Stagestruck
AUSTIN CITY LIMITS MUSIC FESTIVAL
@Zilker Park, Austin, TX
Sept. 17-19, 2004
The third edition of the Austin City Limits Music Festival was an improvement over the previous two installments. The logistical problems that plagued the 2002 fest have been ironed out (minus the water booths having neither ice nor change at the beginning of opening day) and the lineup malaise that effected the 2003 event was banished by an eclectic mix of performers and styles that showed some real forethought on the part of whoever books this thing. It also helped that I was much smarter in my preparations this time around, keeping well-hydrated, spending large amounts of time out of the sun in the Austin City Limits tent or the Waterloo Records tent and, most importantly, slathering myself frequently with sunblock. (For those who've never been to Austin in September, it tends to be just as brutally hot as it is in the summer—sometimes more so.) I had a much better time this year than on the 2002 jaunt.
Friday 9/17:
First up for me was Tucker Livingston. The son of the Lost Gonzo Band's Bob Livingston, the young singer/songwriter is the winner of some sort of development award from the Austin Music Foundation. I can see why he'd receive that prize, as he seems to have been genetically engineered to appeal to listeners of our local Adult Album Alternative radio station KGSR. He gets points for adding distortion to his acoustic guitar for solos and choruses and for a few genuinely clever lines like "They say walls have ears but I know they don't/Because I talk to walls all the time," but otherwise his vaguely rootsy pop is fairly innocuous. He may yet turn into something exceptional, but at the moment he doesn't have the truly killer tunes to do so.
Next up was the Killers, a young quartet hyped all to hell in the same Nuevo New Wave sweepstakes as Interpol, Franz Ferdinand and the like. Sure enough, the first song confirmed that the 80s revival is in full swing. The Las Vegas outfit dived gleefully into 80s analog synths, post-disco rhythms, tremelous vocals and loud but effects-laden guitars, like A Flock of Seagulls with balls and the ability to write more than one melody. The Cure is also an obvious touchstone, but it's the Cure of pop effervesence like Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me rather than the gothic gloom of Pornography. There's some Echo & the Bunnymen in there too. It's kind of odd, actually, as the band members look way too young to have grown up listening to this 80s stuff. Regardless of influences, tunes like "Somebody Told Me," "All These Things That I've Done" (the one with the "I got soul but I'm not a soldier" refrain) and the melodramatic ballad "Andy, You're a Star" boast strong, memorable melodies and hit all the pleasure buttons for anybody who looks back on circa-1982 MTV with a certain fondness. What's funny about all this to me is that most of the crowd were under 30, even under 25—this nostalgia trip is actually fresh meat to them. Ah, the generation gap…
In order to avoid the glowing orb in the sky attempting to toast everybody to a brown crisp, I spent a bit of time in the Capital Metro tent with the Electric Church, a gospel combo consisting of a jazz/funk band, a mixer, a turntablist and a choir. The group spent a little too much time riding the groove when the vocalists left the stage; the constant crowd turnover was testament to how hard it is to hold onto a discerning audience during ostensibly endless jams. But the Electric Church is as much about the Spirit as the Groove, so it was a nice, uplifting respite from the heat and the hype. They lost me when they brought out Ben Harper to do some toasting, though.
After a lunch break, I hit the Heineken stage to see one of the bands whose presence convinced me to come this year: Sloan. I'm a fairly recent convert to this Nova Scotian quartet's wonderful power pop, having fallen in love with its recent album Action Pact, and was eager to see the group in, well, action. Despite the heat sapping the strength of these poor Canadians, they did not disappoint. Playing Beatlesque tunes with a cock-rock swagger, Sloan hit the ground running, letting up only once after highly active bassist Chris Murphy announced "I think one or two or three of us are gonna faint, so we're gonna slow it down." The band rocked ass on Action Pact nuggets like "The Rest of My Life," "False Alarm" and "Ready For You," reaching a peak early on with "Live On." They also delved into the back catalog with gems like "Coax Me," "Losing California" and "Money City Maniacs," closing with "Underwhelmed," the big hit from its first album Smeared. The crowd, filled with loyal Sloan fans more knowledgeable about the band than I, went wild. It was easily one of the best sets at the Fest this year. Beatle Bob, furiously bopping around in the VIP seating area, must have agreed.
