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Another Fein Mess
AF Stone’s Monthly
April 2013

‘Round town

This month’s club-hopping took a back seat to SXSW

3-3 The Swamp Dogg record-signing at Atomic Records was just that, signing his first two albums newly reissued on vinyl by Susie Shaw and her husband. (I didn’t know that the Bomp label, which Susie formed with her ex Greg, has lately prospered from their early issuance of a Black Keys album.) Accompanying Swamp was Wally Roker, who first released Swamp’s ‘Total Destruction To Your Mind.’ Wally was a member of the Heartbeats (“A Thousand Miles Away”).



3-9 With Diane, saw Jimmy Angel at the Smoke House in Burbank. If rumors are true, Jimmy will soon be a judge on a network ‘oldies’ show a la American Idol.

3-26 The 5th anniversary of Mark Tortoricci’s swing-dance series at Joes in Burbank brought out a packed house of delightfully-dressed dancers and revelers. Short sets by the California Feetwarmers, the Dave Stuckey Band and others rocked the joint til closing.



3-29 Another ritual visit to Chuck E. Weiss at the Piano Bar.
Some kinda endless fun. And free, no less.


Music

The blues walked in to my life through Elvis and the Everly Brothers. In the late 50s each put out albums - Elvis Is Back and It’s Everly Time - with blues cuts. The Elvis stuff was profound: “Reconsider Baby” and “Like A Baby” were El and the band going deep. And the chords, I guess, of “Nashville Blues” on the Everly Brothers held the same fascination, though I didn’t correlate it with the Elvis stuff. You gotta start somewhere ... T-Bone is a funny name. I haven’t heard of every blues singer, maybe there’s a Sirloin ... “Almost Grown” by Chuck Berry was his first with a background chorus. To great effect! ... “Gloria” by the Cadillacs is the only 3-D record. At its opening, you sense depth as the singer approaches the microphone ... I have noticed a disturbing new, but not, phenomenon at clubs with low or nonexistent stages - people with cellphones or cameras standing directly in front of the band. This problem was epidemic in the 70s with photogs jamming in front of paid patrons. Now it’s people who look like zombies holding phones in front of performers. It’s time bands revived the punk-rock tradition of kicking audience members ... Seeing a guitarist walk off the stage at SXSW and circulate around the room brought to mind the disconnect we suffer from listening to music through speakers. I repeat that I first noticed this when Dr. John’s band snaked through the audience at the Troubadour and I heard an actual saxophone bleat. “My god,” I thought, “that’s nothing like what’s coming from the speakers.” Likewise, when this guitar athleticist crouched for a moment near me I stared in disconnection: he was strumming silently while sounds came out across the room. It was like a pantomime, air guitar. He was grimacing, but the effect was of absurdity.

It’s time to go acoustic again.
Maybe bring back Big Bands.
Something’s gotta give.

Words

Where do you buy Insider Art? ... The LATimes headline that the Tonight Show might move “back east” set my blood aboil for a moment, then I remembered it started in NY. True residents of the west say “out east” for that place far away and irrelevant and “back west” for the center of the universe ... a Rolling Stone writer choked on clichés at a festival where “counterintuitive collaborations are the currency of much-coveted buzz” ... Veronica Rocha, Glendale News Press: “officers reported finding a small plastic bag, possibly of methamphetamine.” And possibly of M&Ms ... LATimes, car was stolen by men who “leveraged” the thief to do it. A stock sale? ... I switched off the interesting interview with economics writer Elaine Olen on CSPAN when she said that women don’t go to financial advisors enough “just like men don’t ask directions.” I am asked directions frequently. In other towns, I ask. But I can’t blame a woman repeating cliches. They don’t think logically ... If you have stock in “referring to,” it’s too late to sell, it’s gone. “Referencing” is now law ... As is “restive.” It makes you feel smart. “Restless” is so jejune ... another nice phrase from Mark Twain, “books that freight the shelves” ... Jocelyn Fine, 12-29 LAT, refers to “banksters” re Occupy activity. That’s a pukester ... ... I’m still not comfortable with “American couple goes missing in Peru.” It sounds like a destination they chose. ‘Goes’ must go.

Bad mouths

Shan Li’s 3-21 LATimes article about the likely demise of the Fresh & Easy store chain was filled with naysayers and Monday morning quarterbacks. The ex-owner of Trader Joe’s said he knew it would fail, Gerry Carr (?!), “a longtime vegetarian,” said they didn’t cater to him, “industry watchers” say they overspent on a warehouse, and Burt Flickinger III (hisself!) said it was a catastrophe. The final grouser, a geezer from Orange County, said he and his friends feared it would hurt existing neighborhood stores. That he thinks Ralphs is a local mechant, not a large corporation, and Trader Joe’s is a friendly local grocer was not challenged by Li ... in a 3-11 LATimes obit for Cybil Burton, a swine noted that her rebound husband “stretched his 15 minutes of fame into a career.” Snigger away, anonymous obitist, no respect intended ...

These are the Times of L.A.

