-took a shower
-did the dishes
-admired how lily allen rhymes
-wrote
-imagined music videos/film soundtracks
-stared at laundry

word count: 478

9PM to 10PM

– wrote emails
-drafted article for TStS
-danced to telepathe
-tried to teach myself html code
-browsed craigslist’s missed connections

word count: 435

1.) I keep picking up blogs like others’ pick up diseases. this can’t be productive. how many blog hosts/blog names/blog ideas can you have before you just explode?

2.) accountability: (n) responsibility to someone or for some activity

I need some of this.

3.) word counts: if I post every night my word count of what I’ve written, will that produce some accountability? I may also just end up telling you what I did in lieu of write (read: recaps of gossip girl).

4.) brownies + bagel + pizza + lemonade + indian food =

My freelance piece for Too Shy To Stop on SXSW.

The first and only show that I got my hopes up about (and crossed my fingers that I would be able to find a way in) was the Perez Hilton party. The friend who I was staying with had gotten invites through someone and told me about it my first day of SXSW. Little Boots, Yelle, Margaret Cho, Lady Sovereign–I was frothing at the mouth. When said friend’s invite hook up couldn’t get me in, I decided to turn it over to the universe.

I put out a plea on twitter.

Twitter was one of those totally geeky indulgences I let myself get involved with pre-SXSW (that’s how everyone stayed in touch down there! I thought excitedly). So, two days before the party, I put up a post on twitter, asking if anyone had an invite to the Perez Hilton party? I promised pancakes, to write their biography, and my undying love.

As I was steeling myself for a Saturday night sans Perez, I checked my e-mail that afternoon, and lo and behold, a nice guy from Austin had emailed me. He had seen my twitter and said he could take me as his plus one.

For real?

I called, chatted with him for a bit to assess non-psycho-killer status (he was checking me for the same), realized he was just a nice guy with a plus one, and I was in. He had been searching twitter to find clues as to who the special guest at the party would be, when he noticed some people looking for invites. He told me mine won out of over someone else’s because, when he saw my typewriter tattoo, he thought, “That girl must be like a writer gangsta. She means business.”

For real.

We met outside of the venue–an old Safeway lot that was serving as the secret party locale for most of SXSW’s exclusive parties (the Playboy party was also there). Inside the warehouse-like space, there were two bars (free booze is the calling card of these invite only SXSW parties,) including a Cognac sno-cone machine, a huge stage, a wall with mirrors (and bowls of pink lipstick for writing on them), and a swing set playground on a large patch of AstroTurf. Perez Hilton came out to introduce each band in an outfit of head to toe pink, including a glittery headpiece (think Barbie with a Viking theme).

Margaret Cho did a quick act of cock sucking jokes and a few imitations of her mother (who couldn’t laugh at that?). I had heard she had been writing songs, and she busted out a guitar to sing a few songs peppered with more cock jokes, cut ups of bad relationships, and references to STDs and being bad in bed (the other party, not Margaret, of course).

Looking around, I could see that Perez, naturally, had drawn in a lot of gay boys. Where, oh where, were the dykes? Here the synchronicity of SXSW continued: no sooner had I thought the thought than Perez came out to introduce his surprise guest by saying he had gone to every single Lilith Fair (I crossed my fingers that it would be Tori Amos, who had played a few gigs at SXSW). Two women who Perez loved unabashedly, he introduced his surprise guest…

The Indigo Girls!!!!

Now we all knew why the surprise guest was announced at 8pm and not, like, 3am!

I think I was one of maybe four people in the audience who were freaking out. (The clan of baby doll dressed fashionitas behind me sloshed their drinks about and talked through the entire set). They played–of course–songs from their new album, but ended with Closer To Fine (and here about 1/2 of the audience shamelessly sung along). Dyke prayer: heard and answered.

