some work together. Oh yeah.
After bidding Barbara adieu I arrived home feeling no pain whatsoever, and as I was walking through the security doors to my building I hear an incredile melody being sung. And better yet, I’m intimately familiar with this melody! And I own this melody!! Who could this be?! So I hightailed it next door only to find Sarah Bettens and Eric Grossman from K’s Choice, one of my favorite bands, holding court. I hadn’t any idea they were in town, much less right next door! Had a very pleasant visit with the both of them. I think Sarah writes the best melodies in rock.
Ingested some more vino rosa, feeling all warm and squishy after such a majestic day and evening. Bliss, I tell you, total and absolute bliss...
Next day, the final day, is one where most have already gone, the party winding down to a dull roar. I did nothing. Laid about and took it real easy, trying to absorb all that had swirled about my life for the past week. An amazing journey, to be sure.
But, feeling a bit peckish as night fell, I ventured over to Freddy’s on S. First where I met Emile for a bite to eat, and without even sitting down was asked by Will Sexton to sit in with a vicious slide guitarist. Hell yeah! I played a funky old snare with a stick in my left hand and an upended bass drum with a mallet in my right, a kit of Will’s design. Soon enough I was rootin’ like a root hog on some scary ass hillbilly song. Got the blood pumpin’! Afterward I sat down with Emile and ordered a burger and some onion rings. This next group to perform really got me, The Horseshoe Ramblin’ Orchestra, some of the finest broken down for real country music I’ve heard in quite some time. Real unadorned and done with integrity. Very refreshing and the perfect capper to such a wild week.
After their set was done and my burger laid to waste, only two onion rings left which had Lily’s and Bela’s name on them, I was leaving Freddy’s when I heard an unmistakable accent. Lo and behold there sat my very good friend whom I don’t get to see near enough of, Torquil Creevy, who’s worked with Sting’s publishing division for many years. We had a great chat, always good to see my friends from all over the world, and again, was struck with just how great a community we live in. What a special, magical place.
I returned home to black butts waggin’ and a howling wind. I gave them their rings, opened the blinds, and saw a spectacular light show on the horizon that appeared to be rapidly approaching. Next thing I know there are tornado warnings everywhere and a most hellatious storm overtakes Austin. The power and the fury was simply divine.
When dawn broke it was like waking up to a world that had just come into being; a brand new, sparkling, shiny place. The storms washed away all the dirt and grime, the crowds had since returned from whence they came. A quite calm permeated the air.
A poetic ending to a poetic week.
...And the colored girls sing, “God bless America! God love Austin! Hellzapoppin’! Thank you SXSW! Thine the glory! Amen!”
Now if I can just rest up as next year ain’t that far away...

Goes Far, Flies Near, To The Stars Away From Here Pt. 1

South by Southwest is a miraculous event, bringing together a multitude of characters and works that enriches the individuals taking part in ways that go well beyond the festival’s intentions, and this year’s participation by moi validated this fact in areas I’m still grappling to comprehend. An existential magic carpet ride for sure, one I’ll not soon forget.
Over the course of the past year or so time constraints within my lifestyle have precluded me from being able to commit to long term investments in flights of fancy, be it a novel, for instance, a full length feature film, crappy music another. I simply don’t have the time nor the constitution to be able to fully commit to such endeavors with my work load being what it is, compounded by the dearth of fully realized works which clog the marketplace these days which leave me entirely wanting; my bar raised fairly high on that note and as of this writing, accepting no substitutes. One thing for certain, time isn’t for the wasting. Notable exceptions to my present reality are short story collections and the occasional short film, indie music, too, for the most part. Those are eagerly digested, especially when done right. Call me a casualty of the new millennium where motivation and aspiration take precedence on all fronts -as in got too much to do and not near enough time!- but I get my licks in where I can, when I can. Like I said, when done right these independent works can be uber satisfying, stimulating, thought provoking, just as much or moreso than their more substantial big brothers aspire, and those are the ones I seek when escape into other worlds is an absolute must.
