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.