Earlier this week, I wrote, “I’m not a fan of festivals.”
Friday morning (10/12) as the clock approached 11 a.m., I parked my Car2go in one of the sharing service’s dedicated spots five blocks from the bus shuttle site at Republic Square that would take me to Zilker Park for the 11th Austin City Limits Music Festival. As I slung on my backpack I said to myself: This is going to be fun.
You might think all this contradictory, but as someone said to me at one point during the last two days: “The Austin City Limits Music Festival is what you make of it.”
As I entered the Fest site after a quick bus ride to Zilker, I was reminded of doing just the same in 2002, ACL Fest year one, on a similarly sunny Saturday morning, and looking around and thinking, Wow. This is impressive.
After day one, 2012, my impression remains the same. Bottom line: C3 Presents, our homegrown Austin festival and Obama election night bash production company, does an amazing job of putting on a music fest and all the surrounding logistics. Yeah, it crowds what we here at the Post have cheekily named “The Infected Zone” of our city, makes our own personal logistics more difficult, be they related to attending the Fest or not.
But flip that notion like an old 12-inch vinyl record and what you get is the point: the music festival runs like clockwork, and every glitch and hiccup that may have arisen over the previous 10 fests, C3 learns, adjusts and gets that much better at its already championship game.
I’m finishing my last cigarette atop the median on Barton Springs Rd. aside a large plastic tub tilled with sand – C3 is on top of even the wee details of this mighty megillah with more tentacles than you can tally – and am ready to get in line, have my backpack inspected, tap my wristband onto the orange slab gateway scanner that enters me into the digital Borg that tracks attendees in and out, and have fun.
Even if I am not a fan of festivals.
Taking the First Quick Pass
Morning day one and ACL Fest feels again like its original day one 11 years ago. The Great Lawn only has a smattering of people on the grounds, at least compared to what’s to follow. I do my circuit.
Megan McCormick at the BMI Stage was first on for the day. She and her two bandmates may be not all that distinctive as a musical entity, but McCormick has a hearty contralto howl of a voice, plays some nifty riffs on her electric. I hear nothing that indicates she’ll rise anywhere near the larger side stages much less the two star stages at opposite ends of the park. But she acquits herself solidly.
Next door at the Barton Springs Stage plays the aptly named He’s My Brother, She’s My Sister. Their fare is a coed hobo stew of favored neo-hippie sounds: stir in some jam band and pinches of gospel, pour in a few shots of Janis Joplin, heat it up with a drum circle beat. You could dub their recipe “festival band,” as they sound almost as likely to be playing on the sidewalk down the way along the Barton Springs Road eatery row. They churn up a lively call-and-response with the gaggle in front of the stage on the tune “Slow It Down” and then launch into “Lazy Daze” – add some weed to the ingredients – and the music wanders. So do I.
It’s a good time to walk the Art Market – stalls of clothing and Fest gear purveyors as much as anything else, and in serious need of re-branding. I scratch my head and ponder at the booths vending stuff to display on your walls: Why must the “art”-work associated with rock music be so wretched? I’d more likely find something at Pecan Street Fest.
Even though earlier in the week I tapped out an advisory on what to stash in your backpack for ACL, on my way there I realized I forgot to toss in a ballcap. I stop by a booth selling hats and pick up a snappy straw fedora for $25 bucks that won’t just be fest wear but a topper for the many warm months here in Texas.
Then the sounds echoing from the Zilker Stage – formerly the Gospel Tent – draw me in to hear The Stapletones. They gin up an alluring spiritual soul groove underneath two female singers, one black and the other white, who unite their assertive pipes with heavenly power. Oh yeah. It’s the shiznit that that stirs my spirit.
Pass by Austin Ventures Stage and lend an ear to Quiet Corral, who announce that they’re from Lawrence, Kan. Four guitars: two electric, two acoustic. Yet the equation is a not even a whole that’s far less than the sum of its parts. I immediately coin a new genre that’s already a plague here in Texas and beyond: Genericana. Yawn… onward.
Then delightfully surprising magic strikes from a familiar source: our own Asleep at the Wheel, a band I’ve been listening (and even worked with for a spell) since their 1973 debut album.
But whoa! On the last verse of the Bob Wills classic “Faded Love,” a song the band has performed many if not thousands of times, Ray Benson reads the lyric into deliciously tricky and inspired nooks, crannies and turns of the melody that slay me with its vocal imagination and dexterity. He sings like the other Brother Ray at the top of his game melded with Sinatra at his finest. On the chorus Jason Roberts and Elizabeth McQueen chime in and the three weave a luminescent harmonic tapestry. The group winds the number down like God’s own jazz combo way past midnight tiptoeing around the notes in a meeting of genius minds. Later in the day I hear the 1976 Wheel recording of “Miles and Miles of Texas” and marvel at up the upward curve on which they continue to soar to musical glory.
Then it’s the final stretch of my circle ‘round the site back to the entrance, stopping to register for a free Toyota drawing I won’t win. I exit for a smoke and catch the efficient shuttle downtown.
