By: David Schultz

The Eighties proved to be an awkward era. Not only did it give us the Safety dance, purple rain, luftballons, the moonwalk, Wang Chung and Terence Trent D’Arby, it’s the decade that gave us the phrase “Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto.” In addition to cringeworthy fashion statements like suits with pastel-colored T-shirts and teased, feathered hair for both men and women, the Eighties brought us into the computer age. In the arcades, we played Pac-Man and Missile Command and at home, we slowly converted our record collections to compact disc.

The emergence of MTV, which stressed an artist’s appearance as much as their talent, the widespread incorporation of synthesized and computer generated music and the initial growth of rap drove many established and iconic acts from the Sixties and Seventies into an identity crisis as they tried to keep up with the changing times. The Eighties may have served as the birthing ground for U2, R.E.M. and The Replacements but it also marked the time that the careers of many artists from the Woodstock generation went into a tailspin.

Since Oliver Stone has decided to bring Gordon Gekko, the decade’s archetype of amoral greed, into the modern day with Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps, it’s probably not a bad time to look back at the Eighties and see how it nearly dimmed some of the rock era’s brightest lights.

ERIC CLAPTON
By the Eighties, Clapton’s storied reputation as a blues-rock demigod had started to diminish as he battled drug and alcohol addiction. Where Slow Hand once dallied in the studio with the likes of Duane Allman, Steve Winwood and George Harrison, the Eighties saw him palling around with Phil Collins and releasing slickly produced albums like Behind The Sun and August. At his 80s nadir, Clapton found himself in heavy rotation on MTV with “It’s In The Way That You Use It,” his tie-in with The Color Of Money, and in Michelob commercials with his re-recorded version of “After Midnight.” Capitalizing on everyone’s need to replace their LPs with CDs, many artists had their greatest hits combined into comprehensive multi-disc box sets. Clapton’s Crossroads, which covered all aspects of his career, created the blueprint for such collections and reawakened interest in the master bluesman. Trading in the T-shirt and jeans that had become his stage wear in favor of dapper suits, Clapton stopped dabbling in 80s-style superficial blues-rock and once again found his muse.

GRATEFUL DEAD
Defying all logic, the Grateful Dead had a run of success on MTV. In 1987, The venerable jamband titans released In The Dark, easily their most accessible album and, in line with the times, made . . . shudder . . . a music video for its lead single “Touch Of Grey.” In between Peter Gabriel and Dire Straits videos, the shaggy manes of Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir played interchangeably with animatronic skeletons while Deadheads watched on with bemused horror. In line with the chorus of “Touch Of Grey,” the Dead survived the Eighties by persevering and simply outlasting the nonsense until it came full circle. Whatever fair-weather fans they attracted through their MTV exposure quickly fell to the wayside as the Dead remained on the road, paving the way for the modern jamband scene to flourish. Always a mighty live draw, the Dead toured regularly up until Jerry Garcia’s death in 1995. By that point, the brain cells in which Deadheads stored their memories of the Dead’s brief 80s flirtation with mainstream popularity had long been killed.

LOU REED
With classics like “Walk On The Wild Side” and “Street Hassle” a distant memory, the former leader of the Velvet Underground spent most of the Eighties churning out albums like Legendary Hearts and Mistrial, filled with formulaic, barely inspired three chord rock songs. Never the most harmonious singer, Reed got in into his head that he should be acknowledged as one of the originators of the burgeoning rap scene, insinuating as much on “The Original Wrapper.” At the end of the decade, Reed turned his razor-sharp intellect on two subjects on which no one would doubt his expertise, New York City and Andy Warhol. With the release of New York in 1989 and his collaboration the next year with John Cale on Songs For Drella, a eulogy for Warhol, their former mentor and patron, Reed found relevant topics to apply his blunt, streetwise poetry to, reemerging as one of America’s most prolific and outspoken songwriters. Like he had for the decades before, he continued to sort-of rap most of his lyrics but once Marky Mark & The Funky Bunch released “Wildside,” Reed seemed to lose all interest in drawing comparisons between himself and the world of hip hop.

GENESIS
Next to ZZ Top, there was no more unlikely MTV superstar than Phil Collins. Looking more lecherous old man than video icon, Collins worked ahead of the curve; his slick videos for “Sussudio” “Take Me Home” and “In The Air Tonight” defining the early 80s Miami Vice influenced video era. As a solo star, this was fine. However, as the de facto leader of Genesis, one of the titans of progressive rock, this influence resulted in the band that created The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway being represented by Spitting Image puppets on “Land Of Confusion” and hawking Michelob beer with “Tonight, Tonight, Tonight.” Unlike many of the other artists on this list, the Eighties didn’t almost kill Genesis, they put the band six feet under. After the unbearable We Can’t Dance, the band went dormant with Collins officially leaving in 1996, relegating them to a cult status amongst those who would flock in droves to see a reunion with Peter Gabriel. However, like all bands from the Seventies, there is always one word that generates gobs of cash: reunion. The 2007 Genesis reunion tour touched on their forgettable 80s success but wisely kept things focused on their pre-80s majesty.

DAVID BOWIE
David Bowie's descent into Eighties inanity didn’t take place during that decade – although some would be pressed to call shenanigans on “Blue Jean,” “China Doll” and his mincing prance with Mick Jagger on “Dancing In The Streets.” Rather, in 1997, Bowie engaged in the type of Wall Street chicanery that made Michael Milken the poster boy for Wall Street greed: junk bonds. Coming up with the novel idea of selling securities backed by royalties on his pre-1990 recordings, Bowie Bonds were initially greeted with optimism and an A3 rating. Coupling Bowie’s retirement from the stage with the digital revolution and its crippling effect on music sales in any medium, the lack of a sustainable interest in Bowie’s back catalog has resulted in the Bowie Bonds being continuously downgraded, reaching a level just a touch above junk bond status.

JETHRO TULL
When a band that’s made their career on English blues, sprawling progressive rock suites and flute-based epics becomes fascinated with the synthesizer, nothing good could result. In the case of Jethro Tull, nothing good did result. Instead of flirting with Bach compositions and mandolin solos from a prior century, Ian Anderson attempted to give the band a new wavish Eighties feel on albums like A, Under Wraps and their most Spinal Tappish effort, Broadsword And The Beast by including electric violins and decidedly non-rustic synthesizers. The extreme divergence from medieval acoustics and progressive rock digressions alienated all but the most loyal of fans. Tull came to its senses by the end of the decade but at that point it’s unclear if anyone was still paying attention. It surely baffled everyone when they won the inaugural Grammy for Best Hard Rock Album for the mostly acoustic Crest Of The Knave.

AEROSMITH
This is the band from the Seventies that proves to be the exception to the rule. Already in trouble at the start of the decade, the band was on the steep path to nostalgia tours and obscurity when Run DMC helped resurrect Aerosmith’s career with rock and rap music’s original mash-up, “Walk This Way.” Being associated with the groundbreaking rap trio and the emerging genre of music hardly hurt Aerosmith, nor did it do Run DMC any harm to get the rub from one of the hardest rocking bands of the previous decade. In the era before gangsta rap and Kanye West egos, a classic rock act reaching across the aisle in this fashion seemed more revolutionary than conciliatory or opportunistic. Once the singles from Permanent Vacation started to make their way into heavy rotation on MTV, Aerosmith became one of the first bands that actually was saved by the Eighties.

NEIL YOUNG
As if the success of Buffalo Springfield was an albatross hanging around his neck, Neil Young found himself a Vocoder and a synthesizer and let the world know what “Mr. Soul” would have sounded like if it had been recorded by robots. Embracing the new technology a bit too eagerly, Young released Trans, an album chock full of Eighties-style robotics and unlike anything Young had ever done before. Geffen Records, who released Trans, hated it so much, they skipped constructive criticism and sued him for making it. Young’s dabbling in computer rock was thankfully short lived but it sent him into a downward creative spiral and he spent the decade making the weakest music of his career, getting banned from MTV in the process for glibly mocking the network and its advertisers. Fortunately, the first Bush era awakened the rocker; when Young released Freedom and the incendiary “Rockin’ In The Free World,” the past decade faded blissfully into the ether and Young took his rightful spot as the flannel clad Godfather of Grunge.

THE WHO
The world’s loudest band presciently sat out the decade, saving the world from finding out what other synthesized epics Pete Townshend had in mind when he wrote “Eminence Front.” Instead, we got sappy fluff like “After The Fire” from Daltrey’s Under The Raging Moon and Townshend succumbing to the urge to rap on “Face The Face” and to the need to adapt The Iron Giant into a misfire of a concept album. To celebrate the 25th anniversary of Tommy, The Who reunited and embarked on the first of many, many reunion tours. Always a reliable draw, Townshend, Daltrey and, until his death in 2002, bassist John Entwistle, kept The Who’s legacy alive, waiting until the oughts to put out any new material bearing The Who’s mighty trademark. Daltrey’s voice may have lost its once-mighty power and Townshend battled tinnitus, but once they launch into “Won’t Get Fooled Again” or “Baba O’Riley,” people don’t seem to care, mainly cause Townshend remains one of the best guitarists alive.

ZZ TOP
In the Eighties, ZZ Top performed the nearly impossible task of transforming themselves from a gruff, rough-and-tumble Southern-rock trio into neo-lecherous, bearded purveyors of synthesized blues. It’s hard to begrudge them the success they found by reinventing themselves as it resuscitated their flagging career . . . but at what cost? Nowadays, when ZZ Top enters the conversation, it’s impossible to extricate the images of the three of them mysteriously appearing with a bevy of hot, leggy women to offer up the keys of their cherry red vintage Ford to some deserving soul. Beguiled by the synths, ZZ Top turned the blues into a cartoon wonderland, stripping the music’s back door man ethic of every ounce of its menace.

Happy Thanksgiving. The daily Earfuls will return after the holiday.