And escape during South by Southwest is exactly what you get, however it’s not just a must, but a necessity, as anything less than total immersion would be ignorant to the nth, a failure to grasp a most wonderful opportunity as here it all is, the best and brightest from all points on the globe, on your front doorstep, in your backyard, ready to entertain, introduce you to worlds heretofore unavailable and unknown. Try and match this extravaganza with any other remotely like it on this spinning carbon based orb! Fageddaboutit!
Even though extremely well organized and executed, oddly enough, each year’s experience bears little resemblance to the year’s past, each festival taking on a life wholly its own, whisking you downstream on the currents of a river which has broken its banks and is forging a new course... that is, if you let it.
Little did I know just what was in store for me this year. Not a clue. But knowing the first step in an adventure is to relinquish control, I closed my eyes and leapt from the edge of the cliff... deep into the maw of the beast that has come to be known as simply, SXSW.
What best to get my feet wet and set the ripples in motion than by angling over to The Alamo on South Lamar to catch a series of short reels? So I did just that. Hopped in my truck and within minutes I was at the theater with only seconds to spare.
The reason I’d picked this particular group of shorts was because of one film entitled, “Bump Tick Scratch”. The premise sounded really intriguing, especially considering my background. An underground NYC drummer had found a way to mutilate old vinyl in very unusual ways, either cutting out chunks of the record, or scratching them at different angles with a razor blade, for instance, to create new beats and new music from the music that is already recorded on the vinyl. In truth, the premise read much better than the actual screening. It wasn’t as up to snuff, for example, as the revolutionary, bewildering, gob smacked type of creativity I remember from the early 80’s at Arena, a club I frequented in Lower Manhattan where the beats and rhythms of hip hop, scratching, and breakdancing had their beginnings right in front of my face. What I ultimately partook in this inaugural day of SXSW was an okedoke film on a so-so, ho-hum subject; a bit of a let down musically as what the drummer created just wasn’t that hip nor interesting, unlike what I’d witnessed at Arena in that bygone era. I’m fortunate the trailer for the film on the SXSW website initially grabbed my attention though because all the films that followed were nothing short of get down righteous. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, then came the Q&A... more on that later.
Next up was an odd little ditty called, “Heavy Soul”, a real 50ish piece, where a young, pure, teenage girl is lured into a world of twisted morals and decay by her attraction to a very charismatic, but disturbed popular boy at school whose world is filled with beatniks, sideburns, cigarettes, beer, and drinking blood! Soon enough our heroine falls prey and her life is reduced to a shadow of her former self. Very stylized, a light hearted romp nonetheless that was nothing short of deranged fun.
We continued with “Fourteen”. This film didn’t have any dialogue at all. A very pretty young girl is obviously waking up to a celebration of sorts, her sisters wrapping presents, her mother baking a cake. But for some reason, the mother doesn’t look entirely happy, her jaw set, a frown masking her face, a foreboding of sorts. We see this beautiful girl blossoming in front of us as she rises from her slumber, and she is so tender, a gentle, unsullied spirit. We only find out in the very last frame that it appears she is a member of some strange religious cult, and on this, her birthday, she’s required to marry a much older man, her father, we presume.
“Prom Date”, a documentary, was a total hoot. A very sexy young woman from Manhattan enlists the help of an event planner to help her find the right prom date. He decides that she must put an ad on Craigslist and she does just that. What follows is rather creepy, made to suffer through a long line of cretins who answered her ad and after scrutiny made the cut... hate to see the ones who didn’t make the cut! Made me feel sorry for women all over again, especially those who want and feel the need to date “us”. Eventually she abandons her plan as none of these guys come close to her prom date ideal, whereupon the events planner sets her up with one of his friends, a goof ball, and strangely enough they have a great date and by movie’s end they’re planning on seeing each other again as evidenced by her royal flush blush when asked if she will see him in the future. Not sure what her parents thought about that, but I have a pretty good idea.