Wandering over to the bar between sets, I noticed a short girl in a tank top and a Brooklyn bike hat, beside a tall girl with curly hair and a messenger bag. Could it be? More answers to my dyke prayer? When in Austin, do as the super friendly Austin natives do: I leaned into the Brooklyn bike hat girl and said to her, “Please tell me I’m not the only dyke in here.”

She laughed, assured me I wasn’t, introduced me to her girlfriend (the tall one), and we all became fast friends. They were enjoying the cognac sno-cones. I told them the magical tale of how I had ended up at the party. When I told them all I wanted to do was dance and dance and dance, they assured me I had found the right people. When the next band came out, we all squished our way to the front and bopped out to what has been, hands down, my new favorite band.

Ladyhawke played songs like those of Til Tuesday, if Til Tuesday were cool as fuck and making music in the modern times of today. I recognized one song (Back of the Van), and danced to every single catchy 80s inspired song, loving Ladyhawke’s grunge girl front woman Pip Brown. Later, when obsessing over her website and uber cool & queer album artwork by Sarah Larnach, I’d read that Ladyhakwe, a musician since youth, wanted to write songs that had the same happy/sad quality that other 80s songs did (Depche Mode, The Cars, etc.). She not only pulls it off, she pulls it off brilliantly. I haven’t stopped listening to her album since I got it. One review I read asked why Ladyhawke hasn’t made it big like CSS or other electro-pop bands have. Good fucking question.

Just when the night could’ve begun to look like a girl-with-guitar fest, Perez Hilton introduced Thunderheist, a hot rapper from–of all places–Canada. She rhymed and rapped in a deep throated Missy Elliot-esque voice, with fierce beats behind her, a magnet of charm and cool as she sassed her way along, bounced around the stage, and made us all dance so hard that by the time it was over, I looked like I had just been in a wet t-shirt contest.

The only band who’s name had come up at SXSW about as frequently (and with as many syllables) as The Pains of Being Pure At Heart was Natalie Portman’s Shaved Head–a pop rock group from Seattle. They were kind of like Gravy Train (i.e. loud ridiculous lyrics, tons of energy, ironic we-know-we’re-silly style), if Gravy Train were white hipsters from the Pacific Northwest. While the girl dancing in front of us had seen them since their early Seattle days and loved them (“They just get better and better!” she gushed), I didn’t think them anything to write home about. Whenever your quirky band name is more interesting than your music, it’s a bad sign.

My plus one hero was mostly excited for this act–Solange, aka Beyonce’s little sister. (Who knew Beyonce had a little sister?) She took the stage like any old school diva would–backed by a big band, flanked by choreographed back up singers, and singing with large, demanding voice. I only made it through two or three songs, though, before my new friends and I grew bored and went to check out the AstroTurf swing set again. SXSWist put it best: “no one is going to be getting pregnant to this overproduced stuff.”

Buzz was big around Little Boots, and from what my Last.fm radio plays of her had suggested to me, she was going to be fun. A small British pop singer, known for playing her own music (imagine that!), with tracks like Meddle and New in Town, her music is smart, energetic and synth-rich pop–the kind of songs that, if the bar you’re at on a Saturday night are playing at the beginning of the night, you can count on it being a good time. She’s super charismatic (I’ve since been charmed by her twitter account of zipping around to photo shoots and gigs) and fun to watch. New friends and I had a ball dancing around to her. Perez wrapped up her act by bringing Kid Cudi (a talented newbie on the hip hop scene) out, asking them to do an impromptu duet of the cover Little Boots had done of Kid Cudi’s song Day N Night. The gift of being at an exclusive celebrity blogger’s party–impromptu duets. Pinch me.

So around this point in the night, Perez Hilton comes on stage to tell us that Lady Sovergien (who new friends and I saw come into the venue and go into the VIP room–I lost all my New York cool and shouted “Wooooooooo!” when she walked past. Note to self: work on that.) has said she’s too sick to perform. He calls her the c-word (my inner feminist bristles) and says he can talk trash on her because that’s what he does. Disappointing, sure, but it’s all good by the time the next act comes out–Rye Rye.

