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Tonight, a trifecta of punk with the Saints, Buzzcocks and Stooges. But first, another panel (I think I am the only one interested in these things). Chuck D, Alejandro Escovedo and Cyril Neville were among the speakers at "Say It Loud, I'm What? and I'm Proud" discussing the burden of otherness – Black, Latino, Armenian-Iraqi-American- from-North-Hollywood, etc – in music. Which begs the question: Why does one of the world's biggest music festivals that brings together bands from Mexico to Uzbekistan to Iceland draw only predominately white audiences? It went unanswered. David Marsh, rock critic and co-founder of Creem magazine, wasted time recounting his childhood in "cracker" Pontiac, Michigan, practically weeping and taking...very...long and uncomfortable pauses. Even Chuck D was preaching to the choir: "America is still as black and white as an old TV set." But when the baddest baritone in the biz talks about "white supremacy society syndrome" and calls all music "look-out love music," you pay attention. Escovedo remembered playing a Buddy Holly tribute show and being mistaken for a waiter. Unfortunate, you bet. But talk to us when the name on your mail is often misspelled "Sirhan," who, if you recall, is the man who assassinated Robert F. Kennedy.

Learning tidbits about the world's first music festival at "Monterey Pop at 40" with Lou Adler, Michelle Phillips and former Stones manager Andrew Loog Oldham was more fun: Otis Redding took over the Beach Boys' slot and had never before performed to a white audience; the Mammas and the Pappas played only once after Monterey; Janis Joplin sang on two days; Ravi Shankar was the only artist to get paid; and it was a coin toss that decided the Who would play before Hendrix.

Hungry for more than another hot dog-on-the-go, I selfishly sit down for a meal with cloth napkins and once again caught the Buzzcocks' last remaining songs at Emo's, the same as the night before, with the addition of "Harmony in My Head." Got word they had decided to do "Boredom" and wanted to jump in the Colorado River. But as my editor said, "It's like Sophie's Choice here." Still on a quest for more really oddly-named bands – missed Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin, couldn't find Michael Zapruder's Rain of Frogs – I check out Sacramento's Who's Your Favorite Son, God? at the Blender Balcony at the Ritz and heard noise. Unmitigated noise. Prog rock noise. Causes-sterility noise. Seated between dueling guitarists singer Zac Nelson was screeching like a cat being put out of its misery. "I practice broken glass steps before blood awakens," reads his Myspace. Jello Biafra, my favorite malcontent punk rock spoken words-man after Henry Rollins, was holding court at The Parish a few blocks down, and here's an incoherent rambling sampling of the spewage: Yellow-ribbon McCarthyism...Pentagon parrot pundits...I don't do junk mail....look in your bags conventioneers....if it sounds like the Eagles with heavy guitar, out of my stereo it goes...punk was invented to destroy the Eagles, not repackage it.....megalomaniac Oprah Winfrey....Oprah Winfrey is the Kim Jong Il of America....they can't draft you if you're overweight, so don't march down the street and yell, "Hell no, we won't go," march down the street and yell, "Supersize me." Doink! Biafra is hit with cup of ice.

Definitely not wanting to miss the Saints at the Blender Bar at the Ritz, I had to wiggle my wait out of the Stooges show (Fun house? Try nut house.) like a trapped sardine midway through. I caught on to Australia's the Saints, whose 1977 (I'm) Stranded is one of the best punk albums, after once hearing their killer cover of "River Deep, Mountain High." And to my knowledge, this was their first U.S. show in years. Too bad it was St. Patrick's Day. And too bad this was a bar with more drunks trying to dance a jig than fans. Singer Chris Bailey, the only original member, seemed kind of dour, at one point arguing with someone in the audience. "I'm Stranded?" Missed that, too. Just take me to the river.

Yeah, having to leave the Stooges at Stubb's early was a bitch, in more ways than one. Finally the night had come for Austin to eat some Detroit crow. But peering through the cracks between people's bodies – how about a panel on the burden of being short? – and avoiding cigarette burns is no way to watch wily and wiry Iggy Pop contort his sculpted body like a Cirque du Soleil reject. Taking this as a challenge, the boy next to me had to hold his chest every time he yelled "Woooo!" No doubt he had a collapsed lung last night. "Hello VIP," he greeted the limbs dangling from the stairs. "Hello losers," he said to the rest of us on dirt. Pop, Ron Asheton, Scott Asheton and Mike Watt on bass unveiled cuts from the new Stooges album, The Weirdness, including "Trollin'" and "My Idea of Fun." But they kicked things off with "Loose," which lead to "I Wanna Be Your Dog," "Fun House" and "1970." How amazing would it be if a reunited Damned, who've covered "1970," and the reunited Stooges got together on this one? Like all the others I've missed – the Fratellis joined by Pete Townshend, Slash, Perry Farrell and Wayne Kramer with Tom Morello – they'll probably wind up here as the "special guests" next year.

