By Melissa Fossum
By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
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But most of the thing was just plain fun; now, let's see how much I can remember.
Something about a plane ride . . . oh, yeah--I barely made the morning flight out last Wednesday. Got the last available seat, up against the cockpit, in fact, and rode backward all the way to Austin. That turned out all right, as the person across from me was Zia Records kingpin Brad Singer. I'm not too big on flying, but we yakked most of the way and that helped me keep my mind off the fact that I was hurtling through the sky at hundreds of miles an hour in a multiton tube of metal that God probably didn't want up there to begin with. I can't recall what we talked about, but I do remember assuring him that I wouldn't mention him in this column.
And then I was in Austin, standing in line at the car rental when one of the world's greatest guitarists walked by, ax in hand. Yes, it was Big Al Anderson (looking truly svelte after dropping 130 pounds), who recently quit NRBQ and joined Carlene Carter's band. I heard later that during Al's seminar, he said, "NRBQ is nothing without me. But then they were nothing with me."
I headed down to the Convention Center to register for the conference. This was pretty much the nerve center of the whole event, the site of the many panels, seminars and trade shows that ranged from interesting and helpful to silly. There were swarms of musicians and managers running around handing out cassettes, CDs and business cards, and, as my friend Mike observed, "lots of guys in Helmet and Tool tee shirts hitting on fake cowgirls." Aside from being clever, Mike had me seething with envy as he described his previous night's dinner date with Lee Harvey Oswald's daughter.
Things officially got rolling on Thursday, and that was when the sheer magnitude of the conference made itself known. More than 4,000 people showed up, quite a jump from the 700 that made it to the first SXSW eight years ago. While this made for a lively time, it also made it virtually impossible to get into many of the shows. In the old days, you could skip from club to club fairly easily, but this year, if you wanted to see a band with a buzz (the band, not you), you had to stake out space at the venue hours in advance and stay there.
That afternoon I headed up to Waterloo Records for an in-store performance by a great country-pop band from Seattle called the Picketts. Had some free Rolling Rock. Dug the plaintive, seductive vocals of singer Christy McWilson. Had some more free Rolling Rock. Look for the band's CD Paper Doll; if Patsy Cline replacing Jason in the Scorchers sounds appealing, you won't be disappointed.
And speaking of not being disappointed, that evening I couldn't speak of it at all. Jimmie Dale Gilmore hosted his annual bash, this year at the City Coliseum, a cavernous place with a wooden floor and concrete bleachers. Looked like someplace they built airplanes in during WWII. Jimmie Dale had quite a lineup with him--Rodney Crowell, Bob Mould, Michelle Shocked, Mudhoney, Ben Vaughn, Joe Ely and Dave Alvin were a few--not something you get to see every day. Unfortunately, I had to split before the finale, a mind-boggling set featuring Jimmie Dale sitting in with grunge lords Mudhoney. I got in a cab, and in a few short minutes, found out that my driver was one Woody Price. Who's Woody Price? I just told you he was a cab driver, but he told me he was a "damn fine country-music singer/songwriter/guitar picker." Here's something you find out real fast--players in Austin are like thespians in New York: You're an actor? What restaurant?
I got off on Sixth Street, the main drag for clubs and crowds, and arrived just in time to stand outside the door of a packed joint called Emo's and hear the one and only Johnny Cash sing "Ring of Fire." It may sound hokey, but that was pretty cool.
I walked into a bar down the street and ran into, well, wedged into two Phoenicians named Sherri and Monique. Sherri told me there was a parrot in the lobby of their hotel, and Monique was teaching it to say, "Who farted?" We had a swell time killing beers and listening to a band called Marti Brom, inspired rockabilly starring Ms. Brom, a Rubenesque lady with a big, wailing voice.