3-21, Three writers are harnessed to say that the tiny town of Bell, ransacked by corruption, is “eager to move on.” Really? ‘Healing’ stories are automatically attached to every bad event, ignoring any despair or damage that remains. Be happy! ... Same day FRONT PAGE, a profile of Perez Hilton and his new baby. Just shut the paper down with dignity, don’t torture us with this shit ... Tina Susman, taking leave from NYC 3-10, reports that Steubenville, Ohio, where footballers had sex with an unconscious girl, was itself on trial because the defendants got undue consideration. Well, NY courts just released a guy framed formurder by the entire NY justice system 22 years ago, SO NEW YORK ITSELF IS ON TRIAL! Get back home and bore that city a new one ... 12-30-12, Bill Shaikin, sports, twice wrote that a player swap was “fortuitous” for teams. He meant fortunate ... “Gun deaths” hed vis-à-vis a quadruple homicide 1 beats the anti-gun drum. Garroting would be so more better ... Food news: “Kiwis are no longer trendy” carps David Karp. Oh heck!! And Jonathan Gold, 2-16, opens “California rarely feels more like California that it does from a window seat at the new Hostaria del Piccolo in Venice.” Where did California feel like California before this joint opened? San Pedro? More to the point, where does the Times find fabulists like this? ... Are staffers forced to write cute ledes? Kim Willsher, from Paris, re a cutback in lighting, “Is the City of Light about to hit the dimmer switch?” I see dimness alright ... 3-29, Mark Lifsher, re bed-recycling: “Now some companies are losing sleep over a proposed mattress tax.” Tonstant weader fwow up ... 1-5 Tiffany Hsu, regarding the sale of a coffee chain to an actor: “Leave it to Seattle’s hunkiest fictional doctor to revive its most troubled coffee chain.” Leave the lede-writing to someone else, puhleeze ... Mar 25, Martha Groves, writing of Chez Jay, a beach bar about to be closed, says that Lee Marvin “is said” to have once ridden his motorcycle inside to get a drink. I remember this citation in this same story a year ago: hasn’t she gotten it verified by now? ... Business section 1-29. To whom is it news that an estate in Silicon Valley sold for $117 million? Lauren Beale was dispatched there to tell us about it. She quotes a realtor in Telluride, Colorado. Oh, the LAT is a national paper, like USA Today. JUST like USA Today ... and finally, my own disgust mirrored Joseph Welch’s at the McCarthy hearings when I saw the 1-27 John Glionna story about a “gutter” bar in Las Vegas. The writer, like so many souls lost to hipsterism, revels in seediness that decent people abjure. He writes gleefully about this rundown tavern where “Swampy” shat on the floor when he hit a jackpot, swallows that the proprietor was named “P.” at birth, revels in tales of down-and-outers with big hearts. Just shoot me.

1 A few days later, a followup front page (!) exclusive revealed that the death house was ‘filthy’ (their quote marks). Multiple murders, AND poor housekeeping!?

New York times

Had to laugh at Chris Isherwood’s 12-4 pout that “critics have not been invited to attend” some Broadway show til it had run a few weeks. NYTimes budget so tight the paper can’t spring for a ducat? ... A 1-29 article says the city has given up trying to subdue car-honking. I remember the din there in the 1970s, a roar that slammed into my hotel room. It seemed to have abated in the 1980s. Was there an actual pullback? It didn’t seem so bad when I was there last June, but I was in a noiseproof bldg and my hearing may not be what it once was.

Commerce

Looking at beds, the expensive ones are of “memory foam.” They claim that it’s taut, then forms to you, then recovers its tautness. Tell’em to put an anvil on one and if it hasn’t made an impression in a week you’ll buy ... I’m such a naif. Packed two teabag boxes and a pound of fudge for a friend. Took it to a UPS store, asked about 3 day service to Texas. Thirty six dollars! I gulped and paid, but when I looked at the receipt later it said “2 pounds 3 oz, Billed as 4 pounds.” I’d’ve used bubble wrap instead of wadded brown paper if I’d known how generous UPS was to itself ... Today, in LA, frys is known for lower prices on electronics. Yet I’ve puzzled over the stuff I see priced at retail. A camera I wanted was $349 but I worried about buying it there. The camera store on Fairfax is lined with sales people who are experts in the technical issues I encounter. (How does it turn on? Where does the film go?) It feels wrong to seek their counsel if you bought it elsewhere. So I called that store and asked the price of the camera. The same! Check prices. Go to the camera store ...

In the air

The girl at the airport muffin stand said they had three colors of tea - black, green and Earl Grey ... pilot about to land in Phoenix: “It’s called the Valley of the Sun. In a couple of months it will be the surface of the sun” ... Window seats, at least on Southwest, are narrower than the others. Your shoulder room depends on where the vertical supports fall on the plane’s arc ... at Austin airport - “Chicago Stuffed Pizza.” What?

Hear me roar

Some breast-beating by distaff staffers at the LATimes got me grumblin’.

* Betsy Sharkey, Feb 17, seemed to be bravely holding tenuous ground when she opened a story about movie mayhem with “I abhor violence.”

This is why she makes the big money. The rest of us can take or leave violence. And she has props! She worked a police beat, so saw more closely the effects of violence SO SHE FEELS MORE THAN YOU OR ME. She says.

* March 29, Harriet Ryan, for some reason in the Calendar entertainment section, took it upon herself to correct some details of the ‘Phil Spector’ HBO thing because she was at both trials.