So......South by Southwest. You've given me blisters, blackened lungs, flyers that have killed every tree, pizza sitting on used condoms on a littered sidewalks, and so much music in my system I feel like I'd taken a musical suppository for four days. Same time in 2008? You crazy.

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It's easy to critique. It's much easier to critique than to do. Having said that, I would like to lodge a complaint about this year's panels.

I understand a few of the panels were genuinely interesting. But the word of mouth I've received from most panel-attenders is that overall they were kinda yawned-out. And after the "Blogs: Whatta Concept!" panel I attended this morning, I wasn't only yawned-out, I was bummed out.

The panel, on "Covering Music In New Media," was awfully fancy. A couple people obviously had their heads (and hearts) screwed on, and I'm sure almost everyone up there was decent human being — yet the panel seemed to take place under a cloud, as if all of life were just incredibly, painfully, horribly unexciting. Granted, it's also possible everyone was just hung-over. But there wasn't any sense of even hung-over joy and humor and excitement about all the cool things made possible by digital technology. And isn't that why we were all there? To get jazzed about all the possibilities, and to celebrate all the grandiose improvements New Media and digital technology have already brought to our lives?

Come on, brothers and sisters! Think about it! Now that we have all this digital recording technology, doesn't music sound better than ever? I mean, can you even believe how incredibly great all the new music is these days?

And now that we have Pitchfork and the blogs to tell us what's cool, and keep us up-to-the-second informed on all their favorite bands, hasn't rock & roll once again ignited the planet with revolutionary fervor?

And don't you find sunlight feels warmer and jasmine smells sweeter and you fight the Powers That Be with renewed vigor every day because you found out the new fuckin' Björk album title first?

THE MUSIC INDUSTRY'S AT A CRISIS POINT, but based on the vibe at SXSW and the amount of back-slapping to be heard up and down the streets and conference rooms of downtown Austin, you'd never know it.

There's much that needs discussing now, much that is depressing and even scary, but needs to be talked about.

A few topics I would have liked to see panels on:

1. The de facto destruction of Capitol Records: What the fuck is going on at Capitol, and how did it happen, and what's going to happen?

2. The hyperspeed mergers, firings, and consolidations in print media affecting music journalism: What are freelance journalists doing to get by; how are writers making a living--are they branching into new, related fields or just going to law school?

3. The future of vinyl: I've heard that vinyl is making a slow but real comeback, and I'd love to hear from those in-the-know about the ins and outs of why and how my favorite musical format is making its way into the future.

4. The planned satellite radio merger, in which XM and Sirius will become a monopoly outlet: How likely is this, and if it happens, what will be the likely effect?

5. Facial hair today: How many beards should a band have, and how does the beard/mustache ratio within a band affect musical output?

A COUPLE INTERESTING POINTS were made at the Internet panel, and I wish I could remember who it was, but one of the panelists said, essentially: As music blogs and sites like Pitchfork rise in popularity and power, the quality of writing will become much less important in music criticism than the quality of branding.

I would suggest that this has already proven to be true, and it's a strange thing. The originators of rock criticism were writers to the core, and committed to music writing as a quasi pop-art form — writing as a form of joy, wordsmithing a genuine expression of the rock & roll spirit. Stylish, rhythmic, heartfelt, musical. Musical. When Lester Bangs typed onstage with the J. Geils Band, he meant it. And it wasn't just Lester Bangs doing the Lord's work.

But those values are rare now in the so-called "indie" media world. To the contrary: Humor and populism and style are often belittled as lightweight, shallow. This may or may not be indicative of something larger, but today, I was talking with some very nice people from a "tastemaking" public radio station about Mika, the glam-piano man who rocked the house here at SXSW. One person explained that she didn't like Mika because he was too catchy. The consensus seemed to be, overall, dismissive of Mika as "candy." (And he certainly does have a bubblegum influence; he even has a delicious song called "Lollipop.") If only people had the first clue how impossibly difficult it is to write a catchy song! And under these aesthetic guidelines, what then of the Beatles, or the Stones, or any other catchy band that ever endeavored to write popular music? Must music be uncatchy to be taken seriously? Why would people deny themselves the pleasure of catchy music?

Is this what poor Mika is up against? My goodness! I wonder how a classic, vintage-era Elton John would fare today if he were trying to break through on the various indie-type radio outlets and blogs we've got. He'd be dismissed before you could say Captain Fantastic: They'd call him fluffy and pretentious and lightweight and — horrors! — poppy.

TOP SURREAL MOMENT OF THE FESTIVAL: I'm in the coffeeshop today at 1 pm, waiting to meet up with a friend. The only available seat is near a lanky, white-haired man, who hunches over his table and sways slightly, like one touched.

