SXSW In ATX Review: A Revolution Worth Dying For
By Smutstrutter
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“A lot of people are tired around here, but I'm not sure they're ready to lie down, stretch out and fall asleep.” -Jim Jones

Austin, TX was voted Maxim’s top hotspot to find a vitamin-deficient rock star boyfriend in, but I’m not so sure how many rockers Maxim’s staff writers have had, because most rockers I know choose not to be tied down, unless it involves handcuffs. Nonetheless, rockers in Austin are by no means, an endangered species in this two-timing, honky tonkin’, three-cowboys-to-every-cowgirl city. Within even further investigation into designating Austin, TX to hold North America’s largest rock and film festival, I’ve uncovered the real reason behind this location. Austin doesn’t have a rock scene; but a revolution! I couldn’t find a shitty band in Austin, and trust me, I glimpsed in every homeless shelter, organic backyard, and dumpster. A strong presence shrouds this city with devoted musicians, influential guitar leaders turning vagrants into preachers, like a congregation of Jim Jones’ believers building a better community to play in for the People’s Temple in ATX. Every year, in the middle of March, unsigned bands and tour buses pour into this city with every purpose and cause to blare their amplifiers 24/7 amongst opening up for several rock legends. And, every year, record reps who navigated their way thru shallow water sign more scenesters with backpacks and eyeliner, like we need yet, another Fallout Boy. Once the dust settles, the remnants of a region that has overwhelming potential to make a lot of rock history with or without a haircut and record label, doesn’t rest easy. Hey, Austin doesn’t need a reason to rock royally, when they roll the rock dice every weekend.

 Sleep was few and far between once I arrived in Austin. To rock this hard, one must pack an alarm clock, if not an eightball. I was in front of Boris by 3:00 in the afternoon, Japanese green machines with the means to bake you in a heatwave. By 4:00, sweat was pouring during Melvins and I was barely moving, except to lift my beer. I whisked away with Ginchy, Tina, and Dano to hit up San Antonio for Turbonegro in an air-conditioned rent-a-car where tickets were held on Will Call. The White Rabbit was packed with Turbojugends jackets and Lonestars. Lonestars are the equivalent to PBR. Turbojugends are equivalent to car clubs. The only thing both are good for is to briefly wet your dehydrated mouth or boast some imaginary membership. After Hank Von Helvete put on a priceless ten year reunion in fur jock strap, could you still believe our night wasn’t even near done? Next I was in Sanctuary’s bathroom with cute broads before David Yow went on. There’s only thing going on in bathrooms in Texas, and it has little to do with soap or paper towels. I wasn’t too impressed once Qui performed, but like I’m judging a goddamn beauty pageant here. What’s amazing is the man is still around and doing what he loves.

Later on that night, I found myself at Wendy Wadd’s afterparty in auto mechanical shop. All Time Highs brought out the ugliness in all of us at 3 in the morning. I tried to invite Jello Biafra to the party, but The Glasspack was being somewhat of a distraction at the time. Jello announced if you want to talk to somebody about music, you give your CDS or demos to his Andy Warhol look-alike lover. Dave Johnson came back with 12” record in which he had nowhere to put it, unless he’s got extra room in his jockstrap.

Jello yaps.

Shirts were printed this year to mock the folks asking for Sixth Street. Apparently, the sourness in every bartender having to work was honing inside like a serial killer, while others are fucking off without a real purpose in their utopia. I, however, did not sense as much animosity within Headhunters, as I did in a few other bars. Die Cobras preached Rock n’ Roll in there on a whole new suicidal level, thanks to Pablo performing on some tall drunks shoulders. Oklahomos nearly tooled us with a teabag when Looney slipped off the stage, but he recovered quicker than the entire week it took me to. Sweet Skull sucked my heart from right out underneath me, and I believe one of them with his voodoo vengeance metal magic still holds it captive. The Quick And The Dead, Sabbath Crow and Rhoades Diablo, all proved they could grove with whatever lineup they threw in front of me. I was forewarned about New Disaster attracting a violent crowd, but violence pretty much follows me like a shadow.

Down the road, and after Ironhead gave me whiplash, Iggy And The Stooges played the headlining act at Emos. I didn’t attempt the sold out show, when after all, I seen them in Detroit at a free one. Many argue if Iggy still has it in him at 60. As far as I remember, he sure the fuck did when he was doing backbends at 58. Ask one of the posers with a wristband, and while you’re at it, get lost! I am.

- Smutstrutter

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