She confirmed a prosecution allegation because of EXPERT TESTIMONY. Boy, she must have been nodding off the rest of the trial: when one expert said one thing, another expert said another. Plenty of times the city’s witness, a cop trained in a subject, declared him culpable, then THE GUY WHO WROTE THE TEXTBOOK THE COP STUDIED - the defense expert - declared him not.

It’s a teapot tempest about a movie as factual as “JFK”.

Local color

Like people used to, or do, tie shoes together and throw them over phone lines, friend Raymond saw gold cowboy boots tied together and thrown over phone a line in Austin.

iPhone 5

I miss my old cellphone.

* When it rang, I just looked at its window. If I wanted to take it, I flipped it open and spoke.

Now I must run a thumb entirely across the bottom of a screen 2 (not simply hit a dot), decide, and then push a smooth glass button.

* It had number codes for frequently called numbers. 2 through 9 were the top callers, and then I had 30 with various associations. Star 41 was someone in San Francisco (415 area code), etc.

Now I must choose Contacts, scroll, locate the person and then push the number-line precisely with fingers thrice the size of the numerals.

* When the receiver was at my ear, the voice mic was at my mouth.

With the iPhone 5 earpiece at your ear, the microphone is at your cheek. If you’re listening, you’re talking to the wind.

* If I dropped it and broke it, another one was $30.

I dare not think of the replacement cost for an iPhone. I think they come and empty your house.

Using a dual-ear headset makes speaking and hearing clear and easy, but then you look like a ninny. YOU DO!

2 Right-hand thumbs, as I know one, do not easily bend down and right when that hand is holding an object in a cuplike grip. You must train.

Tech talk

I borrowed an 8mm/Hi8 deck, and transferred dozens of tapes to DVD.

When told, some well-meaning people tore their hair and gnashed their teeth seething “Put them into your computer, DVDs won’t last!”

Computers.
Makes me think of the old nursery rhyme:

“Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly,
One thing’s for sure,
Your hard drive will die.”

Born Yesterday

One of my glamorous jobs post-college was driving a garbage truck in Boulder. The boss told me pointedly that if I smelled smoke en route to the dump, I should stop immediately and dump the load right onto the road. He was worried about damage to the numerous hoses and electrical connections inside the dumper.

What I was worried about? Nothing. I assumed he had some arrangement with the police, and the driver behind me would be sympathetic with my “But my boss told me” explanation for the ton of trash crushing his vehicle.

Olden ways

I can still unlock the under-hood trans linkage in a ‘64 Dodge, though nobody’s asked. Know how to thread film into a projector, same deal. But last February I was asked to use a coathanger to unlock a car door.

My friend Joel loaned me his ‘69 Pontiac Firebird to run an errand in San Francisco, and when I returned to his home I left it on the driveway, as his other car was in the garage.

“You LOCKED it? HOW?” he exclaimed in a dither.
You know, General Motors car, pushed the button down, held the handle in when closing.

“I haven’t locked that car since I bought it. If someone wants to steal the radio, OK, I just don’t want them to slash the convertible top. The door locks are so unused they’re rusted.”

Oh, hell. Got a hanger?

And sure enough he did. The big thing was that the hanger was old - made of tough, 70s steel. When I forged a loop, I could lean it hard to the lock head and pull it up.

Oh what a feeling.

Succinctly speaking

Roger Taylor of Queen, in a documentary: “Talk to the press? Why don’t I just paint a bullseye on my forehead!”

- 57 -

  Mark On The Move

- by Mark Leviton -
 
My South By Southwest highlights:
 
Steve Poltz was given a half-hour slot at the daytime Dogwood stage Conqueroo party, but was so much his ADHD hyped-up self that he doubled that, daring the sound engineer to cut him off before his rivers-of-consciousness depleted.  After advising some young audience members to drop out of school and form a punk rock band, he improvised a contradictory “stay in school” rap, using his array of effects pedals and multi-track playback options to hilarious effect.  He played songs from two new upcoming releases, veering (as usual) from looney to painfully, emotionally confessional. 

A couple days later at The Continental Club, Mojo Nixon introduced Poltz as “the fool who put his tool in Jewel” and Steve retaliated by telling a story of touring as a member of the punk-country band The Rugburns, opening for Mojo and enduring various embarrasing drug experiences with him.  After a set in which he repeated nothing from the Dogwood show, Poltz was told there was time for one more tune, which he then made sure lasted 15 minutes, weaving autobiographical details (emigration from Canada, Catholic guilt, life-threatening health problems, getting sober) into his song “Long Haul.”  Before it was over, he had the audience hugging each other, swaying, and singing along.  A star in his adopted home town of San Diego, Poltz deserves to be a star throughout the known universe.
 
I spent most of a day at the South By San Jose free stage on South Congress across from The Continental. The Allah-Las impressed me greatly with their 1964 L.A.-style jangle.  They are clearly obsessed with the P.F. Sloan-led Grass Roots, the Merry-Go-Round and other 12-string “country pop” groups, and most completely reanimated the sound of the first Turtles album, with luscious harmonies and compact guitar solos reverberating with surf-music roots.  On the same stage, Phosphorescent debuted tunes from their new album “Muchacho.”  Leader Matthew Houck writes intelligent and emotional lyrics, and has a real knack for melody.   He’s lately expanded his live presentation with two keyboard players, and has rocketed up in the ranks of those plying the Wilco-Son Volt-Bon Iver-My Morning Jack-Fleet Foxes sort of experimental country-rock.  As night fell, L.A. outfit Dawes spun out a convincing set of songs from their three albums (including the brand-new “Stories Don’t End”).  They sometimes reminded me of Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles and other L.A.-identified groups, but most of all The Call, Michael Been’s late, lamented “positive rock” band of the eighties.  Passionate, stirring melodies, and they got the adoring crowd – of all ages and ethnicities -- singing along more than once.
 