I take a risk and grab the seat. Of course, he turns around and wordlessly places some sort of piece of paper on my table in slow-motion. I look at the photo on it, and I look at him. "Andy Pratt," it says.

Andy Pratt. Oh, if you only knew how I have hunted for Andy Pratt.

I first heard him while flipping around the radio dial seven years ago, one Sunday-night three a.m.; as it turned out, Jon Brion was guest-DJing on The Open Road, and playing something simple, and bizarre, and real. And beautiful. And incredible. And true. And it was Andy Pratt.

I hunted for Andy Pratt, ultimately ordering something difficult-to-find through a record store, called Resolution. This was all way before MySpace or iTunes were ever an option for me. He sits at a piano on the cover, looking like a much taller Lindsey Buckingham. I never heard anything on it as amazing as that stuff on the radio. Yet he seemed a charismatic figure. He'd later become a Christian. Sometimes, the really gifted ones, the ones who really face the music, and madness, do that.

You may hear Jon Brion talking at length about Andy Pratt, and playing three of his songs, here. He even "steals" my theory of musical time-travel, suggesting his influence on Radiohead and Beck.

Anyway. At one moment in history, Andy Pratt was the Next Big Thing. Andy Pratt was touted in Rolling Stone as some kind of genius, and his song "Avenging Annie" was a hit.

And I had his album, and I always wondered what had happened to him. Much as I'd wondered what had happened to Dory Previn, another '70s misfit whom I'd discovered once while taking a bath in my apartment in Hollywood. (I heard a sound of key-twisting melody and androgynous, strange vocals wafting through the open window. I yelled out the window, what is this music? (It was Mythical Kings and Iguanas.)

I'm in the coffeeshop, and Mr. Andy Pratt places a flier on the table. I tell him I know his music, I have his album. He smiles oddly, and says, "That's out of print now. Write about it so they'll put it back in print."

He then tells me he's doing a book signing, and he pulls out a book: A psychedelic-looking photo of him on the cover. Shiver In the Night, it's called. A memoir. I ask him to sign it, and he does: For Kate, Love, Peace, and Power.

"So you're writing articles?" he asks.

"I'm doing a blog," I says, adding (and hoping it's not insulting), "Do you know what a blog is?"

"Yeah," he says, smiling. "So, you write up your daily report and all your fans read it?"

"Um... I don't have any fans."

"OK, so no one reads it!" he says, chuckling.

"Yes, nobody reads it!" And then we both laugh.

And then he adds, almost off-the-cuff, "It's OK. I do lots of great stuff no one knows about."

Let me just savor that for a moment. "I do lots of great stuff no one knows about." He said it without bitterness, but also like someone who's not happy to be forgotten.

And nor should he be. Tonight, I've done a brief search, and found that he has a couple different MySpace pages, here and here.

His shit is incredible. And so of course MySpace is good for some things, and obviously The Open Road at 3 am is, too. But I couldn't ignore the irony of being stuck here in the mouth of the indie-hype-monster-machine, this event that launches the short-lived careers of next-big-things on an annual basis, and sitting surrounded at a cafe by young assholes in dark shades and cool haircuts, all of 'em hoping for that all-precious mantle of hype. And meeting this man with the crazed eyes and the unspeakably lovely music that not one in a hundred of these cats could hope to touch.

On the inside of the dust jacket, at the end of his bio, it says, "[Andy Pratt] is now happily married, and he is ready to rock."

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The Buzzcocks, at 86 years old, blast 20-year-old bands off the stage, and shame them... and they do so as if it came most naturally to them. They simply rock harder, more full-frontally, than almost any band I've ever seen. They began their set at Stubb's BBQ (closing the Spin party) with a bang... "Boredom" and a mix of newer songs (the highly romantic "Reconciliation," which got me feeling very sentimental about punk rock and true love!) and classics... but the energy did flag a bit in the middle (long set--about an hour)--and they saved their best for last --"What Do I Get?" "Orgasm Addict," "Harmony In My Head," "Ever Fallen In Love?" And nuts! they never played "Why Can't I Touch It?" which is my current favorite. (Ever noticed how the Buzzcocks have more song titles in the form of questions than anyone else?)

Why do bands save their best for last like that?

Anyway, they looked like they were attempting to look natty and cool, as well, which I appreciate. White jeans are always a plus!

It's official: The Buzzcocks are the most soft-hearted romanticists in punk rock! Oh, and they also like physical pleasure---you can just tell they don't have any tightass fear of sex/love/romance... Which isn't classically punk-rock but is, also, always a plus!