She’s 18, she’s the first act signed to M.I.A.’s label N.E.E.T., and she is sick as fuck. (Sick in the good way, not the Lady Sovereign way). Hard hip hop beats, fierce rhymes, dancers at her side busting out African moves at such a pace that the whole crowd goes wild. She mostly collaborates with DJ Blaqstarr, but tonight is backed by a female DJ, making me think this girl is channeling the best of Salt and Pepa with the energy of M.I.A. I’m dancing so much that I barely even see her perform–just the people around me shaking what their mamas gave them. Good lord, could this night get any better?

Uh, yes.

Perez Hilton comes on stage afterward to say that coming up next, it’s the moment we’ll all be twittering about to our friends tomorrow. Who needs Lady Sovereign? He’s got someone better.

This is about when the crowd collectively freaks the fuck out. Kanye West had performed at the Fader Fort earlier that night, and many had seen him come into the party and stand back stage during Little Boots’ set. Perez has someone better? “Oh, snap!” I shout at the top of my lungs while everyone is screaming.

Oh, snap, indeed. The entire crowd surges towards the front of the stage. (I’m sandwiched between friend of new friends and a girl and her boyfriend). iPhones are crowding the space above our heads. Flashes are going off like crazy. I have one Kanye album, from my days of an 8th grade Special Educator in the South Bronx (oh, if those kids could see me now). Do I like that Kanye has said things like that we should give Chris Brown a break? Hell no. Do I like the five or so new songs he performs, reaching into the crowd, pacing the stage, and eating the energy up? Yes, yes, yes.

Lots of people bounce after Kanye, which I think is crazy–we’re just one more act away from Yelle, my beloved French pop electronica singer. Second to last, though, is the Swedish Ida Maria. Her voice has the strength of Bjork, and her catchy songs finally help me make sense of the t-shirt I saw a Swedish friend wearing that says I LIKE YOU BETTER WHEN YOU’RE NAKED (one of Ida Maria’s chant-like choruses). Otherwise, I don’t see much of this act because I’m making out with friend of new friends under the swing set in the back.

Ahem.

I’ve clocked in about eight hours at this party by the time Yelle comes on. Us hardcores who have stuck around are riled up for it. Yelle plays infectious electropop with witty French lyrics (one of her songs, Je Veux Te Voir, makes fun of a misogynist French rapper). In a red and white Budweiser-logo flashing leotard and white sneakers, Yelle takes the stage, saying in her accented ways, “‘Ello Austin. Are you re-ady to dah-nce?”

Even if Austin isn’t, Yelle sure as hell is. The songs from her album, Pop Up, she’s extended into fun dance mixes for live performance, with the goddamn best choreographed little movements and dance moves I’ve ever seen. I wiggle my way around the front of the stage to find my own room to dance. Months of dancing by myself in my bedroom to these songs are paying off.

When her set is over, we all yell and clap, Perez thanks the sponsors, the lights go up, and we begin to walk through the sticky mess of water bottles and crushed cups out into the night. Finding a cab, I kiss friend of new friends goodbye, shut the cab door, and tell the cab driver where I’m going. After a few moments, he looks at me in the rear view mirror.

“Was it fun?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I laugh, still wiping sweat from my eyes. “It was.”

This wristband and badge business at SXSW was becoming less and less believable to me. Keen on seeing Mirah play at Antone’s, I showed up to the venue about two hours before her set. For my non-badge/band self, cover was eight bucks. And there wasn’t a line at all. Bingo.

Getting to a show early not only promises entrance, but also means you’re going to get to see some rad new bands. Thus I discovered my new love, Theresa Anderson. If you crossed the great Swedish music export with the soul of New Orleans, this is who you’d have. A one woman band, she juggled instruments ranging from the fiddle, a dulcimer, guitar, xylophone, and snare drums, looping one into an energetic beat before bouncing onto the next one. (She even played barefoot, so as to better hit the pedals with her toes). Topping it off, her vocals were sweet and soulful, bringing it all together.