After disappointment last year that SXSW seemed to skimp on “rootsier” acts, this year I saw many of my favorite performers at the New West day party, Waterloo Records’ outdoor stage, and the comfortable double-venue The Stages On Sixth, which has an outdoor patio and a western bar set-up inside.  Buddy Miller & Jim Lauderdale, Richard Thompson, the re-united Mavericks and Billy Bragg all delivered mostly new material which showed no flagging of their creative juices.   Emmylou Harris & Rodney Crowell started their Waterloo set with two of my favorite Gram Parsons tunes, “Return Of the Grievous Angel” and “Wheels,” and finished with a “Love Hurts” that had me in tears.
 
It was also terrific to hear Chris Stamey (the Db’s) perform songs from his new “Lovesick Blues” album, first with a small group at Dogwood and then in expanded form, with string quartet, backing singers and Ken Stringfellow on piano, at Bethel Hall of St. David’s Cathedral.  Following Stamey, power-pop icons Shoes roared back from obscurity, playing their first shows in nearly two decades to support their excellent new “Ignition” album.  They really brought out the hard-core fans, clutching old albums, 45s and posters, all of which the group members cheerfully signed after their high-energy set.  Speaking of high-energy, Thurston Moore (Sonic Youth) brought his new group Chelsea Light Moving to a KEXP-FM-sponsored gig in a bike store, and blew the place down with a fervent combination of Television, Black Sabbath, Hawkwind and Glenn Branca.  If Sonic Youth’s permanently over, this is going to be a fine new chapter in melodic loudness.

And certainly not least, making their first SXSW appearances, The Zombies shone at a “psyche-out” event on the last night of festivities.  Approaching 70, singer Colin Blunstone is still in fine voice, nailing an especially joyous “This Will Be Our Year,” “Time Of the Season” and several more tunes from “Odessey and Oracle.”  Mainman Rod Argent’s keyboard solos on “She’s Not There” and “Hold Your Head Up” remain potent, and the crowd, most of whom weren’t born when the band was in their heyday, treated them to the excited ovation they deserved.
    
-- Mark Leviton
 
(Mark’s sixties-themed radio show Pet Sounds can be heard alternate Wednesdays 10pm-Midnight PST on KVMR-FM 89.5 in the Sacramento area and streaming at www.kvmr.org

)

SXSW 2013

“It’s no good anymore.
”It’s not like it was.
“It’s way too crowded.
“You can’t even park your car.
That’s the sound of the men, working on the blame game.

This, my 25th year, was as good as any and in some ways better because modern music has spun out of my reach so I don’t have to sort through 3000 possibilities. More like 30.

Big shows, ‘surprises,’ unannounced stuff, guest stars, spontaneous shows, big hoopla. The Beatles and Stones did it in 1967, now everyone’s invited to The Rock & Roll Circus.

My story

After 25 years you’d think I could afford a hotel room, but 24 in the house - various houses, actually, of friend Kent Benjamin have made me think of SXSW as homey. Though we rarely went to the same shows, my home base was his home, a haven, shelter from a storm. (It rained only 3 times.) But this time I went Kentless; his new wife has arrived and they’re rearranging his house and their lives.

I felt my tensions drift and my spirit rise as I boarded the plane in Burbank. By the time it touched down in Austin I was another person in another world. This world has music from dawn past dusk, music for everyone, a steady balm to my heart.

That the menu has many bands whose music sails past me is no basis for complaint. If everyone was going to shows I liked I wouldn’t be able to get in.

After deplaning I sought out John Stainze, the once-British record collector/dealer who briefly netted a real record company job at Phonogram in the 70s. He now mans the information booth at Austin-Bergstrom. He told me to go see the Carper Family and I made a mental note, but my mind is not adhesive and I didn’t see them, or him, the rest of the festival. But our few minutes were terrific.

I caught a shuttle to the car rental place. Renting at the airport is 40% higher than town, and the Budget site at Sears in Barton Creek Mall allows you to return the car to the airport, unlike other off-airport rental places.

At 5:00 I got downtown and sought my SXSW pass, courtesy of the Press dept. With this column as my only hat rack I I’m an emeritus, honored for lasting so long. From all reports, the only SXSW I missed, last year’s, was a misfire.

Got my ‘badge,’ as they’re called. (One attendant looked at my ID number, 3009, with astonishment. “How LONG have you been coming here?” Apparently most ID numbers are six figures.) Then I raced to the adjacent Iron Works to join NYer Jason Gross and his wife Robin. Jason had called while I was badge-juggling and invited me over. We’ve become close over our years of SXSW, and last summer we spent some enjoyable time together when I visited NY. But the Jason I knew is half-gone. He weighed around 280 and is now 150.

