The last cymbal has crashed and the final milk box of water emptied, and ACL Music Fest 2012 has come to its eventual end.
And what a show it was.
This year, as I trudged a mile from parking up to the gates of the festival and filed through the cattle-chute of security, sweat already coursing down my face and back, I had resolved this was my last ACL Festival.
I’ve done my share of music festivals, including all but the first ACL in 2002. I’ve seen literally thousands of bands over the years. And my first festival was the long-forgotten Sunday Break I and II in 1976 and 1977 here in Austin. I was 15 in '76, and this was only seven years after Woodstock. I witnessed behavior that lands people in county jail: public nudity, sex, drugs and what was up until then the loudest sound I could imagine.
It was amazing and I was hooked.
By the time I made it the first Texxas Jam in the Cotton Bowl in 1978, I was a veteran.
I’d seen it before. I have stories.
Growing up in Austin I watching the first great local music movement: the outlaw country of Austin, known in these parts as cosmic cowboy or progressive country. I was witness to Willie Nelson, Jerry Jeff, Steven Fromholz, the late Rusty Wier and Kinky Freidman (yes, he was once a musician). Later I was a close observer of the Austin punk/New Sincerity movement during the ‘80s and active participant in the ‘90s in a band. My love for the live show hasn’t diminished to this day.
I cut my musical teeth here. I eventually learned how to at least manipulate a guitar. I’ll never be able to count myself as a great player, but all I ever wanted was to be in a band as tight as the Replacements (on one of the good nights when they didn’t screw up and around for fun and rebellion). So I guess I’ve now got that going for me as a member of The Fighting Brothers McCarthy.
Fast forward to most of the SXSW Festivals (I’ve lost count), including a year of employment with the fest. I know I have nothing to prove to myself as far as being a knowledgeable fan of the live show. I have no shortage of opinions on music, but I have learned that my opinions are full of dogmatic observations, and I welcome the opportunity to have my mind changed.
I’ve also read music criticism for all those years, known a number of people who do it. So when asked to report on this year’s ACL Fest, I figured I’d give it a go.
So now on to the show….
Whigging, Shaking & Dancing on Friday
I decided to make a late start on all days to conserve my energy. By the time my wife Emily and I arrived and got settled in, it was time for the first of my must-see shows: The Afghan Whigs. I expected this to be an incident-free show, but the first two times I had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Dulli & Co. things ended badly. The first time was at a venue I was a partner in, The Cannibal Club, when Dulli tossed a half-empty beer pitcher into the crowd where its point of contact was on a college coed’s forehead, leaving a nasty gash and a subsequent stitches. The second time was the ill-fated Liberty Lunch show when Dulli picked a fight with the wrong bouncer and was knocked out and left town with a cracked skull.
Third time has to be a charm.
Standing up front among near-adults chugging some kind of blue liquid out of a gallon vodka bottle, I observe how much of he audience would have been in diapers the last time these guys rolled through. One could only wonder what brought them, but no matter. The Afghan Whigs strode onstage a few minutes late, but looked quite fit. The entire band appeared in black playing matching all-white Mesa Boogie amps. (Sponsorship anyone?)
Dulli kept the chatter to a minimum while they blasted through new and old material, throwing in their customary musical quotes from other artists like “Little Red Corvette” and “Who Do You Love?” The tragedy was that this band has no business playing at 4:30 in the afternoon. The Afghan Whigs belong in the dark. Songs about drugs, sex and murder belong in the darkness and an enclosed space where such things thrive.
I don’t think the kids were terribly impressed. No matter. I was happy. No obvious trauma by band or crowd. Win.
The Alabama Shakes turned in a solid performance. Unfortunately they suffered from a terribly underpowered P.A. and this year’s SXSW buzz band were frustrating to try to hear. I had to give up after a few songs; there wasn’t enough sound to keep me straining to hear a band I couldn’t see from 100 yards away.
Over to catch a little Weezer. I don’t count myself as a fan; I don’t mind their music either. Fifty million Weezer Fans (give or take) can’t be wrong, right? The band was tight and more powerful than I imagined. Props.
Florence and the Machine: I can see why they’re popular. Every generation needs a Kate Bush… on steroids. Earnest music for the kids that are waiting for the next Arcade Fire album to drop.