Her songs were sometimes sunny, otherwise dance-able, and always fun pop. For one song, she told the audience that her guest drummer would be Smokey Robinson, and then gestured to a record player on a stool that played a Smokey album as her percussion. Just having finished her second album, Hummingbird Go!, she apparently records most of her songs in her kitchen (adding to my love of women who do creative things in their kitchen). Fitting of the twenty minute time slot of SXSW shows, though, Theresa Anderson was finished in a blink, quickly dismantling her many instruments, pedals, and the rug she had put down to play upon.

My old love, Mirah, took the stage next, petite and barefoot as well. I first heard Mirah in someone’s living room in my early twenties, when I went home with a girl who put on Advisory Committee as we sat on her couch and talked. I’ve since loved Mirah’s sometimes tiny, sometimes epic songs of love and quirky-ness. She mostly played tracks from a new album (have I mentioned yet that nearly every band at SXSW is promoting a new album?), but ended with the dramatic song Cold, Cold Water (swoon).

What doesn’t behoove Mirah is the setting of playing in a bar–she at one point asked everyone to stop talking, because she sang so quietly (this was in response to an audience that yelled ‘more vocals!’ to the sound guy, as if we were in charge). Even standing in the second row, it was hard to hear all of the nuances of Mirah’s new songs.

Points, though, for her girl guitarist/bongo-ist and girl drummer. I was getting tired of seeing guys do so much at SXSW. Where are the ladies? I found myself thinking at so many showcases. My last night of SXSW, at the Perez Hilton party, would give me some good answers.

My freshman year of college, in that awkward late teenage time when your music tastes are finally being carved into something worthwhile, I was lucky enough to stumble upon a friend’s copy of PJ Harvey and John Parish’s collaboration album, Dance Hall at Louse Point. While I knew PJ Harvey from her rough and sultry solo albums–Rid of Me, Is This Desire?, Stories from the city stories from the sea–this collaboration featured the deep, blues-like rock instrumentation of John Parish, paired with Polly Jean’s lonesome, wailing vocals. The album was a gem, including her heartbreaking rendition of the song Is That All There Is? My burned copy is still in rotation of my beloved music, all these years later.

Naturally, I freaked when I noticed that sxsw’s lineup included PJ Harvey + John Parish. This elation was quickly curbed, though: as with many other large acts, like Tori Amos, The Decemberists, and Andrew Bird, I had to remind myself that, without a wristband or badge, there was a snowball’s chance in hell that I could get into these headlining shows. It would involve three hour waits in line, and lots of luck.

Imagine my glee, then, when my friend told me that the Seattle radio station KEXP was doing live recordings of Andrew Bird, Peter Bjorn + John, PJ Harvey + John Parish, and others at the TV station down the road from her house. Each recording would allow about a hundred audience members into the intimate studio session for free.

We queued up with others about an hour before Andrew Bird, and the sweet KEXP people told us that if we wanted to see the other acts, we would be given priority in the queue, since we were here first. Done and done.

(I have to take a moment here and say: the camera on my iphone sucks. Lighting washes people out, and it’s way too shaky. Add to this my not having taken pictures since some half assed attempt at a photography class in college, and you have less than excellent photos. I only post to illustrate some kind of visual to my verbal account.)

When they opened the studio, it was so small and intimate that I was about fifteen feet from Andrew Bird as he whistled, strummed, and chatted his way through a set of new songs, plus one from a former album.

Swedish pop indy rock band Peter Bjorn and John played new songs (I was longing to hear the popular whistling song that I associate with the first episode of Gossip Girl), making jokes and switching places as the act went on.

And then, about five hours after I had first arrived, we were being allowed into the studio for PJ Harvey + John Parish. I sat right up front. I could’ve stood up and kissed her (resisting the urge to do so was all based out of courtesy, I swear). She wore a lovely crepe black dress with a crepe pink rose on the front, and tall stiletto heels (the same dress she wears from the promos for the album, I think).