Labels: Aerosmith, David Bowie, Eric Clapton, Genesis, Grateful Dead, Jethro Tull, Lou Reed, Neil Young, The Who, ZZ Top

By: David Schultz

Fans of Lou Reed have always possessed an unwavering sense of loyalty towards the mercurial legend. It’s been said that they would pay top dollar to see Reed bang two cats together and walk away raving about the avant-garde originality of the feat. Perhaps giddy from the praise he earned by resurrecting Berlin from its depressing grave, Reed tested the “two cat” theory at New York City’s Blender Theater at Gramercy by revisiting another one of his Seventies efforts, the unlistenable Metal Machine Music. More than 30 years later, people still don’t know what to make of Reed’s hour long opus of formless feedback. Was it a serious effort? Was it Reed’s unique way of getting out of his record deal with RCA? Did the label one up him by calling his bluff and releasing it? It surely didn’t help matters when Lester Bangs proclaimed it the greatest record ever made or when German orchestras started treating it as a source for classical interpretations.

Seeing as others do it for him quite admirably, Reed has never been one to go out of his way to perpetuate his own mythology. In fact, he probably spreads ample disinformation about his past either out of boredom, amusement or a sheer disdain for inquisitive reporters. Sitting behind a keyboard and some assorted electronics, Reed began Friday night’s show, the second of two, by addressing the Metal Machine myth as directly as he ever does, i.e. obliquely. In introducing his inaptly named Metal Machine Trio, a quartet consisting of himself and Sarth Calhoun tweaking various knobs and saxophonists Ulrich Krieger and John Zorn wailing away furiously, Reed pondered if the fact that we were all here meant that he must have been serious about the original effort.

No one can fault Reed for false advertising. The tickets for the show made no bones about what Reed was offering this night, informing the unwary that there would be “no songs, no vocals.” Right from the start, Reed and Calhoun stoked a flicker of pulsing feedback and nursed it into an ear shattering blast of noise, the walls vibrating with the overwhelming hum. It proved too much for some: within ten minutes, multiple fans seated near the front rows angrily grabbed their coats and despondently headed for the exits. Reed did pick up a guitar about half way in but only used it to crank out the same note in a repetitive drone. While not exactly creating music in the traditional sense, Krieger and Zorn proved fascinating as their improvisational runs had an eclectic howl and streetwise hipness that approached art.

Adopting Reed’s penchant for succinct expression, the night could pretty much be described as follows: for an hour, Lou Reed made noise. People sat and listened. To the best of my knowledge, no cats were harmed . . . unless they listened to the show.

Labels: Lou Reed

By: David Schultz

As the Brooklyn indie scene continues to thrive, that of its neighboring borough, New York City, has been in a continual state of flux. Over the last couple years, many of the storied venues that have been intimately associated with the Manhattan musical landscape have closed their doors making longevity a hard fought commodity. Defiantly, the HighLine Ballroom opened as the centerpiece of the wholesale renovations to the increasingly upscale Meat Packing District with much fanfare and a David Bowie curated festival to commemorate the new High Line District. In what everyone can only hope will be an annual Spring ritual, the City’s native son Lou Reed returned to the building he opened a little more than a year ago to celebrate the HighLine’s first anniversary.

The recently married singer/songwriter/legend was in good spirits for his two hour set, leading a band consisting of guitarists Steve Hunter and Mike Rathke, drummer Tony “Thunder” Smith, bassist Rob Wasserman, electronicist Sarth Calhoun and keyboardist Kevin Hearn. Since returning to the fold to participate in Reed’s Berlin shows, Hunter whose guitar work can be found all over Reed’s early 70s recordings, has reconnected with the mercurial rocker and somewhat supplanted Fernando Saunders, Reed’s longtime sideman. Reed’s typically strong band keeps him focused, especially on his older material. Out of a sense of boredom or simply forgetfulness, Reed often pays little attention to the cadence of his lyrics within any particular song. Longtime fans have become accustomed to Reed missing cues, quickly zipping through his vocals or just reciting his urban poetry along with the beat drumming inside his own head as opposed to the one behind him. The fact that it doesn’t seem to bother him one iota is what makes Reed the revered iconoclastic performer who has baffled and bewildered his fans for decades.

Reed never tailors his shows towards his audience predilections; you would be simply insane if you ever expected him to play a greatest hits show. At the HighLine, Reed offered a nice mixture of his hits along with lesser known tracks like “Guardian Angel” and a newer song “Power Of The Heart,” likely inspired by the new Ms. Reed, Laurie Anderson. Early in the set, Reed touched on his old Velvet Underground days with an uptempo version of “Sweet Jane” and a melodious version of “I’m Set Free.” Boasting a bit that he had a song in the indie-darling movie of the year, Juno, he playfully – well, at least as playful as Reed gets - shared vocals with Kevin Hearn on “I’m Sticking With You.”

Reed, who played the whole night in a slightly billowing leather shirt, made his only overtly political statement before New York’s “Halloween Parade.” Noting that the song was written about his many friends who are no longer here because they died of AIDS, Reed expressed his dismay that our country thinks nothing of spending millions of dollars to kill people overseas but hesitates over making the same investment to save them at home before dedicating the song to making sure that we have a new regime come the next election. That there will be a new regime regardless of what transpires this November did nothing to dilute the poignancy of the eloquently written tune.

Known for his gritty, direct lyrics, Reed and the Velvet Underground are often overlooked for their masterful live performances. Although they are never thought of in that regard, the Velvet Underground were one of New York’s earliest jambands. While the Grateful Dead, The Doors and other psychedelic West Coast bands were creating the musical blueprint from which lengthy explorative interpretations would be built, Reed, John Cale, Sterling Morrison and Maureen Tucker (as well as Doug Yule) were working the repetitive beats that would ultimately inspire legions of alternative rock bands for years to come. If you have any questions about the Velvets ability to jam, just listen to any version of “Sister Ray” from the Quine Tapes.

Reed’s ability to find a rhythm worth repeated reaped great dividends with his featured guest, saxophonist John Zorn. Since first playing with Zorn at Town Hall as part of the 20th Anniversary Celebration of the Knitting Factory, the innovative saxophone player has been a fixture at Reed’s New York performances. There are few musicians more gifted than Zorn in filling musical spaces and Reed’s compositions leave lots of room for improvisation. He brought an added depth to the often-plodding “Ecstasy,” an edgy uneasiness to “Magic & Loss” and a smoothness to the “Video Violence,” a song Reed resurrected from his overlooked Mistrial album.

The encore was a nod to two of his more recognizable hits: “Satellite Of Love” and “Walk On The Wild Side.” After a restrained start to “Satellite,” Reed, Hunter and Zorn built the song to a wild final crescendo and Zorn restored a sense of suave authenticity to a pounding version of “Wild Side.” For someone who has spent a large part of his career refusing to be censored, Reed surprisingly edited his most famous song: the chorus of “Walk On The Wild Side” is now just sung by “the girls.” Reed may have made one concession to political correctness but it was his only departure from the incisive vision that has kept him interesting and worth paying attention to for the past four decades.

Labels: Lou Reed

By: David Schultz
Photos of Jason Collett and Shout Out Out Out Out by: Justin Ward

Tuesday, March 11

I am on the fourth floor of the Austin Convention Center standing in what might loosely be called a line waiting to get my music badge for the 2008 South By Southwest Music Festival. In a microcosm, it has taken me about 10 minutes to get to this point, mostly from having walked into the wrong entrance to the ACC and then wandering around the spacious building looking for the registration area. In the macro view, it has taken me almost three years to reach this point. I am about to become Earvolution’s first official participant in a SXSW Festival, putting our site alongside Rolling Stone, Bowery Presents and Stereogum as member entities of the event; albeit an anonymous one as my super-late online registration came after the deadline for inclusion in all of the promotional materials.

At last year’s festival, which featured Earvolution’s first SXSW Showcase, I traversed Austin without a badge or wristband, a cheaper but riskier alternative to the laminate access pass. With some forethought, there wasn’t a tremendous problem getting to see good music but after watching legions of folks traipse all over the downtown area, floating carelessly from show to show, it was time to see how the other half lived. If going without a badge was a rebellious act establishing my untrammeled indie-cred, then this year shall be known as the year that I officially sold out.

After taking one of the worst photos in the history of SXSW, I am handed a badge that will get me into any SXSW event, capacity permitting. I am also given a swag bag that weighs about 10 pounds and is loaded with magazines, CDs, chewing gum and a Sgt. Rock action figure depicting an army grunt rocking an electric guitar. I immediately put my badge around my neck: I am proud and excited to have my status symbol that gets me into everything while being simultaneously petrified that I may somehow lose it if its out of my sight for more than five seconds. Despite the fact that it will open no doors until the next day, I wear it with an inflated sense of self-importance, coveting it like Gollum in a dank cave. At least I know where it is at all times. I trust my roommate for the week, Live Music Blog’s Justin Ward, so I’ll take it off when I go to sleep. He has his own, he won’t need my precious.

On this day, SXSW is in the process of shifting its focus from Interactive technology to music. With a few more conferences and seminars to go, the ACC is littered with people pounding away on their laptops. Every couch, chair and seat on the floor has someone working their Dell, Thinkpad or something made by Apple. It looks like one of those staged movie scenes of wartime carnage; well, if the soldiers were still alive and possessed wireless modems. Everyone looks slightly sleep deprived and the Starbucks concession is thriving. While Justin blends in with the laptop brigade, I sift through my mountain of swag in an attempt to lighten my load. We end up talking to a filmmaker (I believe his name was Michael Fix) whose movie The Marconi Brothers has had a couple well-received screenings as part of the SXSW Film Festival. He’s managed bands in the past and is quite familiar with the music end of the event. We get a different take on the festival, hearing a bit about what it’s like from the artist’s side. We debate the merits of playing for a “corporate” or “industry” audience and whether playing Austin during this week truly boosts an artist’s profile or helps their career. Like most of these debates, no definitive answers are reached.