The next hour I spent bouncing around to Thievery Corporation, a band I passed by at ACL 2005 and ‘06 and hadn’t given enough attention to in 2009. Their sound has acquired a more West Indian flavor than I remembered, and the band is augmented by Austinite John Nelson and Chicago resident Frank Orral, both formerly of early '90s local heroes Poi Dog Pondering. It was a delight of rotating singers, and I thoroughly enjoyed the set. More please.
Most festivals have your typical “fair food” to keep you going, fried things and objects on a stick that should not be consumed by rational individuals. It’s always a treat to sample the exceptionally great food that gets better every year here. Something for everyone and with my recent (temporary) veganism, I was not left wanting except to break my diet and eat some barbeque, but that soon passed.
Before listening to The Black Keys round up the night, I ran over to the far end of Zilker Park to find a Porta-Potty that didn’t have a 30-person-deep queue. I was greeted by the beginning of Swedish DJ AVICII’s headline set and the synth riff of The Who’s “Baba O’Riley.” When Roger Daltrey’s voice came blasting out over the top they had my attention. AVICII was atop a 15-foot-tall human head being used as a projection screen. I’m a fan of a few mash-up DJs like Mark Vidler of Go Home Productions. I love the use of rock music as a framework for a dance beat, but after several “song” changes I heard nothing that interested me, and it dawned on me that I was watching a guy play a laptop with some eye-catching visuals, and decided to go back and watch a band. It’s why I came.
The Black Keys are undeniably talented, and Auerbach and Carney (no relation as far as I know) make such a powerful noise. This is my second Keys show and I wonder if maybe 90-minute sets from them may be a bit much. There can be a sameness to the songs that becomes fatiguing after an hour. The Black Keys are one of the most talented bands in the world, and they wield heavy hammers but every song is a nail. Frankly, it’s a relief when the set is over.
Saturday’s Rain, Bird, Shins & Young
Another late start, but just in time to catch the beginning of the rain. I survived the 2009 ACL mudfest and at the time it was just “part of the experience.” In retrospect it was pretty miserable.
Andrew Bird was the first show we made it to, and I’d forgotten how pleasurable and accessible his music can be. He is that rare artist who uses whistling as an instrument and not a gimmick, and the humor and sweetness of the songs came through. Since the last time I saw him at the Paramount Theatre in 2008 he has moved away from his one-man song building and now employs a band playing a variety of instruments and objects that bring out the endearing nature of his songs. After every time I see Andrew Bird I go and explore his catalog and reacquaint myself with these gems. The show is only enhanced by the warm light rain that was falling at the time. All was right with the world.
Our camp was set up near the Barton Springs stage, so Band of Skulls was something I wanted to see. This wasn’t my time. No sooner had they started than the heavens opened up and the hard rain began to fall. This was not good. This was 2009 rain. The band stopped. Ten minutes later the rain stopped. And started. And stopped. I gave this half an hour more before I called it a day. And then calm descended, the dark clouds moved east, and we were spared.
Seeing The Shins made Emily happy. She knew the setlist and I hereby resolve to make up for being musically lazy and not giving them more of an ear. Sometimes bands just fall through the cracks. It’s my loss for not knowing more of this fantastic group’s music.
I made my way over to get a good spot for Steve Earle. I love the guy, even though the rumors on his personality aren’t always complimentary. I have to admire an ardent liberal who lived and worked within the conservative city and music industry of Nashville (he’s now an NYC resident). Earle is not quite as politically articulate as Billy Bragg, but he fights the good fight and has lived a life that backs his convictions. I don’t always agree with him, but I respect that his beliefs are borne from experiences that we should all hope we never have to endure. Battling a late start, equipment failures, sound bleed from Bassnectar on the Honda stage, Earle and his band The Dukes kept the banter to a minimum but delivered a solid performance that struggled against the throbbing bass from the next stage. Steve switched from mandolin to banjo to acoustic guitar and finally electric guitar, and finishes with his rousing “The Revolution Starts Now.” I couldn’t have been happier.
Earle ran late. It was 8:10. Neil Young starts at 8:00.
Shit. Gotta run. Fortunately I only missed the opening song by Neil Young and Crazy Horse. I managed to get up near the sound booth during the fading notes of “Love and Only Love,” and that band burst into "Powderfinger" and we were off! I’d seen him solo and with Booker T and the MGs, but nothing prepared me for this. This is the Neil Young you always heard about. This was real.