The songs were all from her and John Parish’s new collaboration (“It only took us twelve years,” she joked about the lapse of time between albums), plus one track (Civil War Correspondent) from Dance Hall at Louse Point. The heady vocals brought me right back to that first time I heard their collaboration.

Leaving the studio, everyone seemed as dazed and giddy as I was–had we just seen PJ Harvey in a studio? We had just seen PJ Harvey in a studio! Unlocking my bike and pedaling away, I didn’t think my sxsw could get any better than this.

It’s not so bad, doing sxsw sans wristband and/or badge. I had thought about throwing down the $180 or so for a band, which gets you second priority to all the official shows. Going band-less though can still guarantee you a good time, if you don’t mind day time shows (unofficial, and almost always free), the occasional long line, and tons of other people.

Take, for instance, the Department of Eagles daytime gig at Waterloo records. Even though we got there about a half an hour before set, my friends and I were crammed in with about a hundred other fans. I tried to balance myself against a side shelf of cds and crane my neck over the crowds. This is about how much I could see, though.

They played a very short, very hungover set. They stopped in the middle of one song to fiddle with sound quality, and in the end, had did about as much banter with the crowd as they had played songs. (This would be nothing compared to Passion Pits’ intoxicated antics later in the day, though).

Passion Pit was one of my absolute-must-see bands at sxsw, so the hour long wait in the hot sun to get into their free day time gig at Radio Room was fine by me. Other people in line were banking on seeing the Avett Brothers, who I hadn’t heard of, but judging by the amount of fans also in this obnoxiously hot line, had be to good.

We walked in to see Omaha darlings Cursive finishing up their set. (I only know Cursive from my brother’s high school days, when they were one of the many emo bands he listened to). Outside under a tent was the other stage. I pushed my way up front and battled legions of drunk, smoking sweaty people to make sure I would close to Passion Pit.

People around me were excited for the Avett Brothers, who were up first. One girl in front of me talked about how they couldn’t quite be classified as bluegrass, but were still bluegrass.

Bluegrass classified or not, they were good. Three handsome dudes from North Carolina (plus a handsome fiddle player who jumped on with them later on) playing bluegrass inspired pop rock–every song was a love song, the kind of song that probably made girls swoon and wish they would be crooning to them. Their music had the force of Neutral Milk Hotel’s songs, with charismatic pop vocals yelled by the lead singer with his banjo painted with skulls and roses–badass bluegrass? You could definitely head bang to it. Het women and gay men should get their crushes on–they were all very easy on the eyes.

Waiting for Passion Pit to come on, I hoped I could find enough wiggle room in the crowd to dance the way I wanted to. The young Boston band has infectious electro-pop tracks, having borrowed the equipment of MGMT and Hot Chip to get their start. I give credit to them–after a mere fifteen minutes of sound check for three keyboards, a drum set, apple power book, and guitar player, they were on.

When they were on, they were on–high pitched vocals and fast beats causing those of us willing to dance able to jump around with our hands in the air. But when they were off–a false start to their song sleepyhead ruined the high adrelin moment, and the poor lead singer was so tipsy that he a) knocked beer onto his keyboard and b) swung the microphone around only to whack his bandmate in the head with it. One could only hope that a bigger stage and a proper sound check would give these boys the running start they need to deliver.

And, just when the hot sun and crowded downtown scene was becoming too much, there was the free outdoor concert at Auditorium shores. I showed up right at sunset as the Cold War Kids were finishing up (a jumbotron broadcast what those not right up on the stage couldn’t see) and M Ward was about to go on. A blanket, friends, corn dogs, cupcakes–it was pretty sweet. The sound quality at first nearly rendered the M Ward performance pointless (how can you hear this genius singer songwriter when the sound is low and everyone around you is chatting up a storm?), but then the volume went up, the crowds thinned out, and we could dance around all we wanted to.

