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Written by Kimberly Faulhaber & Sarah Lenzini Tuesday, 25 April 2006 05:56

FIAB@SXSW: We crammed into Emo’s for the last few songs of Giant Drag’s set, just in time to hear Annie Hardy’s cloying, faux-baby voice declare, “They say everything is bigger in Texas, but I saw a dwarf today, so that’s not true.”

 

We returned to Austin for SXSW with but one dream: to ask Andy Dick to show us his “wristwatch.” You see, gentle reader, according to Hollywood lore, as an evening with the comedian (and apparent vanity band participant) begins to wind down, he’s been known to show fellow partiers his “brand new watch”—his wiener wrapped around his wrist. Class, wit, big, stretchy cock: The man has it all. Sadly, he cancelled his band’s performance and we never came across Dick, although his attendance at the festival has become somewhat legendary online, where stories of coke-seeking, ladypart grabbings, and escortings out of various venues abound. Oh yeah, some bands played down there too. Following is a small sampling of our SXSW experience—don’t worry, next month it’s back to discussing Federline’s late, lamented cornrows (donated to Locks of Love—and hopefully bathed in lice shampoo) and the sure-to-be-snoozy Birthday Party and Pet Sounds tribute albums.

Free Shit Fails to Provide Reason to Brag, Live | A pretty lousy showing on the schwag front. Where were the free Converse of 2005? The crap, self-published novels littering the convention center? This year’s Filter magazine CD sampler contained not one Billy Idol track. Not one. And if we get one more CD sampler with a Johnny Cash song, we’re going to throw a hissy just like when Reese found out that River Jr. still hadn’t given up the junk. The size and weight (we swear, at least 20 pounds) of the official gift bag grows exponentially each year, yet the contents remain suspiciously the same. Billboard lighter that only works for a day, check. Woefully outdated issue of Paste magazine (do you think coverboy Phillip Seymour Hoffman will win the Oscar? He may be too unconventional!), check. Off-brand condom (hello, herpes), check. New additions included a tiny Clif Bar (and, as you hippie fuckers know, Clif Bars are pretty damn small to begin with) and a bottle of flavored Aquafina. We’re embarrassed to admit that this was our dinner on Day 1. We’re even more embarrassed that we lugged all that shit 10 blocks back to the hotel.

 

Smoke-Free Clubs Smell Like Your Ass | It’s a sour, probably bathroom-related stink that makes you wish you hadn’t recklessly indulged in that flavored water and Clif Bar. Yeah, it’s great that we’ll all postpone our deaths from lung cancer for a bit (we’re sure we’ll be living life to the fullest in those three additional weeks), but eliminating the smoky haze only makes you realize how disgusting bars really are. Don’t you see? We need that glorious fog to conceal the filth on the floors, the wrinkles on the pushy, self-important rock critics wearing stonewashed double denim, the stench of the perfume on their bored, platonic ladyfriends. And no one—no one—looks cool without a cigarette. That’s simply an aesthetic fact.

Beasties Endure Line of Questioning Akin to Cross-Examination for Homicide | We attended the Beastie Boys Q&A for their new concert film, Awesome: I Fuckin’ Shot That!, mostly because they crack us up, and we hadn’t yet heard about their “secret” performance at Stubb’s later that day. (Side note: As we waited in the endless line for that show, heard the sweet sounds of “Brass Monkey,” and saw the crowd gathered atop the parking garage across the street lose their shit, we briefly considered showing off our mad breakdance moves [without cardboard!] to gain faster entry, but it proved unnecessary.) The Boys strolled into the conference room to the fanfare of 90210-style saxophone music and sat in their assigned, cartoonishly large Blue’s Clues chairs. Silence, then confusion, then the slow realization that there would be no interviewer or moderator—this event was going to consist of the worst part of any speaking engagement, the part that makes you want to stab yourself with the nearest Sharpie—100% audience questions. Jesus, if you’re alive, take us now. The attendees’ attempts to plug their Web sites and display their knowledge of Buddhism weren’t a surprise—what shocked us was the confrontational nature and unhinged rudeness of a majority of the questions. “Why don’t you sing your old songs anymore?” (Answer: We do.) “No, you don’t.” (Yes, we do.) “Why do you try to pretend you were never punk rock?” (We don’t.) “Why are you putting out another greatest hits collection? To get rich?” (Because the record company made us.) And so forth, for an hour and a half. Awkward! Um, the Beastie Boys brought us Paul’s Boutique—what have you jerks done, other than blog or podcast to an audience of you and your mom? And if we’re going to be all assholey, why won’t anyone ask Mike D what the hell is turning him leathery and skinny like Nicole Richie? We’re scared for him.