Even though the festivities don’t start until tomorrow afternoon, I peruse the Austin Chronicle to see what’s going on in town tonight and discover that My Morning Jacket and Yo La Tengo will be playing at The Parish. Apparently wristbands for the event were handed out over the past couple days at Waterloo Records and even though it seems unlikely The Parish won’t be mobbed, Justin and I decide to make a late afternoon stop over to the club and check out the scene. The doors and windows of The Parish are plastered with placards making it clear that badges and wristbands have no value at this show, a SXSW equivalent of “long haired freaky people need not apply.” We inquire inside about what we need to do to get into the show but the bartenders are relatively clueless. While Justin works his laptop to see if we can learn anything online, we meet one MMJ’s tech guys and we start to pick his brain for ideas. He lets us know that the wristbands from Waterloo are long gone and he’s having trouble even getting the SXSW volunteers into the show. We try to work the press angle; he laughs at us. He also proves to be quite honest, finding my attempt to bribe him highly comical.

Moving to the Iron Cactus for a couple drinks, we end up sitting next to Ambrose, a Los Angeles based musician, who’s playing a couple unofficial shows at The Blind Pig. He has the look of a musician, yet he’s scavengering seats like the rest of us. Seeing him rounding up chairs for his band/entourage, I offer him the one that I have been resting my feet on. He graciously accepts it and promptly uses it to store his bags. After learning that I am down here as “press,” I get a copy of his CD Who Is Mandy Moon? We idly chat for a bit and he seems entirely unamused by our tale of trying to get into The Parish. I think he senses that there’s no chance I’m going to come see him play this week. Realizing he’s definitely thinking this, I wonder if it will increase the chance that I may go. I am overthinking this to a high degree. As it turns out I didn’t go see Ambrose. Possibly a mistake though: I did listen to Who Is Mandy Moon? and it’s a pretty good collection of post-hair band hard rock This is what I get for thinking.

The line outside The Parish is an impressive site, stretching all the way down to Seventh Street. Mourning the inability to see My Morning Jacket, I duck into various venues to check out what else is going on. Of note, I catch about 20 minutes of Lily Electric, a thrashy yet melodic group from Germany. After guitarist Tobias Mynborg announces that it’s either the band’s first time in Austin or the United States (or both), the Austin crowd teaches them a couple things about playing America or possibly just SXSW. After each song, the appreciative audience bombards the band with requests like, “What’s your name?” and “Who are you?” until they comply. Moving along Sixth Street, I catch a snippet of a solo guitarist playing an adequate version of “Under The Bridge” and find a subpar band led by a high-pitched singer whose voice sounded like it should have been coming from the female guitar player. I wonder if I shouldn’t have walked in the other direction where White Denim was playing Emo’s. The answer to that question will turn out to be, “hell yes I should have.” Plus, have no fear, the annoying italics gimmick stops here.

Wednesday, March 12

It begins. The first stop of the festival is Mohawk, a deceptively large venue on the corner of Red River Street and 10th Avenue. At first blush, Mohawk seems quite modest, a good sized patio with an outdoor stage setup and an indoors concert space which could pass for any of the basement venues on New York City’s Lower East Side. Once you start exploring and trek up the stairs near the back of the patio, you find a large stone deck with chairs and tables and a few couches arranged tacky lawn outing style. Rising above that is an even larger outdoor deck offering a grand view of the patio stage and a prime spot for VIPs to congregate. Extremely open while having an undercurrent of exclusivity; Mohawk’s edifice is the perfect metaphor for SXSW.

Anathallo, a menagerie of musicians from Chicago are playing on the outdoor stage as we enter. Benefiting greatly from the Arcade Fire’s popularity, Anathallo has a ton of people on stage doing a bunch of different things on a bunch of different instruments. They aren’t the reason for the trip this far north. That awaits us inside. A Place To Bury Strangers, who are playing an astounding number of sets this week, are setting up on the indoors stage, preparing to test the limits of the modestly-proportioned space. Submerging Oliver Ackermann’s vocals into a vat of distortion, APTBS provided a nice little wake up call for the early-afternoon crowd. The drone and feedback of Ackermann’s guitar seemed a little out of synch with the brilliant sunshine flooding in through the back room’s few windows but otherwise everything else clicked. Brooklyn’s loudest band does live up to their billing with Jonathan Smith (“Jono MOFO”) playing simple but forceful bass lines and drummer Jay Space pounding out a weighty beat, they slowly ratchet the sound up to jet plane levels, leaving the stage with the feedback still ringing in the speakers.

Along with Yeasayer, Vampire Weekend, Bon Iver, Jens Lekman and White Williams, A Place To Bury Strangers will be one more ubiquitous acts at this year’s SXSW. You would think that it would be easy to catch a set or two from a band that’s seemingly playing everywhere. You would be wrong. The lines that seem to form around any of the performances, especially at the day parties, are disconcerting and often a fatal detriment to getting inside and catch the music. While some of the bands playing down here are amongst the most hyped in the country, it doesn’t mean that everyone playing Austin as part of the Festival has people talking about them. On the other end of the spectrum, Daryl Hall (sans Oates) and Hanson of MMMBop fame make appearances on SXSW stages over the course of the week.

After a set from The Forms that includes Nirvana’s “All Apologies,” a cover being a rarity at most SXSW events, Jukebox The Ghost take the outdoor stage. Ben Thornewill’s bouncy keyboards melodies give songs like “Good Day” and “Hold It In” a vaguely poppy feel that even spreads into their prog-rock inspired, three-part opus about the end of the world. Thornewill’s overly precious affectations also contribute to the lightweight image of the band. An animated performer, he accentuates many of the songs by rolling his eyes, making faces or using any other expressive gesture at his disposal. Hardly a distraction, I didn’t find his antics all too endearing. My opinion wasn’t shared by the large number of women that had come to see the Washington, D.C. based trio. One of the ladies requested a song that definitely took Thornewill by surprise, causing him to exclaim, “Where did you come from? How do you even know of this song?” When the fan persisted, a flattered Thornewill demurred playing the song, explaining with a grin, “They’ll cancel all our other gigs this week.” Not one to disappoint, he promised to play an acoustic version of the song for the fan out on the sidewalk when they were finished. I didn’t stick around to see if Jukebox played a private show for the fan but I would be shocked if they didn’t. They hardly seemed like the kind of band to make hollow promises.

Our small crew, which included Live Music Blog’s Justin, Mitch (“The Union Forever”) and Sam (“Drymount”), moved towards Sixth Street, stopping in at Emo’s Lounge, which one year ago played host to Earvolution’s Wednesday afternoon day party. Even though we enter during a set break, the lounge is practically empty and I take some pride in the fact that Earvolution’s party had Emo’s much more populated at this time last year. As we wait for Jason Collett’s set to start across the street, Shapes Have Fangs come on stage. Were this 1965, these guys might be superstars as their garage band, souped-up 50s style rockers would have played well in that era. However, in 2008, we try to figure out how we can leave without hurting the band’s feelings.

On Emo’s outdoor stage, the Annex, Jason Collett stood out for relying on songs rather than a sound. With the sun angled behind him, Collett and his band played in near silhouette, adding a nice visual component to the set. Opening with a wonderful rendition of “Roll On Oblivion,” Collett revved up a bunch of laid-back Keith Richards style guitar licks while giving a taste of the wildly entertaining music the Arts & Crafts label has putting out for the past few years. In his modest plaid shirt, Collett looked like he may have just stepped off the Austin streets; once on stage, he was one of the event’s more accomplished and refined performers. Collett’s set, featuring material from his recently released Here’s To Being Here, including a slinky and sultry version of “Charlyn, Angel of Kensington,” was all to short, leaving the crowd wanting more.

In The Commitments, Roddy Doyle inserts a joke about the most effective spot to put the “!” in the band name And And And. (The dispute is whether it should go after the second or third And). This pops into my head after we are drawn into The Beauty Bar by the electronic dance beats coming from within and find Shout Out Out Out Out packed onto the corner stage. This bunch of Canadians needed no extraneous punctuation, much less one that would draw comparisons to !!!, who would form a great double bill with the SO4. The dazzling sunshine filling the room was as asynchronous to the Shout Outs as it was to A Place To Bury Strangers’ daytime set. With two drummers kicking out the clubland style beat and the synthesizers working double duty, Shout Out Out Out Out’s set would have better suited for 4:00 am not 4:00 pm. It didn’t seem to matter one iota to the band, their lead singer danced around and played as if it was a sweaty dance club and everyone’s drugs had just kicked in. Having missed the first half of their set, Justin asks one of the Outs when they’re playing again. As it’s SXSW, you don’t have to wait long. “We’re playing across the street in 10 minutes.”

We cross a different street to catch The Spinto Band at the Creekside Lounge, which as its name suggests abuts a creek. Uncharacteristic of a SXSW event, this one is running well behind schedule and by the time the Spintos take the stage, they are encroaching on dinner time. Even though they worked a Beatles thing with band members sharing a mike and shaking their shaggy hair while they sang backing vocals, they didn’t seem to offer anything unique. The next day I would learn a term for this from a Brit at the Cedar Street Courtyard.

After seeing a dreadful Van Morrison performance at The Theater at Madison Square Garden, I vowed that I would never pay to see him ever again. Morrison required his audience to arrive at 7:30 sharp so that he could subject them to a miserable opening act, cut off alcohol service once he took the stage and then played a one hour set that ignored his sizable and treasured back catalog. It was an insult to his fans that had paid dearly to see Morrison and he unfairly left them feeling betrayed and bewildered. Far from young, far from fresh and far from indie, Morrison’s appearance at La Zona Rosa stood out from the rest of the pack. Seeing as I had a badge, there didn’t seem to be much to lose by going to see the Celtic crooner. Playing before a packed house, Morrison made no reference to Moondance nor did he come close to venturing into the slipstream. To the contrary, he played selections from his upcoming album, Keep It Simple, as well as a couple county tunes from Pay The Devil. His set-up and stage show are throwbacks to an earlier era of showmanship and his traditional arrangements and devotion to standards are far from hip. About the only thing punk about Morrison is his crusty, disputatious attitude. Since it was SXSW, Morrison’s penchant for omitting his classics and playing his new material wasn’t as notable or egregious. However, I doubt that a change of venue would have affected the set list one bit.