Bonus points–if you tipped your head back to the dark sky, it was all stars, stars, stars, stars, stars.

Bliss.

I’m told that sxsw comes with some magic–a higher proportion of coincidence and synchronisity than other places and times on earth. This came true my first night, when, once separated from my friend who wanted to go to see Dan Auerbach of the Black Keys, I didn’t know where to go. All my schedules were at home (oops), and due to all the hipsters on their iphones, 3G was a clusterfuck of uselessness. I couldn’t look up shows, I didn’t know where I was, and I didn’t really have a way of knowing. The one band I wanted to see that night, An Horse, I couldn’t remember where they were playing for the life of me.

So I started to walk down 6th street.

I found myself outside of Maggie Mae’s, where a large banner proclaimed that tonight was a benefit show for Girls Rock Camp Austin, a sister camp of Willie Mae. I met all the rad ladies from rock camps around the world last year at the Girls Rock Camp Alliance conference, and inside the bar, Emily of the Austin camp recognized me with warm welcome. Coincidence? I think not. The GRCA conference was actually happening in Austin the week after sxsw, so synchronisity continued as I bumped into people from girls rock camps in DC, Sweden, and NY throughout the week.

I stayed for two bands–The Besties (an upbeat pop rock band from Brooklyn) and Zolof + The Rock and Roll Destroyer (a dance-y band from Philly that played music like that of a video game soundtrack). Synchronisity continued when I asked a badge holder at the bar to borrow their sxsw guide, where I could look up the An Horse show. It happened to be at Maggie Mae’s Rooftop in two hours.

Eight bucks and a flight of stairs later, I was there.

The guy standing next to me upstairs was holding a megaphone. When I gave him a funny look, he smiled and held the megaphone up for me to see. “It’s for my band, Black Cherry,” he said, sweet as pie and British accent to boot. We talked for a bit about the other bands on the bill, and then, he took the stage as drummer for Black Cherry.

I was hoping to see some bands that just have that vibe of being the next big thing, and Black Cherry totally fits that bill. The lead singer, a Santigold look a like, sang and strutted like a British Karen O, but cooler. Their solid and heady rock, with pop and synth tones, was totally tied together by this woman’s charisma–she jumped around, threw her shoes off, shouted into the megaphone, and made comments like, “It is important to our lives and yours that you remember our name.” Her badass vocals and stylings were completely addicting. This was their first time in the states, they said.

Australian indy rock duo An Horse came on next. The audience had filled up with baby dykes who were ogling lead singer Kate Cooper, and who knew the words to all their songs.

The played a solid set of songs from their record Rearrange Beds, with endearing banter between songs. “I get scared about all these crowds,” Kate said, “I think, what if something happened, like a zombie attack?” They scraped their quiet song due to the loud noise of a band playing on the rooftop of the bar next door (the perils of sxsw).

On the way out, I passed the Black Cherry on the stairs. The drummer and I grinned, and I told him how rad their set had been. “I’m gonna go back to New York and tell everyone about you guys!” I enthused. They all shook my hand and thanked me, and made sure I had a copy of their demo cd. Then I was back out into the loud and hot evening, strutting down 6th street, feeling good.

greetings from the monday after sxsw. this is a note to say you have not been forgotten. i have a whole new respect for bloggers who can do this while partying/going/biking/seeing the whole week.

today marks the official end of sxsw, emptying the streets and clearing the city of all the portapotties. i promise that today i’m gonna park myself at jo’s coffee and bang these posts out. i’ve got pics and stories of passion pit, the avitt brothers, cursive, m ward, department of eagles, mirah, theresa anderson, pj harvey + john parish, andrew bird, peter bjorn + john, little boots, margaret cho, the indigo girls, ladyhawke, rye rye, thunderheist, kanye west, yelle, natalie portman’s shaved head, sonia k of yo majesty, and

deep. fried. avocados.