Jack White was somewhere on the other side of the world showing everyone his guitar pyrotechnics, but this… was legendary.
I grew up with Live Rust and own the Arc Weld box set with the CD of 34 minutes of song tailings: the feedback at the end of the songs that sounds like the earth is splitting open. I wasn’t disappointed when “Walk Like a Giant” had 10 minutes of throbbing, pulsing amp feedback that prompted someone unfamiliar with Neil’s oeuvre to shout out, “Stop challenging us!”
As I started expressing to my music-related friends the wonderment of what I was witnessing via social media, I was dismayed at how many of my compatriots were relishing sitting on their couches, safe at home, no unpleasantness. I believe they honestly felt they were at the same show as I was. Convinced that they were sharing the same event, but just more comfortable without the hassle.
No. Not in the least. If only it were so easy.
I’ll be the first to tell anyone my legs hurt and my feet were killing me. There was a girl in front of me drunkenly flipping her hair back and forth into my face. The sweet fragrance of marijuana was all around. I was damp from rain and sweat. Some people gave out the useless “Woohoo!” and shouted song requests that had already been played.
And it was all too beautiful.
These are the things that make up a magical moment. Passively watching the livestream of a show on your broadband-connected device is not what rock music was made for, and to think it can be recreated in the comfort of one’s living room makes me sad for my friends. I felt frustration they could have been there so they could know and understand.
In that moment of feedback ringing in my ears and drums pounding at my sternum amidst the jostling of people there was a community of shared experience with total strangers that can never be recreated. I am better off for it. This memory is now shared with the strangers at hand, and that’s as it should be, I suppose.
I heard Jack White was great. Some other time. He’ll do it again soon, I’m sure.
Wrapping Up With a Sunny Sunday
The last day.
Civil Wars: some bands just aren’t meant for daytime crowds of 10,000 plus people. They’re a fantastic duo with gorgeous singing and lovely melodies. But as we sat in the sun listening from 200 yards away, it was obvious that this act ain’t meant for a large festival. Their style of music lends itself to more intimate venues.
The festival staff severely misjudged the popularity of the Lumineers, giving the slightest blemish on what was a perfectly run festival. The band was on a stage too small to accommodate the crowd, making it literally impossible for me to go witness the spectacle.
Die Antwoord: I have no love lost for this band but I know that they are immensely popular, so I wanted to see this Afrikaans trash hip-hop act do that thing they do. Defenders of the group assert that Die Antwoord should be seen as performance art rather than music. I’m not buying it. I lasted 2.5 songs and the less said the better. I knew my time was much better spent getting a good spot for Iggy and the Stooges.
Sitting on the ground, chatting with a 60-year-old man who has been to every ACL, we compared notes on the last few festivals: The oven dustbowl of 2005 and the monsoon of 2009, all part of that shared experience that cannot be had via streaming media.
I won’t deny that it’s hard work, these festivals. Some people are a right pain-in-the-ass. But I can’t remember any situation at all the ACL Festivals I’ve been to that was completely unbearable. It’s been hot as hell, yeah. At times I was genuinely not having much fun, but ACL always gives rewards if one just waits it out.
In 2005 I saw Arcade Fire put on the best show I’ve seen them play when Zilker Park was literally the hottest place on earth at that moment (110 degrees). I’ve seen Elvis Costello start his show with his microphone switched off while playing “Accidents Will Happen.” Was it on purpose? We’ll never know. LCD Soundsystem’s last ACL show was transcendent. The always-great Wilco never disappoint. I caught my bucket-listed Tortoise, cried at John Prine’s poetry, felt chills listening to Richard Thompson, laughed with Randy Newman, saw and enjoyed Gotan Project on the advice of the late Brent Grulke, dug Devotchka playing a Siouxsie and the Banshees cover, and swooned over Neko Case’s angelic voice. How can I even begin to name all the ACL shows that have affected me in some real, tangible way? It’s become more than just a memory and part of my makeup.
That’s something that doesn’t happen passively staring at a monitor.
Oh yeah, Iggy and the Stooges destroyed. Try that when you’re 65.
This is only my opinion. I could be wrong…. But for me, my 10th ACL Fest was more than right.
Photos: Black Keys by theasaxgrind/Steve Hirschman via Flickr; Alabama Shakes by Erick Nava via Flickr.