On my way back towards the downtown area, I pause to sit in Republic Square. Despite the fact that the weather was quite nice, the park was eerily empty. After a couple minutes, it became clear why no one would spend their evening at Republic Square. Camped on every branch of every tree within the one block square was at least one black bird and they were all cawing and squawking and creating one of the loudest cacophonies I have ever heard. It was something out of a Hitchcock movie. After hearing this, the disconcerting sound of these birds became much more noticeable amidst Austin’s white noise.

An uninspiring couple songs from Longwave has me thinking my trip to Emo’s will be a short one. That is until I get sucked in to a set by a duo calling themselves Free Blood. John, Free Blood’s ostensible leader, oozes charisma and bears a close resemblance to Ben Affleck. His partner in crime, Madeline, looks like Bruce Willis’ French girlfriend in Pulp Fiction. Backed by a tape machine, John danced, rapped in a sing-song fashion, leapt into the crowd and brought a guy on stage to act as a mike stand while he played acoustic guitar. When not singing backing vocals, Madeline danced and watched on adoringly. To close the show, the two slow danced to their heavy electronic recorded dance beats. Either Free Blood was the most moronic, insipid thing I’ve ever seen or these two are a pair of geniuses. It is more than a week later and I still haven’t a clue. I will say this: they stopped me from leaving Emo’s; kept me there for more than 20 minutes and I am relatively sure that I was highly entertained.

Like most of Austin, I plan on ending Wednesday night at Stubbs Amphitheater for R.E.M. In order to avoid any “capacity” issues, I meet the Live Music Blog crew over there around 10:00 p.m. The Papercranes put on a disappointing set as did Dead Confederate. The outdoor stage seemed like a perfect venue for Dead Confederate’s epic-style of rock. However, the Athens, Georgia rockers failed to attain the majestic heights they were aiming for. Dead Confederate were one of the bands I was looking most forward to being blown away by and perhaps I set my expectations too high for this relatively young band. Nearly all the songs started in a morass of verbiage and reverberating guitars and took a while to gel into something cohesive. Once it did all come together, it was pretty fantastic and the songs would finish remarkably strong. It had the effect of a boxer who finishes a round with a flurry of activity and steals it on the judge’s scorecards. Dead Confederate won this fight but didn’t do it as impressively as I would have liked. I’m looking forward to seeing them in a smaller venue where I imagine they will be absolutely fantastic.

Sometime after midnight, R.E.M. finally takes the stage and for more than an hour and a half reestablished themselves as one of the most outspoken and politically relevant American bands. Acknowledging that everyone would love nothing more than a set full of classics from their college years, Michael Stipe appeared somewhat apologetic when introducing a number of the songs from their upcoming album, Accelerate, pointing out that they were short. They were also really good, especially “Houston,” in which he takes former First Lady Barbara Bush to task for suggesting the lower classes of New Orleans’ 9th Ward made out quite well as a result of being displaced by Hurricane Katrina. After a day of watching young bands (and Van Morrison), the experience of Peter Buck and Mike Mills was evident and even though he tends to be a bit preachy, Stipe’s skills as a frontman are unparalleled by anyone not named Bono or Springsteen. With NPR broadcasting the show, Stipe made use of his access to the public airwaves, discoursing on current events with the seriousness that can only be mustered by the devoutly righteous before flashing a playful grin and being as playful as a small child. Amidst the newer material, R.E.M. worked in classics like “Fall On Me,” “Drive” and “Walk Unafraid” before finishing the night with “Man On The Moon.” Given that it’s an election year and R.E.M. has new music to promote, it’s surprising that they’ll be spending the summer touring Europe.

Thursday, March 13

Lou Reed served as this year’s keynote speaker; a curious choice as the increasingly cantankerous legend and an open mike leave a lot of room for something to go wrong. Rather than address the crowd with prepared remarks, Reed served as the subject for an interview conducted by record producer Hal Willner, who produced Berlin, the album Reed resurrected, more than 30 years after its original release, and is currently the subject of a concert documentary, which was screened at SXSW. The apparently promising selection of Willner to moderate the discussion proved illusory as he seemed unprepared to lead Reed through any portion of his address. With Reed relying on Willner to guide the discussion, the early portions of his address were disjointed.

The former Velvet Underground leader used the opening portion of his keynote speech to hawk and screen Julian Schnabel’s recently produced film of his live performance of Berlin. After showing “Men Of Good Fortune,” Reed began to answer the questions posed to him in a deliberate and succinct manner. He would pause during his responses, apparently having concluded his thoughts, only to continue after a second or two oblivious to the awkward break of the conversation. Willner led Reed through an exchange on the general scorn heaped upon Berlin when it was originally released, discussed the complexity and depth of his lyrics and prodded him into a recitation of a portion of “Rock Minuet.” He also drifted into areas befitting a SXSW keynote speaker; Reed is disheartened by the proliferation of technology in the record industry, bemoaning that we’re getting more efficient at making things sound terrible and he’s adamant in his recommendation to unsigned artists that they refuse to sign away their publishing. “Just don’t do it,” he said in his own perfunctory manner. “Say NO!”

A poet of the streets, Reed had kind words for the punk rock of today, noting that he’s always impressed with art that lays itself bare before an audience. He still admires the power of rock and roll and recognizes it as one of the few outlets for emotional creativity. SXSW doesn’t lack for those type of artists and when asked who he admires amongst today’s musicians, he cited Dr. Dog, Holy Fuck and Joan As Policewoman. (Although in fairness, he did call them Dr. Dog, Holy Shit and Jane As Policewoman).

With Lou’s occasionally puzzling words still rattling around in my brain, I proceed towards Mohawk for British Sea Power. The group, who unironically is from England, gets the indie-rock guitar fuzz going quickly and builds from there. They also adopt the Arcade Fire philosophy of liberally including horns and strings and don’t shy away from creating a raucous mess. To close one of the songs, Phil Sumner blasted his trumpet directly into one of the guitars producing an oddly compelling range of distorted feedback.

If incorporating Arcade Fire elements into the stage show was one of this year’s evolving trends, the other was the insane proliferation of guitar and drums duos. In displaying a wide variety of what can be done with an essentially simple formula, all such duos had one thing in common: they made you salivate over what Jack White could do with a better drummer. At the Mohawk, No Age, a reckless pair from Los Angeles, California, provided one of the freshest adaptations of the concept. For the most part, their set consisted of short busts of hardcore, encapsulating a furious barrage into one or two minute nuggets. The brevity of most of the songs didn’t evince a lack of creativity or daring. When guitarist Randy Randall is so inclined, he can work some intriguing guitar riffs as well as pull of some daring stunts. Near the end of the set, Randall jumped up onto the speakers on stage left, unleashing a guitar solo from a precarious, unsecured perch about 10-12 feet above the ground. While the speakers shook from his weight as well as the ferocious guitar solo, drummer Dean Spunt took to hitting anything but the drums with his sticks, mostly playing the Rhapsody banner that adorned the back of the outdoor stage. Just when it looked like Randall was going to attempt the most ill-advised stage dive in the festival’s history, he made his way down and No Age finished without hurting themselves. The energy and speed of No Age’s performance was the perfect example of the ethos espoused by Lou Reed only hours earlier. The old guy may be a bit cranky but he does know his stuff.

Retracing my steps from the day before, I return to Emo’s Lounge where one part of the Brooklyn Vegan party is in full swing. Team Robespierre, a feisty little outfit from, where else, Brooklyn, opts against using Emo’s spacious stage and sets up in the well between the stage and lounge area. Essentially playing in the round, the five-piece seem to have more energy than song structure. The singer and the guitarist played amidst the small crowd, bouncing furiously while the drummer and keyboard player faced up at them from the well. Their setup proved interesting as they fed off each more than they would have had they played from the stage, working up a serious sweat over the course of their half-hour set. If you aren’t swayed by Team Robespierre’s furious onslaught of punk and rhythmic hardcore, you will be moved by their conviction.

Leaving Emo’s, I proceed west down Sixth Street to The Parish for the NPR Showcase to catch Yeasayer and Vampire Weekend. As the show also featured Bon Iver, Jens Lekman, AA Bondy and the Shout Out Louds, I was not alone in thinking this would be the mid-afternoon performance of choice. The line outside The Parish would have been the longest of the day were it not for the crowd Motorhead and Napalm Death brought to Stubbs. Say what you will about indie-hipster bands from Brooklyn, when it comes down to it: Lemmy Rules.

The frustration mounts while waiting to get into The Parish. Especially when I get some good-natured ribbing from people in line about the present uselessness of my badge. I know how they feel, though. It’s easy to lob criticism at SXSW for being a self-congratulatory, corporate boondoggle with artists, publicists and executives hustling and striving to create the biggest buzz they can. All you have to do is observe the increasingly large number of people wearing invitational badges long before or after a party has occurred. It’s not enough to have a pass to the SPIN party. Oh no, everyone must know you were invited. Whether you actually went and saw Vampire Weekend is irrelevant. There is another demographic in this music universe that seems criminally underrepresented: music fans. For us, SXSW is Disneyland. For the music obsessive, this is a chance to be surrounded by people who are just like you.

As Yeasayer’s time slot approaches, we are told that we aren’t getting in to the show. The Parish is filled to capacity and no one is expected to be leaving with the two hottest SXSW attractions about to hit the stage.