“Man Up”, another documentary, was stark. Bone chilling stark. The movie was a series of interviews with father and son, shot separately then edited together. The father is ex Special Forces, West Point graduate, a tough as nails no nonsense character who feels it his responsibility to train his son for his inevitable future in service to his country. He puts the boy in some rather odd circumstances, made to live in the backyard when he’s only 8 years old for two weeks with nothing but a few cans of tuna, a can opener, and a fork. Nothing else! No tent. No bed. No nothing! When he’s 12 he is sent to live in Russia with a family he doesn’t know, and he speaks no Russian at all. He lived with the family for a year. The boy’s side of the story is not as positive as his fathers. He isn’t happy with what he’s made to endure. However, the boy excels at everything he does; 3.9 GPA, championship wrestler who wins or places every tournament he enters. So where do your feelings lie? Really hard core flick, but one that brought out a variety of emotions from all seated there and really connected with me.
“Longtime Listener” was a tragic, yet hilarious piece about a man who still lives at home with his mother and fancies himself an intellectual, living vicariously through responding to talk radio by phone. This interaction constitutes his entire existence. He speaks with a Barbara Walter's lisp and concludes every oratory with a, very proud of himself, “Pewiod.” He gets fired from his job at an electronics store where no one, especially the manager, can stomach his smarmy schtick. So what does he do? Retires to his basement bedroom where he turns on the radio and is somebody again. Pewiod.
“Hiro” was masterfully shot, an captivating story line, too, where a Japanese man who collects beetles arrives in NYC to purchase a very rare beetle and when in a bar afterwards he encounters a young Japanese girl on the run from some ominous looking goons intent upon her capture. What follows is a really funny yet touching romp, where their lives intertwine and the bizarre becomes normal. And in it, they find feelings for the other, as well as something about themselves, and the state of the insane world in which they reside.
Then came the Q&A, one of my most anticipated and well liked features of SXSW. Everyone had genuinely interesting stories to tell about the horrors of making independent film. The guy who shot “Man Up” was peppered with questions which brought the ambivalence the audience members felt after watching his film to the surface, and the director, like me, was on neither side, but somewhere in the middle where we saw the benefits and the downsides of both the father and the son’s thinking, feeling, and being. The man who directed “Prom Date” told every burgeoning film maker in attendance to be careful of enlisting people to film who are media savvy as this girl’s parents obviously were. He seemed rather peeved about the circumstance as before he could release the film the parents had approval of the final cut. Had to laugh. And then, the actor who played the fellow who lives through talk radio in “Longtime Listener’, got the mic and was still in character, lisp and all. A surreal moment. Or maybe that was just the way this cat really was. All I could think was, “How cool is that?!”
Unless I was on mushrooms and at Disneyland, something about standing in lines is very degrading, very humiliating to me. So imagine my quandary at this year’s SXSW where ridiculously long lines were de rigeur.
I was due to meet a friend later that afternoon at the Convention Center. She’d flown in from Denver, Colorado the night before as she makes an annual trek every year to attend SXSW. By the time I found a parking space -a very long walk for a guy with a broken foot- the line for “Fired” was stupid. I made it there only a couple of minutes before they began to admit the badge line and only got to wave at her from afar as she entered the theater. I waited, and waited, and waited, and finally the line disappeared inside. I walked up, showed the staff my pass, and in I went, got a great seat, sat down, the lights went dim, and away we went.
The movie had a great twist for a documentary where this woman, an actress who appeared on the TNT show, “Dinner and a Movie”, was fired by Woody Allen himself when she was up for his Broadway play. The experience obviously got under her skirt and we are taken with her to friend’s houses where they commiserate on her plight, then she has an epiphany and sees the possibility of a great movie and a stage play in the making based upon other’s experiences who’ve also been fired. And all the above does indeed happen via interviews on the street, visiting with many of her peers who’ve suffered the same fate -albeit not by Woody Allen- interspersed with snippets from the eventual play itself whose clips were a riot. Even though well done there was something that just didn’t ultimately click with me on this one, but had some very sublime moments of mirth, nonetheless.