“My doctor said if I wanted to avoid my father’s diabetes I should lose weight, so I restricted myself to 1200-1400 calories a day.” He said the doc was flabbergasted,

“But you told me to do 1200 to 1400 calories a day.”

“Sure” the doc said,”but no one ever does it!”

Our dinner worked out good because Jason, whose eyes are now actually bigger than his stomach, had over ordered and offered me his surplus. I couldn’t have eaten with them otherwise because the service line, which he and Robin had suffered through, stretched way into the street. By the time I’d’ve ordered they would have been gone.

Tues music

At 9:00 I took a flyer at 6th Street, not super-crowded on this official but sparsely programmed first night. I tried to get into the Parish, where my friends Mark Leviton and Debbie Gold were stationed, but could not get in. (Looking now at the Guide, I might have been vying to get into the wrong Parish, the upstairs rather than the Underground. The Upstairs had Austin bands and was free.) I moseyed back on 6th and stopped at the reliable B.D. Riley’s and saw The Rite Flyers, a delightful Austin band. (I knew they were Austinites by the number of couples too old to be there, dancing exaggeratedly. Clearly the band’s parents.)



Then I walked through the gorgeous 100-year-plus Driskill Hotel and saw an earnest country band, JWW & The Prospectors, holding forth. From there I headed to the country-oriented Saxon Pub to see some singer-songwriters singing with family members.

(One patron kept outside due to the club’s crowdedness complained bitterly “This is a SXSW club now?” Most years the Saxon is ‘local’ and badgeholders have no clout, unlike this year when they got priority. I sympathized with him and didn’t go in til he did.)


Gilmore, Strachwitz

I got there too late for Jimmie Dale Gilmore & brood, but spotted Chris Strachwitz of Arhoolie Records on a bench holding his ears trying to block out the “mouse music.” (Strachwitz, 80 or so, goes for high passion, has no tolerance for singer-songwriters.) I had met him at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass last October, a disappointing blip, but then I had nothing to say beyond hello. This time, with him a captive audience, my mind scrambled and the right thing came up.

Many years ago I got my first exposure to Zydeco from an Arhoolie sampler. The standout cut was a recording he made at Green’s Barbecue in Houston, where the singer, his accordion at rest, announced the band’s show schedule.

“If you’re HONGRY they got plenty good bobba-cue” and “Tomorrow if you go to the base ball pock, you gonna find us” were the two lines that have lived in me for decades for their innocent enthusiastic joy. So I told Strachwitz that we had mutual friends, and then about my enthusiasm for that first album, especially the monologue. “Yeah, I really got lucky recording that day” he smiled.

But then I started reciting it - and he finished the lines. It was like two kids raving about their favorite song, and he was having a ball. “You better hurry up and Uh huh” I said to him next encounter, the next night in the lobby of the Ritz on 6th Street prior to the screening of the new documentary about him and the label. He smiled at the reference.

That night I saw the film, “This Ain’t No Mouse Music,” THE greatest, most heartwarming and comprehensive docu film I’ve ever seen. The scope of the man’s passion for preserving great music is monumental.

(A few years ago I began seeking out two films Arhoolie once carried on VHS, “Hot Pepper” and “Dry Wood,” about Mardi Gras in the outback of Louisiana and Clifton Chenier. I had seen both at showings which producer/director Les Blank ran at theaters in LA in the 70s. When I asked about their availability, Strachwitz said “You should buy them from Les. He is in bad health and needs it.” I will.)



That fun done, I went to Threadgills patio stage to see what was on. I had no idea who the bearded, rocking country singer was but I liked it. (Just like Austin City Limits and other concert shows never give the band’s name mid-show, they don’t run performer’s names on a sign above the stage at venues. A card around the performer’s neck would be nice.) Bursting with joy about waltzing into this, I asked someone who it was.”Shooter Jennings” they said. HA! I already like his records!

From there I did the 6th Street walk again, and was approached by more than one person handing out CDs. I played them back in the car before I left Austin. The one from singer-songwriter Thom Chacon was refreshingly gritty and musical, a very pleasant surprise.

En route to the car I encountered the musician-in-a-box below and tipped him.



Then I hied back to the Saxon to see Terry Allen et familie, TA on keyboard, sons on drums and accordion. The one Terry Allen CD I have fascinates me, but I hadn’t made the outreach to learn more. It was a wonderful show. Afterwards I bent the ear of the lady selling his CDs as we waited for him to come in and sign the one I bought. But he was outside slapping backs, so I came up and asked for his john hancock. It was not illegible, it was nonliterate, i.e. it contained no letters, like a lightning bolt drawn while riding a motorcycle. I inquired of the ear-battered woman whether they accepted that signature at his bank and they assured me he did. His music is unique and personal, and does for me what Leonard Cohen’s does for others.



From there I headed to the colorful-sounding town of Dripping Springs, where my host Jurgen led me to the small back-house where visitors stayed. They have a large spread of land for him, his wife Mary and dog Dozer.

When I told Austinians where I was staying, their mouths dropped at the enormous distance from town. In fact, it is 19 miles. Daytime it’s 30 minutes, but at 1:30 in the morning it’s 18 minutes.