I checked out Canadian power-poppers Sloan last night, and was impressed--their harmonies are so precise and strong, I almost thought they were using backing tracks for a moment. More soon, dudes!

rock on
Kate

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Another day, another industry panel (am I the only interested in attending these things?). "Comedy on the Music Circuit" brought together funnymen David Cross, Zach Galifianakis and more talking heads discussing the comedy-music hybrid, so I was hoping for a little, well, comic relief. Instead they took jabs at indie rock fans for being "humorless and too self-serious" (indie rock jokes, by the way, are the new hippie jokes, nyach, nyach). Just who did they think had paid to listen to them here? Cross remembered a night he opened for the Strokes a few years back and a guy peed on him. Ok, that did sorta tinkle, – sorry, tickle – me. And when Tony Kiewel, head of A&R at Sub Pop Records, mentioned the time the label was "inches away from bankruptcy," Cross asked, "Were you seven inches away?" (Nyach, nyach). "I don't get it," said Galifianakis.

At the exclusive Spin magazine barbecue at Stubb's I just about made it to the last of the Buzzcocks' set, one of three scheduled for the festival, that included "Ever Fallen in Love?," "Orgasm Addict" and "What Do I Get." (I'm almost certain guitarist Steve Diggle had on the same polka dot shirt he wore last summer at the Henry Fonda show in Hollywood.) With spilled beer in my hair, this is as punk rock as I ever felt. But we will meet again. Half the music at SXSW is on the streets, and on my way out I spot a Japanese band playing accordions, drums, stand-up bass and trombones. Asakusa Jinta are.....here, let their flyer do the talking: "Came from the Far East. They call their music 'Asianican hard marching band.' Their music is a mixture of Rockabilly, Japanese new wave, ska, uptempo country, punk and Japanese Kenka and Kayokyoku from the 1930's." Been there, heard that.

After a long haul across the bridge (the "bat bridge") that gave me a blister I'm sure has masticized into a tumor, I was front and center for Public Enemy who headlined the hip-hop Dew Music Festival at Auditorium Shores and delivered a blistering, full-on show of political putdowns. Too bad this was an outdoor amphitheater filled with damn dirty dreadlocked hippies playing kazoos for change. (What's funnier is watching middle-aged moms eating popcorn out of Ziplock bags and trying to throw gang signs.) This was a reunited P.E. with Professor Griff and clock-wearing Flavor Flav celebrating the group's 20th anniversary. When-I-Say-Chuck-You-Say-D kicked things off with "Welcome to the Terrordome" backed by P.E.'s sword-wielding, uniformed military dancers. He had the crowd playing verbal ping pong to every scathing attack. "Fuck George Bush!" Fuck George Bush! "Fuck Dick Cheney!" Fuck Dick Cheney! "Fuck Tony Blair!" Fuck Tony Blair! "Condoleezza too!" Condoleezza too! (This is Public Enemy and they are in Texas). Sad how "Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos"'s words ring truer today than they did in 1988: "They wanted me for their army or whatever/Picture me giving a damn – I said never.") Flav, ever the court jester, sang himself a happy birthday and thanked everyone for making season two of Flavor of Love VH1's highest debuting show. "911 Is a Joke" is my favorite jokey joke song. Unfortunately I was being distracted by a drunk girl crying on my shoulder about her DUI's, probation and the need for weed. Chuck D didn't stray from the serious, pleading with the audience to "never let an old man send a young man to war," and ended the night with the classic "Fight the Power." Flav informed us that we are our own best friends. On that note, I hugged myself and congratulated myself on a performance well done.

Fearing a repeat of the Lily Allen turn-away, I head to Stubb's two hours before for The Good, The Bad and The Queen (one of the festival's biggest headliners), sit on wet concrete and stay put. Wearing a sweater with Chevron stripes and silver pants, Perry Farrell was leading the Perry Farrell's Satelite Party with Nuno "Extreme" Bettencourt – and a big-breasted, blond backup singer whose purpose looked unclear – doing a funkier, less psychedelic Jane's Addiction. He spouted some cosmic shit about the open skies and how it's all ours, as Farrell usually does. Badly Drawn Boy played, I think. (Someone with a Mancunian accent was singing.) "People think we love this shit," heckled a group of Brits behind me. "But we don't." "It's all about fuckin' pixies and forests." The Boy went from bad to worse when he decided to break into Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'." Now, normally I love it when anyone does a Journey cover; Journey sucks? No you suck. But the Boy is no city boy born and raised in south Detroit, and he's certainly no Steve Perry.

I really don't know what to make of The Good, The Bad and The Queen. This is the kind of chilled, electro-lite, goatee-stroking mood music that back in my day might've been called trip-hop and completely ignored. But all the buzz says it's uncategorizable and boundary-less and is supposed to have meditative powers simply because TGTBTQ is a supergroup (the Clash's Paul Simonon, Blur's Damon Albarn, the Verve's Simon Tong, and Fela Kuti drummer Tony Allen) who isn't doing a Clash rehash or Blur 2 or even Gorillaz 2. We'll see. Simonon is a just a cocky rooster, intermittently taking drags from his cigarette and creeping about the stage in a black gangster suit; what deprivation watching him up there not playing "Guns of Brixton." Albarn looked bored as always, at one point holding a flute he hardly played. "History Song," is a cool mashup of Afrobeat-meets-the Specials, and "80's Life" is a sweet throwback to Motown doo wop. The rest were vanilla, some serene, some spooky, but still plain, beige and neutral-as-Switzerland rice cake. So make out I couldn't, and maybe shouldn't.