I met my friend, Al Inman, outside after the flick. We bonded immediately, having known each other for some time, righteous person she is, a person I hold dear to my heart. I accompanied she and her friend, Kim Baum, from Los Angeles, on a brisk walk to The Paramount where they wanted to catch “The Cassidy Kids”. I, myself, wasn’t interested but the incredibly long line gave us much time to get caught up as best we could. We talked until we reached the entrance where once again we waved good-bye as she disappeared inside the hallowed temple which is The Paramount.
I then ran into the effervescent shutter bug, Todd Wolfson and his groovy gal pal, Mickey, Charlie Sexton, and J.J. Johnston, too, on the sidewalk, outside The Paramount, after a screening of “Before the Music Dies”. We shared a bubbly, animated conversation and agreed to meet later at the Austin Music Hall where the musicians who’d taken part in the film, some of whom were right here on the sidewalk, had a concert planned.
I then hustled over to The Saxon where my friend Stephen Bruton was performing and the place was abuzz with rumors of an imminent Kris Kristofferson guest appearance. He very well may have, as Stephen is part of the band on the new Don Was produced record, “This Old Road”, but I wouldn’t know it as after soaking up some of Stephen's gris gris, downing a glass or two of vino rosa, I lit out instead for The Austin Music Hall to see what all the buzz was about.
The audience there was a well diversified bunch, kinda like the U.N., or some such. Drinks were flowing like soda, and somehow, given the expectancy of the evenings headliner, Erica Badyu, combined with the boozy state of the audience, the more intimate jazz stylings of Ephraim Owens and Brannen Temple were rather lost in the cavernous hall. Nothing against them as they are firmly in the game, just wrong night, wrong venue.
I grew listless, needing something more pedestrian whereupon I headed back to The Saxon where the vino rosa continued to conduct its magic.
To cap the night, my newfound friend, Emile Millar -a music producer from Los Angeles whom I’d worked with at Music Lane Studios on East 5th on an Amy Raasch album in November of ‘05, who’d only recently relocated to Austin- offered to treat me to a fine Mexican meal at LaFeria, a joint right down the street. Funny thing -and a Laurel and Hardy moment it was- after a sumptuous repaste of tacos el pastor and cheese enchiladas we discovered his credit card was maxed out and neither one of us had enough money so we had to sign an IOU to the restaurant! No harm, no foul. All part of the thrill of the ride.
We walked back to The Saxon where I offered Emile a ride home but he vanished like a thief in the night on the arms of some babe so I hooked it, dropping by La Mexicana along the way to get a tres leches cake to go.
When I arrived home, after a few stolen bites of tres leches, I never felt my head hit the pillow, me and the dogs soon snoring in fractured harmony, no doubt.
I woke up next morning feeling a trifle worse for the wear and tear (not as young and full of gusto as I used to be), and when I perused the film selection I couldn’t find anything I wanted to see in the afternoon, and the afternoon was all I had given my evening was booked for a rehearsal with Emile for his SXSW musical debut. The films I thought might prove me wrong had staggering lines, learned only after I made a few well placed phone calls, and truth was, I just wasn’t up for the drudgery. There were several films that looked inviting on the evening schedule, but our rehearsal took precedent where I proceeded to lose myself in some great new music with some hellified musicians, Emile on acoustic guitar and vocals, Will Sexton on bass guitar and vocals, and Tim Cullen on electric guitar and vocals, me on drums, natch. From the first few notes it was obvious there was a chemistry between us. So we proceeded to get down on it, like we meant it, and by the sound and feel of it, we did. And all the while big plops of rain fell, live oaks swaying to and fro in a blustery, southerly wind.