Jurgen and I sat up til late talking about records and looking at vids of country/western tv shows from the 50s. I am devoted to that period, but also others. Jurgen, 6 years my junior, has the zeal of the convert in that he will not tolerate anything past the 50s.

Wed

Hit the convention center first, after searching a long time for a parking space. The cheaper ($7 in 2010, $8 in 2011, $10 in 2013) city lots were jammed and the options seemed singular: cave in to a painfully overpriced spot and risk paying again when you leave it. But I found a metered spot which required two three-hour refills of three bucks.



Not yet ready to endure a long stride and eager to get to west 6th Street, I overpaid (guilt) a pedicab driver to get to the Molotov. Ran into Paul Body, Dan Perloff, Mark Leviton & Debbie and others from LA and also Danny B, Harvey, there to play and also promote/introduce the band he’s producing, the Devil’s Daughters.



Heard but didn’t see Mike Scott of the Waterboys onstage, but saw a little of Henry Wagons at the Dogwood and a snatch of the Trishas, four cute young country/bluegrass gals who brook no Ian Stewart.



Went at 6 to the Ritz Theater to see the Chris Strachwitz movie, and see him interviewed by Joe Nik Patoski. Also met Davia Nelson, from NPR, who appeared in the film as a commentator, and Jim Franklin, the poster artist who for one year, 1977, owned the Ritz.



Larry Wilson, owner of Threadgills, Santiago Jiminez Jr., Strachwitz.

Went to the Driskill again and ran into Jason Shields, who owned Cheapo Records on Lamar, which was housed in the former site of the original Whole Foods. He said that music sales just couldn’t support the $25,000 (!!!) rent anymore so he shut it down and is doing mail order. He said he might open a smaller store somewhere near the airport.

10 pm left the Driskill to put money in the meter. The parking space on Colorado Blvd had a 3 hour limit, and signs forbade re-feeding the meter, but I’d already done it and suffered no harm so I put the credit card (meter takes coins, card, but no bills!), only to have it turned down.

A girl in her early 20s watched as she waited her turn, and when it failed, or I did, I stepped aside and let her through. She tendered her transaction and asked “Do you need help?” I said that I’d worked it twice before so it was only a slip-up, but she said “Oh, let me get it for you” and she put in $1.73 (that’s a precise meter!) for the minutes left before the midnight shutoff. What a fine Austin howdy.



Saw a little of the Deadstring Brothers at 10:30 at the Continental Club, always the best place to be.



Also stopped at a hat store that stayed opened til midnight. Like every business in Austin, they had a band playing.

Thurs





Started my music day with LA people at Maria’s Tacos, the Grand Ole Echo party starting at noon. Saw Chris Shifflet & The Dead Peasants do a country set that was good and entertaining, though “You Win Again” is too adult and rueful for these lads. Jesse & Noah were quite good, from Nashville. Both are sons of Bellamy Brothers, so Bellamy Cousins. Very dour-faced, and powerful.



Raymond Chavez, a friend from the public access tv show days, came in and we made some plans for later. He had arrived in San Antonio the night before after driving 1600 miles from L.A. A woman came to my table and told me that her husband, Kevin Smith from the Austin band High Noon, was now Willie Nelson’s bassist. I asked her to have him slip me a ticket when Willie plays the Hollywood Bowl. “Next August” she said, making my smile even broader.



From there we went to the New West party at Threadgills. Not invited, I managed to get in to see Jim Lauderdale and Buddy Miller, two great performers I’m not sure should collaborate; both are strong, together their individuality is diluted. Rounding out their ensemble was Nashville’s skinny Fats Kaplin on fiddle.

Headed back to the Convention Center, dropped in and out of the show rooms, panels, etc. Didn’t see a favorite Austin Band, Two Hoots & A Holler, on the SXSW roles so I looked online: They were playing tonight at the G&S Lounge. I asked people at one Information Booth if they knew of the G&S but all said no. I went to another and a young woman said “Oh yeah, it’s a dive bar out on Oltorf.”

I got directions, then headed to meet some people at the Presbyterian Church, an annual SXSW venue on 8th Street. I watched a young band til I was notified via text that I’d been misdirected and headed instead to St. David’s nearby. There I grabbed an opportunity to be let into a room (it was a quiet show, you entered sedately like polite parachute-jumpers) to hear oldish-time singer Alice Gerrard, only to see a young woman with a fiddle and a male accompanist. Puzzled, I watched them for a while and it was delightful, but eventually scooted out and went to another room (who expects multiple venues in a church?) and enjoyed the lively stylings of Gerrard. Leaving, I spied Chip Taylor, Carrie Rodriguez’s sometimes partner, and realized she was the fiddler I’d stumbled upon.



I had an hour before the G&S Lounge so I drove to south Congress to see what was at the Continental Club. The area was not jam-packed as it had been in the afternoon and I slipped in. Aiode McDonovan, I’m guessing Irish, was singing sweetly, then launched into a torrid rocker that ended the set. Dave Marsh was there. Then went a few doors up to see if I could get the name of the trio who’d played in the hat store.

It was closed. It’s not a far leap to conclude that 11 pm mid-week hat sales were low the night before.



I also stopped in at the St. Vincent de Paul store which stayed open late during South-by, and was told the store was closing. This thrift store in the middle of a bustling row of quaint commerce has leant character to the area. Its loss will be felt. I bought a shirt.



