Lone Star Song Highlights and lowlights of the SXSW fest in Austin

[Guest guest]

Lone Star SongHighlights and lowlights of the SXSW fest in Austin~ By CHRIS MORRIS ~

It’s all too much: not only the title of a Beatles song, but an adequate description of the annual South by Southwest Music Festival, held in Austin last week. Herds of drunken humans stampeded down Sixth Street like spooked cattle, queues snaked into the street at buzzoid shows, and miles of ground were covered uselessly in pursuit of the unexpected. I gotta admit it: SXSW ’06 was an enervating and not entirely satisfying experience for this correspondent, but I have to chalk that up to poor planning and the impatience that comes with the approach of AARP status.

That said, there was good music to be heard:

Best in Show, Public Division: Al , late of NRBQ, blew the doors off a club called the Parish. The joint wasn’t packed, but I don’t know anyone who witnessed this hard-rocking show who didn’t think it was the best thing they saw this year. Tuff songs, terrif singing, a hot ol’ band with three guitars (including Big Al on lead) and Reese Wynans of Double Trouble blowing the B3 – not a bad note in the whole set. ’s new record, After Hours, is a snoozer, but if you get a chance to see him live, get up front and stay there.

Best in Show, Private Division: Escovedo stoked a house of delirious rock crits at a press gig at Las Manitas, the groovy Mex restaurant on Congress. On the mend from hep C and flexing powerful songs from his forthcoming album The Boxing Mirror, Escovedo fronted an acoustic-based group with two cellos and violinist Voelz that proved string quartets can rawk, dammit. A transporting experience, and good news for ’s fans, who have despaired about the state of his health.

Grooviest Surprise: The Woggles of Atlanta, who whipped a crowd on the terrace of Habana Calle 6 into a stone frenzy with their trash-garage-soul puree. I was having a smoke outside my hotel, which abutted the club, and heard their wondrous noise. On investigation, I found a bunch of R & B rednecks doing it to death in matching teal shirts, with befringed go-go gals undulating gleefully at stageside. This stompin’ unit, which has evidently escaped my notice for 10 years, is worthy of a cage death match with the Fleshtones for the Super-Rock champeenship.

Vets Are Fab: I carried Case’s guitar into Exodus to ensure my presence at the Plimsouls’ reunion gig. Though the set was too short by far, I would have strapped a whole fucking PA on my back to see it. Utterly smashin’. Other ol’ guys whose equipment I would have hauled this trip: Steve Wynn (whose Miracle 3 blasted umpteen shows in Texas), Stanard Q. Ridgway (who larfed it up at my hotel, the Capitol Place), and Boston’s mighty Neighborhoods (who proved that pop-punk power trios are still go!).

Locals Rule: While I don’t usually hang at shows by hometowners at SXSW, I caught an afternoon round-robin by my beloved triumvirate of Randy Weeks, Mike Stinson, and Tony Gilkyson at BD Riley’s. It was no mistake, as these local boyos managed to bring a bit of the Cinema Bar to Sixth Street.

Things That Did Not Suck: Jackie Greene, the Deadstring Brothers, the Tearjerkers, South Filthy, the Pink Spiders, Gitogito Hustler, Million Dollar Marxists, Tres Chicas, Kris Kristofferson, Case (solo), Tim O’Reagan, Cullum, Bobby Bare, Jr., and gorgeous, long-legged Texas women.

Disappointments: Brit buzzer Corinne Rae’s 1:45 a.m. Capitol Place showtime (zzzzzzz); the usually magnificent Tim Easton’s rant to his talkative New West party audience (get a grip, boyo: It’s SXSW, where schmoozers will schmooze); my august editor Steve Appleford’s depressing sobriety at the CityBeat/Tower Records party. (I figured if the boss got loaded, I could talk him into giving me a big fat raise. No such luck.)

hosts Watusi Rodeo on Indie 103.1 FM, every Sunday from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m

http://www.lacitybeat.com/article.php?id=3477 & IssueNum=146