Here’s a tip for all up and coming bands. Go to South by Southwest, the music industry’s annual showcase in Austin, a surprisingly democratic and arts-loving pocket of Texas. Even if you have to sell your baby sister, go. If they’re feeling nice, the Scottish Arts Council may cough up funds towards your flight (thanks guys), but swap your pints to halves now in preparation for next year, because you will simply have the best week of your life.
When my band, Aberfeldy, heard that we had been invited to play a “show” as gigs are called in the South, we were delighted. It was the culmination of what has turned out to be an excellent year for us: from being signed to the label Rough Trade, to the lovely reception of our debut album, Young Forever, and appearing on stage with Blondie and the Scissor Sisters at Edinburgh’s Hogmanay.
We arrived in Austin to freezing cold, pouring rain and the warmest of welcomes. The organisers of South by Southwest operate a system whereby local families put up visiting artists. Our hosts were the entirely wonderful Bryan and Shelley, a nurse and preserver of bats (Austin has the largest urban population of the flying vermin in North America). I can’t tell you what a difference it makes to swap cheap motels for friendly natives; a scheme the Edinburgh fringe should surely emulate. Although the showcase is primarily for music industry insiders, the hosts’s payment is entry to as many of the 1,300 bands’ shows as they like.
And what bands there are. Elvis Costello, Robert Plant and Brian Wilson were all in town this year, alongside new hopefuls all seeking to impress the cream of the big wigs. Representing Scotland alongside us were the Rezillos, Dogs Die in Hot Cars and — my new favourite band — Jupiter and Teardrop from Glasgow. And let’s not forget that it was the same festival this time last year that helped Franz Ferdinand shoot to international stardom.
There are more comparisons to be drawn to the Edinburgh fringe, too. Unlike the rest of Texas, Austin is a comparatively hilly city, with about the same population as Edinburgh. Some of the districts feel as bohemian as Broughton Street or Stockbridge. For five days in March, the city’s main arteries are as teeming and infectious as our capital’s in August.
Likewise, it seems to have its share of resident and visiting nutters. I liked the King — a local busker who wears a purple funk suit, plastic crown, shades that spell the word “cool” and accompanies himself on the bass guitar only. “Groovy baby, groovy groovy baby, uh uh uh uh I like it like that!” Apparently he runs for mayor every year.
I also liked the Boiling Pot, a shellfish restaurant where they simply tip a basin of crustacean carnage right onto the table and hand you a bib and a wooden hammer. No wonder there are “Keep Austin Weird” stickers everywhere.
Our first real taste of the madness was at Robyn Hitchcock’s show, in which he performed a song about a three-legged chihuahua on a table top.
The next day kicked off with glorious sunshine and a slightly cringeworthy interview for MTVU (a division of MTV dedicated to students). It was our first time on television, but we got through it with dignity almost intact. The media whoredom continued all day: a hotel room live session on Stuart Maconie’s BBC6 show, then an interview with Mark Radcliffe of Radio 2.
Our first show went without a hitch; even our song about the ace rambler Tom Weir went down a storm. The Austin Chronicle Daily described the audience as “slack-jawed with collective grins”. Apparently, our songs “cascaded over the audience like a warm and joyous bear-hug from a lost friend”. Not all remained friends though. Unwittingly, it transpires that I managed to badmouth’s the festival’s chief sponsors, Miller Lite. They claim to be “The Great Taste Of SXSW”. Not to me: I only tasted weak urine, but having said as much from the stage, we were supplied with Newcastle Brown Ale from punters who perhaps felt the same way.
The Austin Latino Lesbian & Gay Organisation’s Tillery theatre was the venue that night for the Scottish Invasion party. Stealing the show were the mighty Rezillos, who are easily the best band Scotland has ever produced.
Despite their jetlag and a few technical difficulties, they pulled off an amazing performance — one of the few “survivors” of the punk era who can still really cut it live. And boy was it good to see Fay Fife looking gorgeous on the front page of the Austin Chronicle the next day. They finished their splendid set with Destination Venus, a song that always, always gives me the goosebumps.
I celebrated my birthday the next day by getting the band up at 6am for another hotel room live session, this time for Radio Scotland. Enjoying our new “fame”, we took the rest of the day off and sashayed down to the Spin magazine party; a huge affair which was really a festival in itself. I worried about Ken, our bassist though; the combination of blazing sunshine and a set by his favourite band the New York Dolls almost sent him doolally. “I’ve waited 20 years thinking I’d never get to see this onstage explosion of rock’n’roll paranoia and withdrawal symptoms . . . every bit of me is grinning like an idiot!” he noted in the band diary.
On Saturday we played at the British Bootleg BBQ gig, a night that was beset by technical difficulties. The first band, the Earlies, kept blowing the PA system. Suddenly they’d be mid-crescendo, and the sound would disappear, leaving nothing but the drums. Nothing is more frustrating (and embarrassing) for a band than this; for these guys it was particularly tragic as there were about 15 of them and they had the contents of two or three music shops assembled on stage.
By the time we got set up to play the good weather was on the way out; in fact we only played about 15 minutes before being asked to stop so that one of those bands who sound (and look) just like Franz Ferdinand could slot in.
Happily, they did themselves no favours. First they got up the noses of the sound crew by throwing the mics around on stage (Edgy! Dangerous!) then up the noses of everybody else with stage patter such as: “We’re from London; so are most of you, probably.” GTF was the unequivocal reply from those left.
The last band of the day, People in Planes, sadly bore the brunt of the bad weather. The phrase “blown off stage” began to take on a new, more literal meaning, so we hurried off to see the Rezillos again, this time playing in a record shop, complete with free beer for the punks.
Our last appearance in Austin was at Freddie’s Place, a beautiful outdoor pub by a creek, where we shared the stage with Jupiter and Teardrop, unquestionably our pick of the week. If you haven’t heard of them yet, you soon will. Their songs are catchy, particularly Bring Me Down. I especially liked one song whose lovely chorus proceeds: “I hope this feeling never ends, and I hope we never die.” Which is a perfect way to sum up how we all felt about South by Southwest.