Now that I was high on the adrenalin only a great rock & roll show can produce, I casually sauntered over to the Bank of America stage to check out Sloan's fellow Canadians Broken Social Scene. I figured few people at the now highly populated Fest had heard of the acclaimed Toronto group and that I could get a good seat to see what the buzz is all about. Silly me—the grounds in front of the stage were already packed a half-hour before showtime. The kids know a lot of things I don't, I guess. BSS is more of a collective than a band; the large ensemble included, on top the usual rock rhythm section, keyboards, a four-piece horn section, a couple of tambourine players, multiple singers and usually no less than five guitars at once, with lots of comings and goings and instrument switching. The group's spacey psychedelic anthems sounded like the composers heard Sigur Ros and thought they could use more structure (not to mention lyrics in identifiable English)—almost every tune started slow and dreamy, swelled up its chest like a puffer fish, then gently let the air out. The momentum and structure increased as the set proceeded, giving the impression of a skeleton growing muscle and skin as we watched. It was self-indulgent as hell, of course, but that's not necessarily a bad thing, and the musicians seemed to be having a great time. I can't say I'm completely sold on BSS, but I think that's because of the venue rather than the music. The band's epic tunes tended to rise up from the stage and float out over the crowd into the open air; I can see how in a club, when the melodies would bounce off the walls and put the audience inside the music, Broken Social Scene would be a transcendent experience.
I ended the evening with my second 80s New Wave flashback of the day. Scotland's Franz Ferdinand draw their sound from the same era as the Killers, though from different artists. Rather than the lush pop atmospherics of the Cure, FF uses the angular rhythms and scratchy guitars of bands like Gang of Four, Wire and the Clash at its funkiest as primary inspiration. Layering its chink-chunk licks to the same disco-derived rhythm as the Killers (not to mention countless groups before them), Franz Ferdinand drove the kids crazy with catchy, danceable pop tunes like "Tell Her Tonight," "Michael" and the big hit "Take Me Out." It wasn't unlike very early Duran Duran, circa "Planet Earth" and "Girls on Film," before that band became insufferable. FF even nodded to an era 20 years before its time period with "Your Diary," which grafted a very 60s-style intro to the its usual New Wave funk. The Scots also have a readymade anthem in "This Fire," which served as an appropriately rousing encore. The band's nervous energy and insistent rhythms are perfect for its worldview of post-adolescent longing; it performed magnificently and the young audience (again, too young to realize that this music isn't new) responded accordingly. (As did Beatle Bob, who danced onstage for a number.) Nice work.
Saturday 9/18:
First thing today was the band I was most anticipating at this year's Fest: The Soundtrack of Our Lives. I've written at length before on how wonderful I think this Swedish psychedelic rock & roll sextet is and how amazing the band is live, and this show was no exception. Though it seemed unnecessarily cruel to book a band in no way used to this kind of Central Texas heat (with an overweight lead singer to boot), at 1:00 in the afternoon, TSOOL didn't let the blazing sun put a damper on things. The group treated longtime fans to a genuine oldie—"Grand Canaria," from its first album—and previewed "Big Time" and "Headed For a Breakdown," two loping, melodic rockers from its upcoming album Origin. Mostly, though, the band charged through a set drawn mostly from its masterpiece Behind the Music, ripping through its multiple anthems ("Infra Riot," "Nevermore," "Broken Imaginary Time") with the enthusiasm of teenagers. Guitarists Mattias Barjed and Ian Person hardly stood still—even if they broke a string, they simply picked up tambourines and kept going, refusing to let the energy flag. Keyboaridst Martin Hederos couldn't stay seated, twitching as if he want to strap his Fender Rhodes around his waist so he could leap around with the pickers. This is a band that loves to play its own music, always a joy to see. "Come over here, everybody—you don't know what you're missing," deadpanned singer Ebbot Lundberg. The jovial frontman was his usual boisterous self, moving around like a man of half his weight, singing magnificently. He attempted to take his usual walk through the crowd during "Independent Luxury," but was stymied by a short microphone chord. He simply continued on, allowing the mic to disconnect, stubbornly refusing to leave the throng until a suitable chord was found. (This apparently frustrated Barjed, who implored his bandmate to return to the stage and use his mic, before saying something apparently quite nasty in Swedish.) With a long chord evenutally located, Lundberg picked up where he left off (the band never stopped playing), before slamming into "21st Century Rip Off" and a hug from Barjed, all forgiven. Ending with a titanic "Sister Surround" with Lundberg taking it to the people once again (not to mention Beatle Bob, who appeared on the edge of the stage) and the band improvising a boogie rock coda. The group quit the stage, Barjed and Lundberg arm-in-arm, clearly exhausted and wasted by the heat (indeed, Lundberg started to look pretty pale by the end of the set), leaving a screaming, vibrating, impossibly energized crowd in its wake. My god, can this band do no wrong? This was undoubtedly the best set I saw at the Festival.