Right about this time, Mitch walks by and we make our way down Sixth Street in search of something that catches our ear. We find it in the form of Eli “Paperboy” Reed & The True Loves. I can only surmise that Reed is called The Paperboy because he looks young enough that it could be his day job. He has an old soul though and his blues based act comes directly from the Sam Cooke, Otis Redding school of soul singing. Undeniably, Reed knows how to belt out a song. With every band trying to stand out by doing something innovative and inventive, Reed’s old-school stage show rises above by being faithful to the spirit of soul music. To put it more concisely: The Paperboy delivered.

We move over to the Cedar Street Courtyard for a little sun with our music and arrive at the Filter party in the middle of The Duke Spirit’s set. Working her Debbie Harry style, Liela Moss has the crowd braving sunstroke to catch them playing songs from Neptune, their upcoming album. In chatting with one of the Brits who are over for the showcase, I learn some British terms for describing new bands. My favorite being the delightfully Eddie Izzardish “indie-schmindie” which describes a band that will likely never be more than darlings of the indie-music scene. The other term I am taught is “shouty,” which adequately describes Be Your Own Pet. These kids may hail from Nashville but there’s nothing country about them. Fronted by the sassy Jemina Pearl Abegg, Be Your Own Pet has the precocious attitude you would expect from a young, snotty bunch of punks that are confident in their ability to play kick ass rock and roll. Oddly, the ruder or more incorrigible they tried to be, the more it seemed endearingly appropriate. “Look dear, the punk singer soiled the rug. How delightfully droll.” Definitely not indie-schmindie.

Sadly, the Lou Reed tribute at the FADER Fort was not to be. It did occur and from all accounts was fantastic, memorable and included a performance by the guest of honor, I just couldn’t get inside to see it in person. With a half block line just to get your RSVP wristband that would allow you to stand in a separate block and a half long line to get in, it didn’t make sense to even try. Our suspicions were confirmed when we finally coaxed our prospects out of a congenial security guard. “No chance in hell.” Doh!

The line at Emo’s Annex to catch Holy Fuck was likewise untenable so I walked across the street to Emo’s proper to see if there was anything interesting going on. The acoustic duo on the inside stage proved unenthralling so I moved outside. Ooh, James Woods found a piece of candy cause that's tapes ‘n tapes on stage. Looking a lot scruffier since the last time I’d seen them, the Minnesota indie-darlings of yesterday (possibly indie-schmindie?) played many songs from Walk It Off. Their new album has a grittier feel to it than the technically precise The Loon. Then again, judging from the fuzzy tones of “Insistor,” their rawer sound may have been more a result of a questionable sound mix than a conscious shift of musical direction. Regardless, they sounded great.

Tonight’s plan of attack for the evening showcases is extremely simple: The Whigs, Yo La Tengo and My Morning Jacket at the Austin Music Hall. The refurbished music hall is essentially a stone structure both inside and out, it’s functional but not warm or inviting once you get inside. Having badges, Justin and I waltz past the 50-60 people in line bearing wristbands or waiting to buy tickets. Despite having a wristband, Sam is waiting for us inside when we arrive at the relatively empty arena. Last year, I pondered whether you could see everything you wanted to see at SXSW with a wristband and a little forethought. Sam seems to be proving that theory true as he has been with me at every major event.

The Whigs' opening set was everything I had hoped Dead Confederate’s Stubbs set would have been. (An extremely unfair and subjective assessment, I know). Parker Gispert, Tim Deaux and Julian Dorio hit the proper mix of aural assault, impassioned play and owning the moment. Making the most of their opportunity to appear on NPR, who were simulcasting the show, The Whigs played most of their current album Mission Control and had the crowd head bobbing along to a heavy rendition of “Right Hand On My Heart.” When Gispert and Deaux finished the set huddled and crouched over by Dorio’s drum kit, it was less stage theatrics and more an effort to wring everything out of the last song. The Whigs’ set was amongst my favorite of the week.

With Yo La Tengo comes a confession: as a New York based writer with presumably good taste in music, it seems accepted that I should not only be familiar with Yo La Tengo but that I should be well versed in all things involving Ira Kaplan and his band. Until they took the Austin Music Hall stage, I not only couldn’t have picked Kaplan out of a lineup, I’d never heard one note of Yo La Tengo music. Truly my loss; this is one innovative band and there’s a seriousness to them that I had vastly underestimated. Georgia Hubley and James McNew switched off occasionally between bass and drums with Hubley remaining behind the kit for the majority of the set. Their melodic pieces were enjoyable but it was the avant-garde, Sonic Youth style explorations that provided the envelope pushing thrills. To finish the set, Kaplan thrust his guitar away from him into the speaker generating oceans of feedback. This is not your teenager-friendly pop band.

The night’s unparalleled headliner, My Morning Jacket, is working on a whole other level from every other band in Austin this week. Where most artists use SXSW to secure a foothold, establish a name or substantiate their hype, Jim James and My Morning Jacket are auditioning for the role of rock and roll megastars. Flat out, Jim James is a rock star. Next to Michael Stipe, no one else at this Festival is as compelling as James. Everything he does, from his plodding giant steps to winking at a cute girl in the front row (yes, I was that close, have I mentioned how great SXSW is?) takes on added weight cause it’s Jim James doing it. My Morning Jacket previewed some songs from their forthcoming Evil Urges but the heart of the show was Z, whose songs take on epic proportions once they’re worked out live. The delightfully glib “Off The Record”” turns into a jam-heavy fiesta and “Gideon is as enthralling as any other song in the classic rock pantheon, propelled along by Patrick Hallahan’s concussive, rumbling drumming. Their new material proved interesting and if the songs debuted in Austin are any indication, it might be slightly heavier and slightly experimental. I’m not going out on a limb by saying that Jim James is the next great rock star and My Morning Jacket is poised to be the most significant and influential band of this decade. In the old days, My Morning Jacket would be regularly appearing on the cover of Rolling Stone. Thank God David Fricke is still there or else they might be pulled in favor of Miley Cyrus.

Throughout the night, The Whigs, Yo La Tengo and My Morning Jacket heaped praise upon National Public Radio and in doing so helped NPR pull off one of the more impressive slights of hand. Corporate sponsorship of an event populated by a large number of free thinkers who rail against the stifling corporate influence and branding that pervades the music industry is a double-edged sword. NPR managed to affiliate themselves with the largest shows – My Morning Jacket, R.E.M. - and put on an uber-exclusive day party which left hundreds of people out in the street and still received lavish praise and applause with every mention of their name. It’s good to be in public radio these days. Without any repercussions whatsoever, NPR attached their name to every major event and every buzzworthy act in Austin and nary was a negative word spoken. If Clear Channel had done the same thing, they would have been crucified for trying to enhance their credibility and spread their brand by attaching their name to these artists. For now, it seems that NPR can do no wrong.

Friday, March 14

The Black Keys feature prominently at the Village Voice’s day party at La Zona Rosa with people streaming out of the 90 degree heat to catch Ohio’s minimalist take on the guitar and drums configuration. Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney put on a breathtaking display, generating more sound than it seems two guys can realistically create. If they really are amenable to helping resuscitate Rod Stewart’s career, the increasingly irrelevant singer would be off his rocker to turn them down. Auerbach, his long hair covering his face, moved back and forth between quick bass leads and powerful guitar riffs, playing them in such quick proximity to each other that they seemed to emerge simultaneously. Working in the milieu of distorted blues, Auerbach’s “double duty” guitar work is as much fun to watch as it is to listen to and comes the closest to The White Stripes sound that has become the template for the guitar/drums combo.

Heat is an issue today as the temperature shoots into the low 90s. Oddly, it is cooler inside the packed La Zona Rosa than it is outside. I make my way all the way across town to the Web 2.0 party at The Palm Door, a meeting hall style venue on Sabine and Fourth that’s slightly off of SXSW’s beaten path. Walking in, I hear Donald Cummings, the lead singer of The Virgins, announce that they have one more song. It’s not the last time I’ll hear him announce this today and it’s a shame, The Virgins are a great little band and while the comparisons to The Strokes may distort expectations of what they sound like, it’s not unfair to mention them in the same sentence as their fellow New Yorkers.

AA Bondy plays a short set to a much smaller crowd than he had just 24 hours ago at the NPR showcase. His quiet stage demeanor and intimate songs aren’t a perfect match for a day party. It’s sort of like bringing a slightly more gregarious Ray Lamontagne into a barbeque and asking him to entertain while the kegs are being changed. Bondy’s warmth and sincerity are quite compelling and ideally suited towards smaller, more intimate venues where attention can be focused squarely on the talented singer. As for The Palm Room, Bondy played a fine set that simply didn’t match the time or place.

In the sweltering heat, half of O’Death takes the stage sans shirts and one, fiddler Bob Pycior, plays without his shoes. One thing becomes clear, this is a band that should remain clothed. However, it does enhance the psychedelic-hillbilly motif of the band’s Appalachian-style mountain music. By working Pycior’s electric fiddle and Gabe Darling’s electric ukulele (something you don’t see too often) into their mix, O’Death goes farther into the backwoods than others have gone before. Naturally, the band hails from Queens, New York. If the Brit from the Filter party was at this show, I’m sure he would have a neat little term for O’Death’s music. In the interim, I’ll just describe it as psycho-billy rock that out alts the whole alt-country genre.

I hustle over to Mohawk where the Hot Freaks party is in full effect. Hosted by forward-thinking and forward-looking blogs that include My Old Kentucky Blog, Aquarium Drunkard, Gorilla vs. Bear and Largehearted Boy, there was no worry that the music would be anything but fantastic. Arriving near the end of the Friday afternoon showcase, I commit an egregious breach of SXSW etiquette and cut an enormous line waiting to get in and see British Sea Power on the outdoor stage. Having caught the indie-lads on this same stage the day before, I end up going upstairs and meeting some of the bloggers who are organizing the event. Contrary to what the general perception of bloggers may be, these guys aren’t anti-social, pasty-white, 20-year-old kids blogging out of their parents’ basement. Not only were Dodge (MOKB) and the Drunkard extremely nice and gracious gentlemen, they explode the geeky blogger mystique to shreds. Hell, they even have wives.