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The clouds have parted and the birds are chirping what sounds like Japanese power pop. SXSW being an industry event I attend my first industry panel, "Idiots Unite!" (The idiots, of course, being anyone involved in this crazy business of show.) David Katznelson, president of Birdman Recording Group, moderated the discussion with fellow talking heads who've all either signed, managed or represented artists from Madonna to the Flaming Lips to Silversun Pickups. They tossed around nuggets like "There are 53 million music blogs in this country alone," debated the pros and cons of the Internet, and my what this Myspace has done to the biz. Yeah, snooze city until Seymour Stein – president of Sire Records, and the man who signed the Material Girl to Warner Records – pointed out Geoff Travis (the Geoff Travis, head of Rough Trade records who brought in the Smiths) sitting in the back. Could he really be the years-rumoured Mr. Shankly in the Smiths' "Frankly Mr. Shankly," the "flatulent pain in the arse" Morrissey wrote about? Didn't have the balls.

Friday afternoon had become awfully warm and I foolishly hit Sixth Street, the main vein running through downtown Austin's circulatory system of clubs and bars. This is Vegas on New Year's if Caesar's was imploding; did I forget to mention the entire world has descended here? It's not everyday in Texas you see two Japanese boys in mariachi pants and matching Dutch boy haircuts. Know how to single out the drunk female locals from the drunk, just-visiting female scenesters? The former throw out devil horn signs when walking out of a bar, while the latter scream "Great White! Great White!" The Corinthians-quoting Bible thumpers (the young ones with the Mormon schoolteacher hair are always the scariest) were out carrying "God Loves You" signs, handing out "Why Can't I Be Happy?" pamphlets and yelling into bullhorns, "My friend, if Satan is your friend like you say he is, how come, how come, he hasn't died for you?" Dunno. Does seem rather selfish.

I make a point of catching at least a few of the really oddly-named bands here – Holy Shit!, Les Breastfeeders, my! gay! husband!, etc. So per a friend's recommendation I check out Brooklyn's Say Hi to Your Mom who sound like Silversun Pickups who sound like Sonic Youth. I spend more time admiring rustic Buffalo Billiards' antelope chandelier and woodsy light fixtures. A better tip came from my music editor Kate Sullivan who informed me young British singer-songwriter Mika was the "special guest" (that's handbook-talk for don't be suckered by the handbook) at Eternal. We found a primo spot swiping-distance from the set list on the stage and just stared like smitten kittens as Mika sauntered in wearing a nifty, pin-stripped jacket, pristine Converse with nary a smudge and a riot of curly hair. He's all Freddie Mercury-and-Elton-John camp with a more discernible trace of testosterone than the Scissor Sisters. He was coy and sassy, throwing his arms in Mary Tyler Moore fashion (free, single and independent in the big city) and wiggling his rear in tandem with his bass player. His current radio single "Grace Kelly" is just an exuberant piano charmer and "Big Girl (You Are Beautiful") was his ode to the plus-size. Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls," the Smiths' "Some Girls Are Bigger than Others" – what is with fey men and lovin' large?

The club's sweltering heat was suffocating, but I had to stick it out for two hours to see Amy Winehouse, the soul and R&B songstress who's gotten a lot of ink for being the British Britney (booze, drugs and anorexia woes, we have heard). That meant suffering through the aggro metal of Fair to Midland; the fact they come from a town in Texas called Sulphur Springs should've been a tipper. Singer Darroh Sudderth was practically airborne, violent shaking his head and flailing his arms like a deranged propeller. It's all fun and games until your frontman has to lie on stage to stop seeing stars, even after the band has left. Tired of squatting in between a girl's tattooed thighs, I found another primo spot on the side of the stage for what I knew was going to be hairy experience. Winehouse is an odd-looking bird – a tiny, wisp of a thing with dark, exotic features, horseshoe tattoos and the rattiest, most magnificent, half-up and half-down bouffant ever coifed after the '60s. She'd self-consciously wipe the bangs from her forehead and nervously chat with her musicians, a nine-piece band in suave suits that included two back-up singers with smooth Motown moves that got us hotter than the club's temperature. Her voice (soulful, brash and deeper than a subway tunnel) is equal parts Billie Holiday, Macy Gray and Lauryn Hill and speaks of woman who's lived harder, and longer, than Winehouse's mere 23 years. She sang of her cheating ways on "You Know I'm No Good" and gave detox the finger on "Rehab" ("I didn't get a lot in class/But I know it don't come in a shot glass"), a song allegedly written after Winehouse's former label gave her an ultimatum. I hope the real Britney and Mel Gibson weren't within ear shot.