I went a bit north on the other side of the street and encountered this shocking sign.


The South By San Jose music series, whose Thursday installment had ended, is a free non-SXSW-affiliatedd music series that featured about 90% of the bands I wanted to see at SXSW. The venue, a large lot with a stage, holds hundreds of people, but music-viewing isn’t as comfortable as in smaller places. But, man, you could really enjoy a great night of music there for free.

Went down the street to the Austin Motel restaurant and called Ray to join me there for dinner, but a minute later I called to change venues, as the cafe was closing. We met a little south at the Magnolia Cafe (there was no line for seating - SXSW nights the lines are usually long) where we had a delightful dinner. Then we went west on Oltorf to the G&S Lounge, which I recognized from many years’ shows by Cornell Hurd, Austin’s answer to Asleep At The Wheel.



Entering at midnight through the rear entrance was like walking into a dream. Ricky Broussard and Two Hoots & A Holler were primed and ready to go as if waiting for us. It was a lively wonderful show in a great old club. The cowboy ambiance there, like many Austin places, was edgy as in vague, with hoots and hollers and stuff from people not entirely dedicated to the lifestyle, just the style. (No real country band does “The Times They Are A Changin’” or a song about the death of Joe Strummer.) It was supernatural, immersed in Nearly-Countryville with people dancing and carrying on. I left there with a smile plastered on my face.


Video: Two Hoots

Friday

Left Dripping Springa at 11:30. I’d eaten already, but since I hadn’t yet been to Maudie’s for their breakfast tacos I stopped there. Unfortunately I couldn’t remember the classic mode - eggs, cheese and potatoes - and ordered cheese and bacon. Unsatisfactory. Also got sopapillas, a dessert, to stuff myself: didn’t want my motor to run down from forgetting to eat, as I had the past two days. Downtown, I was in my car in line to enter the city parking lot on Brazos when the LOT FULL sign was placed in front of car ahead of me. Found a parking space on 3rd near Colorado and put in money for 3 hours. Walked briskly to the Moonraker restaurant, 5 blocks away, to meet some friends. Got there and found they had no room for me. As Bob Dylan said, I got a million friends.



Went to the Convention Center and milled around. Called Paul Body and he said he and Nancy were going to a panel about white Chicago Blues Bands of the 60s. Met them at the conference room, and spoke a moment to Barry Goldberg and his wife Gail, friends through our common friend Phil. The panel, helmed by Bill Bentley, included Harvey Mandel, Nick Gravenites, Corky Siegel, whose name was misspelled on his card and Goldberg. Their tales of discovering blues and taking it upon themselves to perpetuate it overlapped and rang clear to the hall half-full of fans. Ronee Blakley, who has been booked all over town for the fest, came in late and joined the confab. Nearly everyone in the room seemed to have been inspired by the first Paul Butterfield album.

Afterwards I stopped and enjoyed, along with a packed double-sized convention hall, some music by Dawes.



Below: What seems like a perfect shot of the wolf violinist ruined by a passerby was actually skillfully staged to give depth and movement to the scene. And next I want to sell you some shares in a gold mine. (The wolf howled when you tipped him a buck.)



Afterwards I went to the Ritz Theater to see the documentary about the same pale Chicago blues fellows, but the seat I’d expected wasn’t held so I split.

That morning my former host Kent Benjamin called and said he was going to the Dog & Duck pub to see The Shoes at noon but I was nowhere near there. Now, as I walked toward my car on the west side of Congress, Kent called from a den of noise and said something like “4th and Lavaca.” I walked to that corner and stared and wondered if he’d said 34th, 44th, or any 4th at all. No Kent-friendly music was evident, so I headed to my car and places unknown.

This is where timing comes in. My exquisite timing. I walked along Colorado past the Gingerman, a club with a line down the sidewalk. Second in that line was Jason Gross, from Tuesday’s barbecue visit. I poked him and said “Anyone good playing?” He assured me that the Woggles would be great and that I should join him.







The Woggles, Georgians (US) in red tunics and black slacks, are a bouncy 60s style band. They were all over the place. I was, too, and I left Jason to explore the crowd - and there was Kent. Unbelievable. The Woggles were joyfully monkeylike, as their athletic showmanship led them into the crowd and atop tables, apparently that day’s mindset. (They get extra points for the drummer’s name, Dan Electro.)



Next up was Split Squad, a new supergroup with Austin native Eddie Munoz (Plimsouls, True Believers), REM and Baseball Project guy Scott McCaughey *, Fleshtones guitarist/singer Keith Streng, Blondie drummer Clem Burke, lead singer Michael Giblin, and Baseball Project (and Boston Red Sox keyboardist) Josh Cantor. This band, too, embraced the audience in a big way, as guitarist/singer Streng took several leaves of absence from the stage and his senses to table-dance through the crowd. Two bands with showmanship to spare.



* A check of their website shows that McCaughey was just sitting in, is not a regular band member.

Next Jason and me went to a fancy Mexican restaurant where I’d lunched in 2010 with a crew I once palled with. It was terrific. We parted, and I headed to South Congress to look around and check the haps, killing time til I used my extra-special VIP pass to see Eric Burdon at 10 pm at Stages, a club on 6th Street. I stopped by the South By San Jose stage - well, not BY it, half a block back - and spied and heard Alejandro Escovedo, then crossed the street to check the Continental Club’s lineup.