After the set, I end up next to one of the British Sea Power guys (I think it was Yan) who has taken advantage of the rare down time to sit and relax in the shade. Like many bands, BSP has been running an intense gauntlet of shows, moving from stage to stage and playing a similar set twice sometimes three times a day, if they are lucky. He seems to be enjoying his respite. Of course, I ruin it by going up and saying hello.

I make it to the Bowery Presents showcase at The Cedar Door just in time to hear The Virgins announce for the second time today that this will be their last song. After The Little Ones play a nice little set that has a slight world-beat tinge to it, Rogue Wave puts forth an absolutely killer set featuring current material from Asleep At Heaven’s Gate, an excellent version of “Bird On A Wire” (an original, not a Leonard Cohen cover) and an appearance by Matthew Caws of Nada Surf. In one sense, Caws sit-in wasn’t a surprise as Rogue Wave and Nada Surf have toured together in the past. On the other, a sit-in, a staple of any jamband festival gathering, is a SXSW rarity. Time is at a premium and while the focus is placed on putting on the best 40-45 minutes possible, it’s geared towards showcasing the band and not giving the audience a memorable concert moment. Rogue Wave and Caws managed to accomplish both in one fell swoop. Frontman Zach Rogue seemed to sense as much: at the close of the last song, he instinctively pumped his fist in the air, a rare burst of honest emotion for a well-played SXSW set.

Justin, Mitch and I make the difficult decision of leaving The Cedar Door and an upcoming set by Dr. Dog, to hustle over to Bourbon Rocks for The Helio Sequence. Another guitar and drums duo, Brandon Summers and Benjamin Weikel are as different from the blues-soaked riffs of The Black Keys as they are from the hardcore bursts of No Age. The pair from the Pacific Northwest, Portland, Oregon to be exact, adopt a slightly new wave approach; Weikel skillfully sets a beat that complements Summers’ slick and polished playing while grooving enough to get the audience moving their hips. On stage, the pair pack more of a punch than they do on the Eighties-derived Keep Your Eyes Ahead, primarily because they leave the synths at home. Even when stripped bare of modern technology, The Helio Sequence don’t get in your face, they entice you into what they’re doing.

Despite digging what The Helios were doing, Mitch and I cut out 20 minutes into their set to catch the White Rabbits at Club de Ville. Although all their promo material designates them as hailing from Brooklyn, New York, Gregory Roberts introduces the band as hailing from Columbia, Missouri. Factually correct, as the band formed at the University of Missouri-Columbia, it was hard to figure out why one of Brooklyn’s more accessible exports would separate themselves from the County of Kings. Perhaps the Rabbits took note that every band claims the now-hip New York borough as their home regardless of how tenuous the connection may be. It now seems that if 5 guys from Iowa, North Carolina or even Zaire form a band and the bass player’s grandmother grew up in Park Slope, their publicist will tout them as an indie-band from Brooklyn. Regardless of origin, the White Rabbits play a slightly uneven set of indie-pop with the high spots reaching lofty realms. The Rabbits have a knack for creating catchy, substantive rhythms that are far from lightweight. Their skill for crafting lasting hooks is very much on display in “The Plot” and “Kid On My Shoulders,” whose melodies will rattle around in your brain long after the last note. The Rabbits may be lumped in with the indie-rock bands but they have the capacity to evolve far beyond indie-schmindie.

White Denim, one of the more talked about bands at this year’s SXSW, finishes out the night at Club de Ville, combining with the White Rabbits to create an indie-rock version of Puff Daddy’s White Party. The Austin based trio of guitarist James Petralli, bassist Steve Terebecki and drummer Joshua Block have been blowing people away over the past few days and have become a destination band for anyone not familiar with the local scene. When I got off the plane four days ago, I had never heard of White Denim; by the end of their set, I wanted to own everything they had ever recorded. Such is SXSW and such is the awesomeness of this band. White Denim distills everything that is great about the blues and garage style rock and roll, strips it down and condenses it into its purest essence and offers it up in highly concentrated doses. At Club de Ville, Petralli broke a string in the middle of their second song and announced that they would then try to play every song they knew that didn’t require him to use the string. If they sound that good with 5 strings, I can only imagine it gets better with 6. At the time, I thought nothing could top White Denim.

I was wrong.

I’m not sure where the myth began that rap and hip-hop doesn’t translate in a live setting. Frankly, I’m probably responsible for spreading such nonsense amongst my friends. After seeing the last 20 minutes of Pharrell and N.E.R.D. at Stubbs Amphitheater, I had every preconception I’ve ever had about the genre completely destroyed and I can no longer subscribe to the notion that hip-hop is solely a studio creation; it simply isn’t. Anyone who says so just hasn’t experienced it. I am woefully unqualified to interpret what I saw and heard after being drawn into Stubbs by the thumping beat that reverberated up and down Red River Street. I’m not sure what the majority of the 40 or 50 people on stage were actually doing – most of them seemed to just be standing there – and I’m pretty sure Clipse and his crew were part of the mass of people. The rhythm section which had a pair of drummers working furiously were as loud and tight as any band in Texas this week and the energy coming of the stage was off the charts in its electricity. My only other experience at anything like this was a Run D.M.C. show in Ann Arbor, Michigan that was horrific in its execution and delivery. My, things have changed. I can’t say I completely understand why I dug this so much; I only know that I did.

Saturday, March 15

It’s Day 2 of the Hot Freaks party and once again I am at Mohawk. It’s not as sweltering as yesterday but it is still toasty and by the end of the day my face will be a nice shade of red. I am present for Film School’s early set but my attention is split in several different directions and although I like what I hear, I don’t catch the full effect of what they’re doing. I am able to give much more attention to Bodies of Water at Club de Ville.

On their Secretly Canadian debut, Ears Will Pop & Eyes Will Blink, David Metcalf, Kyle Gladden, Meredith Metcalf and Jessie Conklin put forth a set of gorgeous songs that owe as much of a debt to the Arcade Fire as to the Velvet Underground. Replete with soaring melodies and complicated choral harmonies, Bodies of Water succeed in their grandiose vision of epic music. At Club de Ville, they tend to skew towards the Velvet Underground more than anything else with Metcalf and Gladden showing a fine proficiency for finding finely edgy grooves. In stripping away the strings and horns, Bodies of Water play what’s at the heart of their songs and lay bare the interesting arrangements and melodies that should fuel their career for years to come. When they break into the four-part harmonies that blend the group together into one powerful voice, they marshal the strength to be found in unity and on songs like “We Are Co-Existors” hit gospel-like heights. In the coda of “These Are The Eyes,” which closed their set, the women set themselves as counterpoint to the men and they left the crowd wanting more after one final glorious vocal barrage.

Over at Bourbon Rocks, The Dodos put yet another spin on the guitar and drums formula. Instead of prowling the stage like most of his counterparts, guitartist Meric Long opts to sit calmly on a stool in front of drummer Logan Kroeber while coaxing a variety of intriguing guitar riffs out of an acoustic guitar. Even when he breaks out the distortion on his electric guitar, there’s an artistic finesse to what he’s playing. Unlike the other duos that bombard the audience with sound, The Dodos were overwhelming in their tranquility and held the crowd’s rapt attention. One of the more interesting songs saw Long find the right droning note on a horn, lock it into a loop and then use it as the bass line for the ensuing number. It was arty, eclectic and creative; it was also quite possibly the definition of indie-schmindie.

The second biggest surprise of the week (after White Denim) awaited me on Bourbon Rocks’ patio: Built For The Sea. Fronted by the adorable Lia Rose, Built For The Sea is the indie-rock equivalent to Grace Potter & The Nocturnals. Rose moved between her keyboards and guitar, working nicely off of the prodigious wall of indie-fuzz being produced by Jon Latimer, Daniel McKenzie and Eric Kuhn. Their self-titled 2006 debut album doesn’t give you any idea of how effective this quartet is as a live band, coming nowhere near displaying BFTS’s sonic heft. Had I heard the album before seeing them, I don’t think I would have bothered to catch their set. Either they had to dull their sound down for the studio or BFTS has made phenomenal strides over the last two years. My explanation of Built For The Sea isn’t going to do justice to their live sound, which truly was captivating. I’ll just leave it that this is one of the bands I’m looking most forward to seeing again.

The Hot Freaks showcase at Club de Ville ends with a lively set from Swedish songstress Lykke Li, who winsomely bounces her way through some pop-minded songs that would put Britney and her progeny (artistic, not literal, I’ve got nothing against her two little future therapy patients) to shame. In getting back to Mohawk, there’s time to hear one song from The Islands and it seems to be an old one as they introduce it by saying that this is what they used to sound like. In the couple hours before the nighttime showcases begin, I aimlessly wend my way through the back streets of Austin. In spending most of the week on the main drags, it’s easy to avoid walking down the many side streets that are the city’s vital arteries. The back alleys are overrun with tour vans and are populated with musicians loading and unloading their gear and carrying instruments back and forth. In seeing the relatively unglamorous side of SXSW, I feel like I’ve looked behind the wizard’s curtain and got an unfiltered glimpse of the drudgery that makes up the underbelly of SXSW and is likely an all-to-typical a scene for any up-and-coming band. It’s much more fun to imagine that everything is all groupies and craft services.

In contrast, when I drop into the Lucky Lounge, where France’s Neimo is holding court, I realize that I am in an honest-to-God nightclub . . . and in my shorts and linen shirt, I am seriously underdressed. Sitting at one of the cocktail tables with Earvolution’s own Jeff Davidson, I take my shoes off like I’ve been raised in a trailer and start rubbing my sore feet. As I gaze around the glitzy surroundings, it dawns on me that I’ve spent the last four days standing in tented parking lots and canopied patios watching shows on all sorts of makeshift stages. Austin’s music scene is certainly vibrant but it must be quite different when the band playing an early afternoon set isn’t being courted, scouted and wooed by all sorts of music industry personnel.