We Like Unabashed Enthusiasm? Go Figure | Maybe we’ve seen one too many sets in which the band looks like they’d rather be choking down riblets at Applebee’s than performing for another audience (and shit, no one likes riblets!). Call us grannies, but we’ve soured on rock shows as suffocating as church, and this year we found ourselves almost giddy watching The Go! Team and Aqueduct playing joyful sets with unironic fists a-pumpin’. We didn’t even mock the amorous couples dancing along…much. Seeing a packed, grinning house for Mates of State (boosting our theory that people love it when mommies and daddies sing to each other) and listening to the Magic Numbers revel in an informal acoustic set (at a day party “happening” that was not the drug-fueled orgy on a paint canvas we’d hoped for) reminded us that for every tedious, disinterested “avant/experimental” band that SXSW accepts, there’s another that actually appreciates the people watching. Not that we’re going to start hitting those Flaming Lips love-ins or anything.

Douchebags All Up in Our Grill | This would be the one caveat of attending SXSW—no matter how awesome the show you’re about to see, there’s inevitably some old tool rubbing up against you, whining about being tired, pushing his way to the bar to get water, then pushing his way back into his original spot. Maybe that behavior was acceptable at the Flamin’ Groovies shows you attended while dodging ’Nam—we can only go by what we’ve pieced together from Mojo’s archive photos. The most egregious example of this behavior was at the Matthew Sweet/Susanna Hoffs show (see Boobs:Slot ratio), where graying former Interview freelancers literally shoved girls aside to get a few inches closer to the stage (bonus: the thrill of touching a real girl). Hey Nigel, Hoffs ain’t gonna run away with you, even if she sees you cheer knowingly for her Stone Poneys cover.

Boobs:Slot Ratio Discovered | After watching completely unremarkable performances by Magneta Lane, We Start Fires, and the Chalets at primo venues for a shitload of photographers and videographers (with boom mics!), we slowly realized that the real Golden Ticket into SXSW and its accompanying buzz is having at least four boobs on stage, preferably a full-C or larger. These boobs need not be associated with someone who can sing or play an instrument. Suddenly, the band photo required with application made a little more sense. Color us scandalized.

And on St. Patrick’s Day, Even | We crammed into Emo’s for the last few songs of Giant Drag’s set, just in time to hear Annie Hardy’s cloying, faux-baby voice declare, “They say everything is bigger in Texas, but I saw a dwarf today, so that’s not true.” This might have almost elicited a chuckle, had a little person not been standing right next to us! Bitch, don’t disrespect the little. Especially when you’re carting around those Will Smith–sized ears. (See how body-related jokes can sting?)

Almost-Celebrities Spotted! | Dan from the Real World: Miami shilling for Diet Dr. Pepper and being generally hilarious as the door guy at the Jane magazine party, John Norris of MTV sporting a bad dye job and pretending to enjoy the Subways’ set when MTV cameras were on him (also receiving inexplicably deferential handshakes and back-pattings from passersby), adorable Beth Orton enjoying a free ice cream sandwich at the happening, then offering to take a stranger’s wrapper to the trash with hers. And no, we didn’t see Frodo, and we’re pissed.

| The above are the opinions of Fish in a Barrel, and not necessarily those of the editors of PLAYBACK:stl. Just the funny ones. And the ones who stole Jerry Garcia’s toilet.