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EARLIER IN THE EVENING I caught an exuberant, colorful, hooky, melodic, absolutely flat-out life-affirming set by Mika, a glam-piano man who approximates a marriage of Queen, Elton John and Erasure. Mike is my new hero, and I will do my best to make sure the world hears his message of fun and passion! More on Mika soonishly!

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So, I need to tell you about the show of the festival. My mind is blown, dude!

I'm sitting in this bar, reading my Archies comics, because I am desperate for anything to keep me awake through a set by Aqualung. (Aqualung are one of these tragically earnest Nic Harcourt bands. They are attempting to be Jeff Buckley fronting Radiohead. They are not Jeff Buckley fronting Radiohead.)

I have befriended two funny, nice ladies sitting next to me, who have come to this Hotel Cafe shindig because one of them is "obsessed with Badly Drawn Boy" (who's just finished a very crochet-beanie-wearing set). She mentions her obsession briefly — matter of factly — as if it were a serious chronic ailment she's learned to cope with, and doesn't want to dwell on.

So I'm reading about Betty and Veronica forging a fake diary of Martha Washington, and I look up and fuckin' Slash is walking right by me. And he's looking as Slash as Slash can be. I start, and blurt, "That was Slash!"

The Badly Drawn Boy lady says, "I'm from L.A., so that's nothing."

I'm from L.A., and I think it's totally rad. It would be rad in L.A., and it's radder in Austin. (She ultimately agrees, and we hit it off. She also loves the Archies.)

I was there out of a sense of duty, as Tom Morello was scheduled to perform his acoustic solo stuff, something I hadn't yet seen during any of his Hotel Cafe gigs in L.A.

So, I wait two hours. Finally, the show begins, and we're on our feet, standing up on a bench, screaming, and the tops of our heads burst into flames like illegal Christmas crackers as Tom Morello brings out Wayne Kramer of the MC5, our buddy Slash, Perry Farrell, and Nuno Bettencourt of Extreme ("More Than Words," dude!), and they rip into "Mountain Song," and they've got like four guitars going at once, Slash on lead. Slash and Perry look and sound exactly the same as before, but healthier. Slash's cigarette hanging from his mouth doesn't even seem to be lit. They are throbbing and grinding and pretty much jamming, like a buncha ex-drugged-out metalhead rich hippies. Slash is wearing a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt. "You're gonna tear yourselves apart like weasels!" says Morello approvingly.

"I am skin and bones I am pointy nose, but the motherfuckermakesmeTRY!"

Ritual was my favorite Jane's album, and the girls and I are singing it all by heart because it turns out that my new friend is an O.G. Jane's Addiction-head. She has seen them 40 times, she says, and I truly believe her. It is quite possible a small amount of pee was deposited on the bench that night.

They were rather tight, too, for a non-band... you sensed they'd really practiced, really wanted this to kick ass... and, of course, have already had the songs etched into their genetic material for a couple decades now --like everyone else in the place.

There are moments when I think Jane's Addiction will fall below the radar of history, and it makes me a little sad. But at this moment, I feel as if they've taken the baton of world's-greatest-secret-old-band from the MC5, and they shall carry it proudly.

I love it when rock stars aren't too cool to play their best, old material. There would be no Satellite Party or Audioslave or Velvet Revolver tonight.

I mean, almost. After that ridiculous opening, Perry Farrell addressed the hyperventilating, astonished crowd, gesturing toward Morello: "If there was ever a candidate for next president, you're looking at him! But Tom can do better work with his guitar, and so he shall. Carry on, Tom!"

I appreciated Perry's sentiment, but after sitting through what came next — a solo set by Mr. Morello, a.k.a. The Nightwatchman — I would bet money Tom could do better work as president.

He's not much of a singer, but that might work if it weren't for the lyrics. There are good lyrics, and then there are bad lyrics, and then there are good-bad lyrics (say, Zeppelin). I'm afraid Tom's in the middle group. Sample: "It's in the jackal's dream.../It's in the shaman's trance..."

It's difficult for anyone but Marc Bolan, Bob Dylan, or Robert Plant to use words like "jackal" in a song. Bowie would be pushing it.

At length, our friends returned to the stage, and Wayne sang lead on "Kick Out the Jams." The song that launched a thousand bands — 500 of them heavy metal, 500 of them punk; at least one of them both: Rage Against the Machine.

Speaking of which, I'll be damned if L.A. doesn't have a history of producing bands that combine metal and punk to commercially successful effect.

I gather Jane's Addiction and Guns 'N Roses were sort of rivals on opposing L.A. teams in the '80s — G'N R representing the metalheads; Jane's Addiction the punk/goth/new wavers — and yet they had a begrudging respect for one another... I think they practiced at the same place at one point. I know they both played that crazy L.A. Street Scene in 1986, the one featuring the Guns 'N Roses Riot.