Maybe that's why I found the Old 97's so humdrum. I've seen the Dallas quartet several times; even though I find their records uneven, I've always enjoyed their high energy live show. Two albums have gone by since I last saw them, so I was looking forward to hearing newer material. I gotta say, though, that tunes like "Rollerskate Skinny" and "The New Kid" sound just like their old songs, which says something about their consistency but not much about their development. Singer Rhett Miller's self-deprecating romantic acumen was fine for an album or three, but has gotten old; hell, even the older tunes like "Barrier Reef" and "Street to Where I'm From" are starting to sound a little shopworn. It didn't help that the sound kept cutting in and out, with lead guitarist Ken Bethea's axe often disappearing from the mix and Miller's vocals rarely coming through loudly enough. On the plus side, Bethea's tone is getting more ragged and wild, and bassist Murry Hammond's "Crash On the Barrelhead" and "West Texas Teardrops" hold up extremely well. The 97's ended their loose, rough set with its twin anthems "Big Brown Eyes" and "Time Bomb," pleasing the large crowd but sounding to me like they used those songs as crutches. Maybe I'm just an old fart, but I found the set lacking in excitement.
After a long, leisurely break between acts (though I could hear Bruce Robison in the distance and was shocked at how many recent country hits he's written), I went back to the modest Heineken stage to stake out a seat for Venezuela's Los Amigos Invisibles. I correctly guessed that every groove-loving chick in a bikini would drag her date to this show, and space was already at a premium when I got there.(I'll leave the eye candy factor to your imagination.) My date and I managed to score a good spot, though, and I'm happy we did. Simply put, Los Amigos were amazing. Playing mostly tunes from its latest record Venezuelan Zinga Son 1, the band sustained an irresistably funky, danceable groove for an hour, with no breaks between songs, like a DJ mix album without the electronic segues. This group is the tightest bunch of musicians I've ever seen—they must have no social lives, since they obviously rehearse from dawn 'til dusk. Bandleader José Luis Pardo is probably the best rhythm guitarist in the world, as responsible for the relentless groove as the drummer, bassist and percussionist, and keyboardist Armando Figueredo used his flamboyant chops to add spice (not to mention Harold Faltermeyer quotes) to the corset-tight arrangements. Lead singer Julio Briceño crooned, jived, whacked handheld percussion and jiggled constantly to the beat, as much cheerleader as singer, looking impossibly cool even in those hideous orange-and-white striped pants.The crowd shook its collective groove thang despite the oppressive heat coming from being directly in line with the setting sun. Fuck that electronic shit—this is dance music.
I spent the next couple of hours cooling off and letting my heart rate settle before the main event of the day, maybe even the Festival itself: the Pixies. Anticipation was high for the recently reunited band's closing performance. All I can say is: what a crushing disappointment. Maybe it's because I was so far back in the crowd the volume wasn't nearly loud enough and I couldn't see the expressions on the musician's faces, even on the Jumbotron. (My fault, since I decided to stay at the back edge of the crowd so I could hit the shuttle as soon as the show concluded.) Maybe it's because the band's dynamic, postpunk sound, so original and fresh when it first appeared in the late 80s, sounds old hat after being ripped off so much in the past decade, the way Raymond Chandler's prose seems clichéd even though he was inventing the hard-boiled style at the time of writing. Hell, maybe it's just because the glow from the TSOOL show still hadn't faded. Whatever it was, the set seemed to me to be purely professional, solid but without passion or inspiration. The band simply trotted out its catalog, both hits like "Monkey Gone to Heaven," "Gigantic" and "Wave of Mutilation" and obscurities like "Dead," "Subbacultcha" and "Bone Machine," as if offering it for inspection rather than performing it. Singer Frank Black Francis can still scream with the best of them, but otherwise he sounded bored. I waited through an incredibly lazy version of "Where is My Mind" before losing interest completely. As value for the money, I guess it was impressive; the band was up to 21 songs in less than an hour by the time I left. But I found the whole thing dull at best, and I can't have been the only one, as I saw a lot of fans more excited about the show than I was leave after just a few songs. Too bad a day that began with such a bang ended with little more than a whimper.