Great Caesar’s Ghost, I spied the name of Jason D. Williams, the superb Jerry Lee Lewis clone. I’d seen him on tv, seen his hands in “Great Balls Of Fire,” and hold a high opinion of his recordings. This was a must! I killed time at the Whole Foods anchor store the size of two jet hangars and then returned to the Continental.



Jason D. paid off. He is a wild and hilarious offshoot of The Killer. Williams’s skyward mule kicks from the piano bench are a wonder to behold, his manic piano pounding got many right notes along with others that were as welcome as he did the most energetic and satisfying set probably of anyone at SXSW. I spoke to Susan Cowsill there, and saw nearly the entire Split Squad band from the Ginger Man. Jason D. attracted a full house, though few music journalists.



Saturday

My days in Austin are so often magical. I sought Cornell Hurd’s annual and always shifting non-SXSW country-fest Saturday at Scholz’s Garden, with the scant directions “somewhere near the capital, on 17th I think.” I roamed around the area and couldn’t find it, and pulled over on a little used street and tried to figure out how to work the location-finder on my Apple iProd doohickey, when who do I see in my car’s rearview mirror but Bill Kirchen.



Kirchen hoists a cuppa at Scholtz’s.

I corralled him to the car, and he pointed to the venue where we walked together. Kirchen has been a popular solo artist since the Commander Cody days, and stands now as true trouper of the music boards. At the fest I enjoyed Cornell, Bill and a host of others.



Kirchen with fiddler Howard Kalish, and Hurd (right).

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A rub-board player with a message.



El Borracho, the Heifetz of the cowbell, and his scorpion coat.

From there I planned to go to South Congress, then remembered I hadn’t yet been to Antone’s Records up on Guadalupe. Went there and ran into all sorts of people, including proprietor Mike Buck. Bandleader and Steady Boy Records honcho Freddy Krc was showcasing acts in the deli next door, making this visit quite the cornucopia. When Al Stahaely reminded me that I’d written a swell review of him in L.A. when he lived there, I smiled, grateful that I did something for someone, anyone, ever. Also saw Phil Lee, nee Phillip Harrison, playing at Freddy’s showcase. Quite a character and a fine singer-songwriter. Freddy Krc is developing an impressive musical empire.

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The Split Squad were playing there too, and airborne guitarist/singer Kent Streng walked the CD rack boards during the break in a Led Zeppelin song. It was wonderful chaos. Saw the Uglybeats, saw Eve Monsees. It was another fine visit to an off-book get together during SXSW.

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Raymond from LA showed up with his friends from San Antonio and we went to South Congress, then down to dine at Threadgill’s. (By now, Saturday, Threadgills was back to normal as a local venue, charging $15 to see Jimmy Lafeve.) From there we walked back up to South Congress, and I peeked into the Continental Club and saw - the Split Squad again, with Mccaughey. Fearing I was nearing death and my life was racing past, I hurried to my car and went home.

Sunday

This day of rest was not one. Having missed the post-SXSW baseball barbecue fest I went up Burnet to Jinny’s Little Longhorn Saloon to meet Mark Leviton and Debbie, who were there to see Dale Watson. I hadn’t seen Dale since the 90s when he lived in LA. But for the white hair he hasn’t changed much - also different is the block-long tour bus he uses to crisscross the nation. It was hot inside the square, peaked but igloolike hut, and by the time he hit the stage it was totally impossible to get in so we didn’t try. I took Debbie and Mark to Maudie’s where I got the correct meal, breakfast tacos with eggs and potatoes, and then dropped them on Congress at Riverside where they went south to their hotel and I north to another to pick up a SXSW friend for dinner. We met with Paul and Nancy Body at Justine’s, east on 5th, and shared a marvelous sunset.



Exhausted, I went determinedly to the Dog & Duck to catch Ian McLagan again (I had caught him for 5 minutes at the Lucky Lounge Thursday, en route to another club), but when I got to the tent his set was still an hour ahead and I gave up. And so back to Dripping Springs for my final night’s rest.

Monday

Got up at 7:30 for my 11:15 flight. The TV news guy had said “All the SXSW people leave Mondays. Leave for the airport two hours early.” So I hit the road at 8:05, got the usual slowdown on the town road, then raced at 70 mph, only to find my flight pushed back an hour. Then two.

It could have been worse! Austin airport is like a small town. Booths for local barbecue joints, live music, plenty of skylight. Why fly anywhere? It’s a destination itself.

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My arrival, now 5 pm instead of 1:15, spurred Southwest to give me a $100 voucher. A few years ago that’d’ve been a free plane flight anywhere.



Davy Crockett hats ain’t what they used to be. Though he was born on a mountaintop in Tennessee, Texas claims him, perhaps in guilt. “You go to hell, I’m going to Texas” seems to be something he uttered.

At Gate D2 at the Phoenix airport, Southwest was selling line positions for $40. “You’ll get either A16, A17, or A18.’ So if you pre-board, do what’s right, you won’t get certain seats because they’re held back for bidders. The airline guy wasn’t wearing a white shirt and a bow tie and speaking through a megaphone, god knows why. I expected him next to engage us in a shell game.