L.A. youth culture in the '80s (as I remember it) was all about rival sub-cultures and choosing a team and a radio station and sticking to it. But the truth beneath it all was that musically Guns and Jane's had much, much more in common than not, including two badass metal guitarists.

And let's not even get into Motley Crue's Too Fast For Love.

The gig wound up with Morello dragging out Les Claypool of Primus, who looked like a young Fidel Castro, to join the group for a jammed-out "This Land Is Your Land." There's nothing like hearing Slash do a metal solo over Woody Guthrie. But you know, I could have done without Morello's lecturing the crowd about the true meaning of the song. This is Austin, after all (as my new friend pointed out), home of Willie Nelson, Molly Ivins and Jim Hightower... it's not exactly a political backwater. Morello said he would sing the great, secret, unknown lyrics to the song... and he did add one forgotten verse, but then he didn't sing my favorite forgotten verse of the song (or I didn't hear 'em anyway):

As I went walking, I saw a sign there;
And on the sign there, It said, 'NO TRESPASSING.'
But on the other side, It didn't say nothing.
That side was made for you and me.

No one knew all the words, so Perry Farrell was even reading off a lyric sheet — which he tossed in the air, laughing, as he screwed up the words beyong recognition, with his wife singing next to him, with her digitally enhanced anatomy pouring out of her top... singing Woody Guthrie. The cognitive dissonance was exquisite. But they seem very happy, so who cares? Really.

Tom-wise: I know his heart's in the right place, and as a proud union member myself, I appreciated his attempt at a union song — can't recall the title, but I believe it made mention of Joe Hill and Cesar Chavez. "How many of you work for a living?" he asked as he intro'd the song. Not everyone cheeered.

I guess I just don't love having a rich guy preach to me — even a really nice, good-hearted, brilliant rock guitarist... You know? I mean, later in the show, responding to Perry Farrell's comment, Morello said something like, he'd never be president because "One, I'd probably get assassinated, and two, it won't pay enough."

As a non-rich union worker who needs good, historic rock, I'd ask Mr. Morello to consider the Marxist creed as it applies to his musical pursuits:

From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.

And yet, I must thank him, for giving us a show that, overall, thrilled me to my toes and made everything, all of it, all of it, worth every moment.

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Slash, Tom Morello, Wayne Kramer of the MC5, Perry Farrell, and, uh...Nuno Betancourt! Yar, dude! All shredding on Jane's Addiction's "Mountain Song" and "Ain't No Right" like it wasn't no thing.

Tomorrow I'l scribble much, much more on this, the show of the festival, which (for once) I actually got into. It was so much L.A. pride up there. It's gettin' proud up in this bitch.

Kate

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(photo from Oreskaband.com)

So it happened: That magical, transportive moment of which I have heard rumors.... the moment when you discover a band at South By Southwest that you have never before heard anyone mention, write about, whisper about, blog about.... ever. It's a fresh, new-to-you baby-band experience, and it is a moment glistening with the dew of an early summer's early morn.

I was in my hotel room, and I heard a rock & roll band, a punk band with a tight drummer and a strong but girlish voice leading it all. They were tight and fast and somewhat hooky, and I could tell they were putting on a show because the crowd was a-shouting and a-cheering right proper.

I grabbed my shit and was out the door and oh my, so fast, I was witnessing the Oreska band: six badass Japanese girls playing super-poppy ska-style punk — but really, just good rock & roll — intensely, without an ounce of coyness or the we-suck-but-we're-hot nonsense you get with some girl-bands. These girls were tight and fast and loud and hard, and also springy and light. Ska is much, much more difficult to play properly than I think most people realize, and they did. A big-ass trombone, a huge sax, trumpet, all of them singing together with such joy and sweat and fun, it kinda made me all misty. I remember what it was like when bands didn't think they were cool at all, and didn't have to act cool — they just were cool. With no buzz, and no hype, and no crapola.

They looked cool, too, wearing boarding school uniforms, complete with skinny black ties and rad shags.

The trombonist was sort of the leader, and she addressed the crowd between songs in extremely broken English, with her hand on her heart: "I am... amazing. No — You are amazing. I... I love you."

I thought she'd start crying a little bit, too. Such joy. I really never knew ska could be bubblegum, but it totally can.

Bubblegum lovers of the world, unite!

Kate

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SXSW or no SXSW, my first sign of Texas pride was the Texas-shaped gravestone in the Texas State Cemetery I noticed outside the airport shuttle.

Landed in Austin in drizzling weather; even in a crowded airplane making four stops it's easy to single out the passengers headed here – they're the ones in sweaters and flip flops. While checking in at the swanky Hilton I almost squealed when I spotted Marco Pirroni, guitarist for Adam and the Ants. Could the dandy highwayman be far behind? Then I noticed a dead-ringer for Bea Arthur in the elevator and immediately wanted to yell out, “God'll get you for that, Walter.” So far, so good.

