Death By Texas: Day Three
For the next 5 days Sean Fennessey will be blogging from Austin TX's South By Southwest Music Festival.
Day three is a bit of blur -- 12 bands at six venues over 12 hours and I'm intellectually winded. At Pitchforkmedia's party at Emo's (Full Disclosure: I used to write for the site) I caught manic mashing DJ Girl Talk (ahem) and while his flailing about and head-thrashing isn't much to look at it, he creates a new sonic canvas every set, slicing the sharpest, stickiest pieces of Top 40 pop and pasting them together (like say, Tag Team's "Whoomp! There It Is," "SexyBack," Nirvana's "Lithium" and "What You Know") to make an enjoyably schizophrenic brand of dance music. After that, I ran into blog homie (yikes) Rollie Pemberton, a/k/a/ Edmonton's own Cadence Weapon, who recently signed to Epitaph Records and made a smart, discombobulated hip hop album, Breaking Kayfabe, last year. Look for Rollie to do big things soon. Then I saw a bit of intense shoegaze rockers Deerhunter, and a DJ set from highly-touted production duo Simian Mobile Disco, who disappointed. Menomena did their floating indie rock thing, which wasn't awful. But I missed the Pipettes. Again.
I hurried over to the Fader Fort shortly thereafter to see much-blogged, much-slagged British R&B singer Amy Winehouse. It's no secret her Back To Black is my favorite record of the young year, even if it is some homage-in-a-pretty-dress shit. Last time I saw Winehouse, in February at New York's Joe's Pub, she had an amaretto sour in one hand and strands of her beehive weave in the other. She sounded great, but guarded. Almost afraid of the power of her voice, relying on drunk blathering and crap melisma too often. At this venue she arrived in the same weave, but no breast-mashing cocktail dress, just a demure black blouse and jeans (black stilettos, though, naturally). And she didn't roll with her ten-piece band either -- just an acoustic guitarist. And thank God for that. Because Winehouse performed at the dinner-time ready 6:25 set, several audience members were chatty and uninterested. With just the strums of the guitar accompanying her, Winehouse ripped, letting loose her big voice (she did ocassionally flub her own sharp lyrics -- though she wasn't drinking) and moving me, if not the rest of the unsettled crowd. Winehouse's assumed a tabloid drama queen rep in the press, and sadly her schtick -- bulimia, anorexia, coke binges, tattoos, alcoholism, breakups, etc. -- are getting as much press, because they're integral to the story I suppose, as her impressionistic singing. I was glad to see her unadorned in the Texas sun. It didn't agree with her makeup, but that's about the only thing that did run -- insert "Tears Dry On Their Own" joke here.
A long dinner at the famed Iron Works BBQ hit the spot (actually a few spots -- pork ribs, holler) and then a descension into several venues, including Maggie Mae's for girl rock duo The Pierces, who were pretty and punchless, and the shock-and-awe opera-rock of My Brightest Diamond, which was good spectacle, but doesn't hold over the long form. My night ended at the Beauty Bar, which produced easily the best show of any night all week. Lesbian power rappers Yo Majesty just began their set as I arrived. I missed Qualo, The Cool Kids and Roxy Cottontail - ha! - unfortunately. But Yo Majesty, ecstatic and sort of hateful, damn near killed onlookers with their clanging hip hop. They ripped their shirts off at one point, and -- breasts out -- screamed bloody murder, terrifying me. I loved it. After a lot of dippy mellow bullshit, save Winehouse, something finally felt alive. But Yo Majesty deserves about 20 minutes of anyone's time and that's it. We got 55. They left to swooning roars, but not before one member accused a stage diver of "tryna sand my nipple off!" She threatened to punch "that motherf***er in the face" before re-clothing and leaving the stage. A walk outside to the patio area revealed Bay Area underground legend Saafir, who rapped "Cash Me Out" with ease and charm, never pandering (except when asking for cash, obvs.). He was a stark contrast to Yo Majesty's bluster and because we all need the nerd to come out of us sometimes, I found myself really admiring Saafir, even if he did oddly blame 2Pac for making hip-hop not real anymore, or some such nonsense.
Back inside (the venue was coolly split and open to shifting in and out) A-Trak DJed for about the 93rd time that week and did what he was always does -- impresses technically, ocassionally thrills you, but eventually leaves you feeling cold. He's a smart guy and an incredible stylist, but the shift from DMC champ to kingpin party-rocker is a tricky divide. Kid Sister showed up later for a performance, but I bounced outside before she started.
At the patio, Bay Area hyphy upstarts The Pack performed what felt, at the time, like the best set of the week. They looked like they were having fun (they're 19 years old and rapping to strangers at 1A.M. in a strange state, after all) and rapped together like pros. The songs aren't necessarily there yet, aside from their hit "Vans," but their energy was enough to make me a believer. Until Bay vets The Federation showed out.
The Federation are probably best known for bringing hyphy to the national lexicon with their song of the same name a few years ago, and recently have had semi-hits in "18 Dummy" and the stupid-amazing "Stunna Glasses At Night," but their supposed breakthrough album It's Whuteva has been delayed for nearly a year now and the good will they'd built up in 2006 had seemingly disappeared. Not true, it turns out. Maybe it was the 1:30 A.M. set time, or the copious Lone Star, but the f***ing Federation put on the best show I saw all week. Each MC, Doonie Baby, Stressmatic and Goldy, have distinct voices and varying styles, but each has a furious excitement in that voice. Rick Rock's beats are brilliant club fodder, intricate enough for geeks, but banging enough to go dumb to. The group did a greatest hits set, which was fine with everyone, and when commanded to go dumb, the crowd nearly tipped the patio's tent over. The Pack, looking on like gleeful students, invited white girls on stage and swayed to something they aspire to. The Federation will never be very famous and they're not rocket scientists. But for that moment in time, they were greatest group on the planet.
TOMORROW: The Good, The Bad, The Queen, The King Red and Swizzy. And maybe the Pipettes.
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