Along with Jeff, I’m able to catch a portion of a sound marred set by The Teenage Prayers at the After The Jump showcase at Lamberts Patio. I bail early in order to trek over to St. David’s Church for M. Ward and Jim James’ highly anticipated acoustic show. A half hour before Ward is scheduled to perform, a line has snaked around the church’s parking lot with nearly 100 people curling around behind me within ten minutes. A meek security guard combats the problem by telling everyone that they aren’t going to get in, even with a badge. The problem is, no one can hear him and the line keeps growing. Finally, he finds a pair and gets it across to everyone that St. David’s is filled and no one else will be let in, not even if you’re coming to make a pre-Easter confession. Someone does ask if they’ll be let in if people inside leave. “Yeah,” the guard says mockingly. “Like anyone’s going to leave this.” Excellent point, sir.

Disappointing as it was to get turned away from the show despite having a ridiculously expensive badge that should open all SXSW doors, I do get a definitive answer to the debate over whether a wristband, a firm plan of action and savvy intuition is just as valuable as this laminate hanging from my neck. While heading down Red River Street, I learn that Sam, who you may recall has opted for just a wristband, is inside St. David’s Church, having arrived at the start of the show to see Jacob Golden at 8:00 p.m. By showing up a half hour earlier than everyone else, Sam and his wristband trumped at least 500, possibly 1,000 badge holders. Debate settled; wristbands and a brain triumph.

Plan B for the night involves Okkervil River playing for the hometown crowd at Stubbs Amphitheater. Their brief set turns out to have a melancholy undercurrent as Will Sheff announces that this show will be guitarist Brian Cassidy’s last with the band. Graciously, Cassidy is given an ample opportunity to perform: he takes a little extra time to solo on “Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe” and puts a little added relish into closing “Until It Kick” with his final guitar solo. Even though they tried to focus on Cassidy, Sheff remains the focal point and artistic heart of any Okkervil River show. His soulful offering of “A Girl In Port” only served to emphasize the fact that he is the indispensable cog in the band’s future endeavors.

Instead of being entranced by Jim James, I become enamored with Ra Ra Riot at Emo’s Annex. Regrouping after the untimely death of drummer Jim Pike, the upstate New York band are getting back to what they do best, high-tempo, intricately arranged, hip-shaking danceable indie-rock. On stage, there’s a manic energy to the band that simply can’t be captured in the studio. Like their name might suggest, Ra Ra Riot are one fun band. Plus, their female string section of cellist Alexandra Lawn and violinist Rebecca Zeller, who play sleek, futuristically designed string instruments, are easy on the eyes. There’s nothing sexier than a girl who can rock a cello and none moreso than Lawn, who does it while standing up and dancing along with lead singer Wesley Miles while she plays. Given that criteria, Lawn may very well be the sexiest woman at SXSW.

On a side note, last year I had a very funny running joke about Halestorm following me around SXSW that was edited out of Schultz By Southwest. [Ed. Note. It wasn’t as funny as Schultz thought]. This year, The Virgins and I seem to end up at the same place at the same time with astonishing frequency. Unfortunately, I keep getting there at the very end of their set. When I get a chance to meet one of them after the Ra Ra Riot set, one during which Wesley Miles conspicuously wore a Virgins T-shirt, I mention that I keep getting to their sets for the last song. The response, “Dude, you’re good. That’s our best one.” If The Virgins are paying attention to all the nice things being said about them, they aren’t letting any of it show.

At a late night singer-songwriter showcase organized by Jen Alpert, California extrovert Ray Don stole the show with an audacious set. With Jay Nash and Matthew Cox and all the other artists on the show pitching in on backing vocals, Ray Don, clad solely in overalls, belted out a salacious ode to oral sex worthy of the great John Valby. When he dropped trou halfway through the song, vaulted on to the bar and finished the song in his star spangled briefs, it reached the level of astounding stupidity or stupendous genius. Like Free Blood, the jury’s still out on this one. Don followed up the stunt by picking his guitar back up and finishing the set in his skivvies. As his back was to a gigantic set of open windows, he literally stopped many pedestrians in their tracks. It may not have been the most erudite moment of SXSW but it was one of its funniest.

It was always going to end here at The Tap Room at Six with Wooden Shjips. The oddly spelled band sounds like a marriage between what the 21st Century Doors should have sounded like and what the Velvet Underground actually did sound like. In the high-ceilinged tap room, the heavily distorted, seriously psychedelic Shjips needed only a smoky haze to create a scene ripped out of the Sixties. You can’t help but think Ken Kesey would have loved this San Francisco quartet. Everything about this band pulses and throbs with its own intergalactic synchronicity; it’s as if the audience had been surreptitiously dosed and everyone’s peaking at the same time. On each song, bassist Dusty Jermier and drummer Omar Ahsanuddin locked into a deeply hypnotic vibe giving organist Nash Whalen and guitarist Ripley Johnson wide latitude to add their own acid-drenched frills. Bookended with A Place To Bury Strangers, whose Wednesday afternoon set seems like it took place months ago, the Shjips put a perfect psychedelic cap on a four day oversaturation of music.

Sunday, March 16

My voice is hoarse, there is a faint ringing in my ears that should hopefully go away soon, the soles of my feet are howling with pain and tender to the touch and my legs don’t quite work right. I am sleep deprived, I haven’t had a proper meal in 4 days and I just don’t feel quite right. I also can’t wait until SXSW 2009.

Labels: A Place To Bury Strangers, Black Keys, Bodies Of Water, Lou Reed, My Morning Jacket, R.E.M., SXSW, The Whigs, White Denim, White Rabbits

Most musicians grow up idolizing the generation that came before them and once in awhile they are lucky enough to play along side their influences. Brandon Flowers and the Killers, however, are not going to leave jamming with their idols it chance. Talking about ideas on how to follow up their Sam's Town record, Flowers reportedly stated he'd like to collaborate with Elton John.

Of course, if this came to pass, this wouldn't be the first time the Killers paired up with a legend. Lou Reed recently joined the band to record the tune "Tranquilizer." Reed says he liked the song right away upon hearing it and was pleased the way his voice meshed with Flowers'. The song appears on Sawdust, a compilation of B-sides, rarities and remixes that is set to hit stores in the U.S. on November 13th. Meanwhile, you can check out the video on YouTube.

Labels: Elton John, Lou Reed, The Killers

By: David Schultz

The High Line, an elevated section of abandoned railroad tracks located on the west side of New York City, has become a lightning rod for the revitalization of an entire neighborhood. At the same time that the tracks are being refurbished into an elevated park and many new buildings are being constructed, the neighborhood is also undergoing a cultural Renaissance of sorts. One of the focal points of the area's artistic reawakening, the Highline Ballroom, opened this past Monday and will host multiple performances during this month's First Annual High Line Festival. David Bowie, the Festival's inaugural curator, followed through on his promise to bring a diverse group of musicians to New York City for the occasion, securing performances personal favorites like The Secret Machines, Laurie Anderson, Air, The Polyphonic Spree and the Arcade Fire.

The Thin White Duke may not have had a hand in selecting Lou Reed to open the new venue this past Monday night, but if he did, a finer selection could not have been made. Dating back to his days with the Velvet Underground, Andy Warhol and the Exploding Plastic Inevitable, Reed and his literary body of work are as intrinsically tied to New York City as James Joyce's to Dublin. With other notable Manhattanites like Richard Belzer, Paul Shaffer and Laurie Anderson in attendance, the prototypical New Yorker consecrated The Big Apple's newest stage as only he could - with attitude, lots and lots of attitude.

In contrast to the earthy, lived-in concert halls that are rapidly disappearing from the New York concert scene, the Highline Ballroom is a sleek, upscale nightspot. With top shelf bars and relatively frou-frou menus of mixed drinks and haute cuisine, the Highline apparently expects to be catering to an elite group of concert-goers. The surroundings made an odd but not unfamiliar setting for Reed: the iconoclast has a penchant for playing atypical venues like the staid Town Hall or former hip-hop mecca Crobar. The honor of opening the Highline comes on the heels of recent accolades bestowed upon him by Syracuse University, his alma mater, who not only awarded the singer the George Arents Pioneer Medal For Excellence In The Arts but also founded a creative writing scholarship in his and mentor Delmore Schwartz' name.

The notoriously cantankerous singer wasted no time making his first impressions known, interrupting his second song, "What’s Good" to scathingly bark disapproval over his sound monitors and the smoke machine. Reed reserved his praise and admiration for his band, which consisted of several familiar faces: Mike Rathke on guitar, Rob Wasserman on stand-up bass and Jane Scarpantoni on cello. In lieu of Fernando Saunders, Reed's longtime cohort, or a drummer, Steve Hunter, who rejoined Reed for last December's Berlin concerts, played the role of Reed's onstage foil.

Reed's performance highlighted his penchant for poignant urbane poetry. Bracketing his set around songs from Magic And Loss, his 1992 contemplation of mortality, Reed seemed uninterested in tackling material from his influential Velvet Underground period or Seventies solo catalog. With the exception of "The Last Great American Whale," Reed built his set list from the post New York period of his career. It made great fodder for true-Lou fans but probably proved bewildering to the non-obsessive; Reed hardly played anything that could be traditionally considered "a hit." As to be expected from any Lou Reed show, the headstrong singer followed his own muse with mixed results. Updated renditions of "Trade In" and "Sword Of Damocles" worked splendidly, an overwrought "Ecstasy" meandered and an electronic-based reworking of Songs For Drella's "Faces And Names" went bewilderingly awry.