Being a newbie here, I'm still scratching my head trying to figure out how this festival works, and will probably leave with a bald patch. The average, non-press civilian spends $500 (in addition to airfare and hotel) for a music badge that gets you into all the panels and seminars but may or may not get you into the nighttime shows, daytime shows, unannounced shows or parties that also double as shows? My English is no so good. After weeks of half-assed planning, playing email tennis with publicists and repeatedly hearing “you will not get in” from past pundits, I decide to simply arrive early to the gigs, keep fingers crossed and show some leg.

First piece of business was picking up my badge – my lifeline, my high-five to hipsterville – at the Austin Convention Center, a madhouse where you're ushered into a long line that guarantees you'll be standing in even longer lines throughout the week. If you're not sporting skinny jeans, classic Nikes, a beard and a topiary of disheveled hair here, get your square self on the first square seat back to squaresville. All the Hebrew, Portuguese and Japanese whizzing over my head makes me feel like I'm stuck in “It's a Small World” and the song is in constant rotation. One staffer in a green shirt leads me to another, and then another, and, viola, I have my laminated mug. But am I looking at four days of velvet rope burn? Will the line fail me or will I fail it?

Pete Townshend was Wednesday's keynote speaker, and he was genial, funny and surprisingly forthright; sad to hear John Entwistle blew his share from all the Who reunion shows on cocaine. Interviewer Bill Flanagan noted the Who were the only band to play all the major “iconic gathering of the tribes” – Monterey, Woodstock, Live Aid – though Townshend lamented that the Who had never done a definitive show like the Sex Pistols. Speaking of, Townsend has harbored a crush on Siouxsie Sioux and said he'd wished they'd gotten married and had a bunch of little “punkettes.” Aww! Townshend also shared his fondness for current Who drummer and Ringo's boy Zak Starkey, who has to watch his “sagging ahss.” And Britney, he sends his love.

White female reggae sounds about as appealing as white female rap, but the night was young and British spitfire Lily Allen had taken the stage at the legendary Stubb's as part of an NME showcase. The line lead back to L.A. (Note to self: Early is not early enough here). “Smile,” “Everythings Just Wonderful" and "LDN" sounded pretty, melodic and playful. Too bad I was on the other side of the club's gate, kicking gravel and hacking up tar (God help the non-smoker who comes to these things) for 45 minutes. No time to fret. On the other side of town at La Zona Rosa, an even smokier warehouse with beer cans for sculpture, apostles Peter Bjorn and John (wasn't there a Bjorn?) were bringing in a slightly less packed crowd. The Swedish buzz band's set included their current radio hit "Young Folks," aka "the whistle song," a funky little romantic ditty reminiscent of '60s power pop. Lennon-sounding singer Peter Moren mentioned catching some good music, "like the Delfonics and Ray Sharles" in his hotel lobby, unlike the hotel lobbies of his native Stockholm, and even managed to get the crowd in a couple of choruses of "bap-bap-bap" to another song. Pretty alert for almost two in the morning.

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Got in last night. Don't even ask about the airplane flight. OK, ask. Horrible, horrible drunk musician-esque type guy sitting behind me, using f-words muchly, trying to impress the unimpressed female next to him. He was under the unfortunate impression that everything he thought, and then said, was funny and compelling, and that being the loud drunk on the airplane was a daring, rebel move.

Ah, SXSW. Only been here a few hours and already I can feel the familiar misanthropy return, like some old friend I'd missed over the past year.

The musical wing of the SXSW festival is very much about industry hype. And it's pretty simple to figure out who's getting talked about. Usually, it's the bands people are talking about.

Example: At dinner last night, an English guy talking loudly (again) at another table about Lily Allen. Not really saying if she's good or bad or just OK. He was just talking about her: "She's very British, really. Her dad's a famous actor."

Then there's the game where you try to guess what band people are talking about by the things they say. Example: In the elevator later this morning, two English dudes (!) going to the whirlpool, apparently — one was wearing a bathrobe (ew) were saying to one another, "Yeah... they signed to Merge." "And there's really quite a lot of them when they're up onstage, isn't there? Seven or eight?" If you guessed Arcade Fire, I'm with you. Then again, if you guessed I Really Don't Give, I'm also with ya.

Haven't made any star-sightings yet, but have seen a tragic quantity of leggings on the women.

Went to a meeting this morning of other music editors from within the chain that owns the LA Weekly, Village Voice Media. An insane gentleman sat down next to me with a laptop, and began to play some loud-ass crunk shit, right there in the middle of the meeting. A number of us took this as a cue to get up and get more coffee. It was kind of awesome, actually.

More soonishly,
Kate

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