For the most part, Reed played a restrained set interrupted by short staccato blasts of guitar, usually from Hunter. The sparse arrangements brought Reed's lyrics and everyone's musicianship to the forefront, but oftentimes lacked a cohesive consistency. John Zorn, another icon of New York music scene, joined Reed near the close of his two hour set and provided the proper spark. The two New York titans first played together at the 20th Anniversary celebration of the Knitting Factory and, at the Highline, recaptured the same chemistry that worked so well last March. Blending perfectly with Scarpantoni's cello, Zorn's saxophone played perfect counterpoint to Reed's guitar on "Magic And Loss" and lovingly filled the gaps on "Rock Minuet."

Time Out magazine recently ranked The Velvet Underground atop their list of the Top 50 New York musicians of all-time, describing them as "the ultimate New York band." If the Velvets were the ultimate New York band, Reed is the ultimate New York musician. Even though Okkervil River played the Highline's first notes, tabbing Lou Reed to break the champagne bottle on the Highline's newly christened hull nicely bridged the gap between different generations, uniting them all in the name of New York rock and roll.

Labels: David Bowie, High Line Ballroom, John Zorn, Lou Reed

By bringing Arcade Fire, The Secret Machines, Air, Polyphonic Spree and Ricky Gervais to New York City as part of mid May's High Line Festival, curator David Bowie has done his job of creating a distinctive slate of artists to promote and celebrate the impending opening of the High Line, an elevated park located on Manhattan's West side. In addition to the park, the festival will also see the opening of a new concert space: The High Line Ballroom.

Consecrating the new venue will be New York's own resident poet and urban legend Lou Reed, who will play the High Line's first show on April 30 with guitarist Mike Rathke and cellist Jane Scarpantoni, the same pair who assisted Reed at last month's celebration of the "Old Knit." Following Reed into the new concert space will be jamband emeritus moe. for four sold-out shows and the tempestuous Amy Winehouse for a pair of sellouts of her own.

In a tried and true case of the new boss being the same as the old boss, Irving Plaza will be renamed The Fillmore New York at Irving Plaza. More an extension of Live Nation's corporate brand (extending also to Philadelphia where the longstanding TLA will be dubbed "The Fillmore Philadelphia") than a broadening of Bill Graham's legacy, Irving Plaza's new identity will come complete with gradual renovations to the balconies, bathrooms, sound and lighting systems. The first show at "Fillmore East" will take place on April 11 as yet another British brat, Lily Allen, will christen the renamed venue.

Labels: David Bowie, Fillmore New York, High Line Ballroom, Lily Allen, Lou Reed

Us Magazine now reports that Joan Jett is NOT sleeping with Carmen Electra. Wait...they actually don't go that far. They simply say they are not "a couple." I wonder if that's like Bill Clinton saying he "did not sleep with that woman"? I don't know who started this rumor, but anytime you've got Carmen Electra even remotely possibly bedding another woman we at least have to fantasize about consider the possibility. And, when that woman happens to be a rock star, we get to write about it!

U2 is putting out a new "DVD Collectors Box." The double disc documentary set will feature rare footage and exclusive interviews. Street date is set for June 5, 2007.

Fishbone is set to put out their first record of original material in six years. The disc Still Stuck In Your Throat drops on April 24, 2007. The band is also scheduling a national tour to start around the same time and will hit select stops on this year's Warped Tour.

Lou Reed has added a third UK show to his "Berlin 2007" European tour. Reed, performing his 1973 record Berlin in its entirety, will appear at the
Manchester International Festival on Friday 29th June, followed by two nights at London’s Hammersmith Apollo on 30th June & 1st July. Reed will be joined by a 30-piece ensemble including his band, a string and horn section, and a children's choir.

Mp3 Offerings:

Joshua James: Soul and the Sea
Daniela Cotton: Make You Move
Nicole Atkins: Carousel
Ron Sexsmith: All in Good Time
Oakley Hall: Living in Sin in the USA
Kaki King: Gay Sons of Lesbian Mothers
Rush: Far Cry (Streams) Real / Windows
Central Services: Four Letter Word

Lily Allen hates America. Or at least its population, according to quotes circulating on the web. She reportedly says "I can't really speak for the American population - I'm so far away from anything they are and stand for." Actually with her beer and cigarette stage act she fits right into the parts of the country she denigrates. But, ok if that's how you feel go home and take your records with you.

Buzzsugar reports that the Flaming Lips are Broadway bound and smartly featured Ted Leo and the Pharmacists' "A Bottle of Buckie" as their song of the day yesterday. And, if like me, you are still on a SXSW buzz, check out their SXSW gallery of pics including some nice shots of Pete Townshend and Amy Winehouse.

Labels: Lily Allen, Lou Reed, Mp3s, SXSW, U2

By: David Schultz

Over the past decade, many of the historic venues in New York City have been forced to close their doors as the economic feasibility of operating a small, musician-centered venue decreases with each passing year. CBGB has been the most publicized casualty, but the changing Metropolitan musical landscape has become littered with the corpses of the likes of The Bottom Line and The Luna Lounge. Given the logistical and artistic perils to operating a modestly sized venue, the 20th Anniversary of The Knitting Factory deserves recognition and admiration. To celebrate the milestone, Michael Dorf, one of the Knitting Factory's original founding members, gathered a handful of the artists who benefited from and best exemplified the adventurous spirit of the "Old Knit" for a one-night concert at Town Hall.

The path to the Knitting Factory's China Anniversary began at its original home of 47 Houston Street before moving to its current home on Leonard Street in TriBeCa. The genteel surroundings of Town Hall may not have entirely captured the feel of the Knit's past and present home, but the music did. Throughout the night, the performances acted as a microcosm for The Knitting Factory, reflecting its eclectic and experimental nature: the strings of Rebecca Moore and Pinky Weitzman found common ground with electric guitars; DJ Spooky worked splendidly with Lee Ranaldo's avant-garde guitar work and everyone seemed to get a chance to try something new or celebrate something old. Not simply cashing in on the notoriety and goodwill of the venue's name, all of the net proceeds from the night were earmarked for The Stone, an East Village, not-for-profit performance space dedicated to freedom of expression.

Mike Doughty, who worked as Dorf's doorman at the Knitting Factory while Soul Coughing was in its formative stages, nicely summed up the appeal and allure of the venue. Relating back to his own interest in various musical styles, Doughty explained that The Knitting Factory was one of the few stages where you could hear and experience a wide breadth of musical textures. Doughty seemed genuinely touched to be included on the bill, taking delight in telling a couple anecdotes of his time as a Knitting Factory employee, including a tale of Don Byron setting his tip sign on fire. In contrast to the reserved demeanor of the majority of the other graying artists, Doughty's enthusiasm proved refreshing.

In celebrating the liberating, experimental atmosphere fostered by the Knitting Factory, the Town Hall performance featured the ingenuity of some of the musicians responsible for the venue's reputation. John Zorn coaxed squeaks, yelps and chirps out of his saxophone and Lee Ranaldo seemed to do everything with his guitar but strum it: swirling it overhead, tapping it with drumsticks, hovering it just above the stage and generating feedback while DJ Spooky providing backing rhythms that moved between Iron Butterfly and atmospheric Pink Floyd.

The first act featured a couple ensemble performances from some Knitting Factory stalwarts. The evening commenced with a jazz collective including Roy Nathanson and Don Byron and later, trumpeter Steve Bernstein and guitarist Marc Ribot anchored a slightly avant-garde assembly though a brief set. The brevity of time allotted to each of the performers worked to their advantage with most able to leave their mark before wearing out their welcome.

Lou Reed, the night's most well-known performer, concluded the first act with two tracks from his 2000 album Ecstasy. Accompanied by longtime guitarist Mike Rathke and cellist Jane Scarpantoni, Reed's stripped down performance focused on his streetwise poetry and crisply precise guitar riffs. After the title track, John Zorn joined Reed for their first ever pairing on stage on "Rock Minuet," melding wonderfully with Scarpantoni to give depth and heft to an otherwise straightforward tune. His lady friend, Laurie Anderson followed him, opening up the second set with a mix of atmospheric keyboards, campfire monologue, dry witty humor and caustic political observation.

Like all experiments, some fail. The promised Medeski Martin & Wood appearance fell one Wood short of occurring, with Oren Bloedow playing bass in his stead. After a jaunty run through "Queen Bee" featuring Medeski moving between his various keyboards, they became mired down in one of Bloedow's originals. Without Chris Wood, the Medeski and Martin set fell disappointingly flat and the "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" finale seemed unrehearsed and was barely held together by the lyrical thread and Doughty's rowdy excitement. The show also suffered from the expectations raised by billing the appearance of surprise guests. Late February saw a number of remarkable collaborations: Pete Townshend and Lou Reed played Velvet Underground songs at Joe's Pub as part of an In The Attic show, Michael Stipe and Patti Smith sang "Everybody Hurts" at the Tibet House Benefit at Carnegie Hall and Ray Davies and Debbie Harry joined up for "Lola" at the same show. Hence, the admittedly anti-climactic appearance of guitarist Gary Lucas and vocalist Jennifer Charles for the final ramble through the Beatles tune came nowhere near meeting unnecessarily raised hopes.

As Dorf's vision for honoring the Knitting Factory differed from his fellow board members, he organized his concert at Town Hall as opposed to the Leonard Street locale. It also won't be the only celebration. Over the course of this year, the Knitting Factory will organize special 20th Anniversary shows featuring Jonathan Richman, Robyn Hitchcock and other artists with a connection to iconic venue. They will also make a move onto XM Satellite Radio with Live From The Knitting Factory on XMU, on XM's indie/college music channel (#43). The new show kicked off this past Friday with a performance by The Boy Least Likely To and will feature Art Brut later this week.

Labels: John Zorn, Knitting Factory, Laurie Anderson, Lee Ranaldo, Lou Reed, Medeski Martin and Wood, Mike Doughty