Austin Opens Another Musical Channel to the Nation
The party at Trace in the W highrise to welcome the new SiriusXM studio to town may not be an official ACL Fest event. But in a fashion similar to the Zilker extravaganza, it’s a multi-artist gathering of some local stars and true talents. Willie Nelson pops in to tout the significant addition to Austin’s stature to the gathered folks some 30 feet from his own statue. Guit-steel alchemist Junior Brown passes by in full trad C&W regalia despite the rising heat to visit on the air with “Willie’s Place” host Dallas Wayne and the satellite radio firm’s country station programming head (and my dear old NYC homeboy) Jeremy Tepper, aka DJ Rig Rocker on “Outlaw Country.”
Kinky Friedman and Jesse Dayton arrive as a duo and are strangely starting to resemble one another the longer JD performs the Kinkster’s songs and portrays him onstage. Dayton hands me his just off the presses Jesse Sings Kinky CD. Without even a listen, I know that Friedman’s songs have never sounded so good. The local country dance crowd may revere the likes of Dale Watson, but Dayton’s the man way atop the Austin new country talent chart – sings, writes, plays and produces, all magnificently, and is one hot shit guitar picker. Friedman’s sometimes manager Cleve Hattersley says that some Democrats want him to run yet again for elective office, next time on the blue side of the aisle (even if he did heartily endorse the Lone Star State’s biggest national joke and embarrassment, Rick Perry).
Hattersley quickly adds, “Of course then there will be a tour right after the election.” Say what you may about Kinky, he knows how to butter his promotional bagel and slap on a thick schmear to boot.
A wee bit later in the studio with Wayne and Tepper are Joe Ely and local resident Ben Kweller. Willie’s adorably sweet and oh-so-pretty daughter Paula is on deck for a talk. But I’m back off to the shuttle and fest grounds.
Afternoon Gridlock at the Site
As I reenter the grounds, Afghan Whigs are wrapping it up on west main stage. Their sound is even bigger, broader and mightier than they were some two decades back at the late and still lamented Liberty Lunch. Again, they impress me and demand my respect for the potency of their muscular rock, albeit sans the ‘n’roll that would draw me into their records. But live, then and now again, the band is a stunner.
I head towards the Barton Springs stage to catch Alabama Shakes, perhaps the biggest buzz blast out of SXSW 2010. I try to get near the stage but the crowd is just too thick and I can’t even get close. It’s the one trouble spot at the center of the site in the bowl with the other main stage down at the end: by late in the day it’s a dizzying near gridlock, just as it was in 2004, my last three-day ACL stretch.
The night before a guy I know at a birthday gathering does the all but de riguer deal many Austin residents love to engage in when the subject of ACL comes up: carp about the fest. “The site is too small, unlike Coachella.” I would (but didn’t) beg to differ. The Great Lawn to me has a nice compactness that serves my style of festival going, wander and sample the sounds, except for the convergence in its center from early afternoon on into the night.
But ACL Fest is about enjoying the music and the spirit about among the masses. It’s as much a social event as it is musical one. The flags announcing the locales of certain crews or groups of friends were flapping in the wind.
I was flying solo and that enabled me to quick change my plans and dart over to the Gospel Tent, always a reliable option, never been disappointed. Plus the bleachers offer one of the few spots to sit and give my feet a rest.
The Soul Rebels, a New Orleans second line brass band, took the stage and got the crowd up, whooping and hollering, grooving and bopping. The second liners may be the Crescent City’s way of saluting the recently departed, but it’s as life affirming as any music I know when played with the gusto of this outfit.
After a few numbers I slipped back out and vectored towards the Barton Springs stage and managed to get fairly close to the Shakes as their set peaked, and I do mean peaked. Much of the so-called neo-soul that’s been hyped of late – can anyone say Fitz and The Tantrums? – fails to even sound like, much less get even close to, the vibe of Stax/Volt and Motown of my younger years that was such incomparable music to dance and romance to. But the Alabama Shakes get it right down to the heart and bring their own rocker edge to it. Brittany Howard sings with the potent pipes, depth and visceral emotionality as the Queen of Soul herself, Aretha Franklin, and tosses off some wicked six-string riffs to boot. With a horn section augmenting their authenticity at this show, they’re the real deal and then some. Next time they come to town, I am so there, whatever the cost of a ticket.
Then it was back to sampling: Black Lips, who left me unimpressed as an outfit (shaky and a bit sloppy). I wandered the outskirts of the big bunch o’ folks at the western AMD stage as Weezer did their witty, cheeky and whimsically charming thing as dusk fell.
I find there are three golden times in an ACL Fest day: morning, dusk and the last hours of the night. This Friday’s twilight was so sweet I could lick its icing.
Then back out the exit to load up on more nicotine. I ran into a pal feeding his habit as well. We headed off for the refuge of the media camp just down Barton Springs from the gate. A young hustlin’ brutha calling out for “spare tickets” looked at me and said, “I know you got some spare tickets.” Sorry, fella, looks can be deceiving, I guess – maybe it was my new chapeau? – and I have no idea why he even saw the possibility in me, but it was all part of the parade.
In the media camp, we heard The Black Keys start rollin’ and tumblin’ and howlin’ their smokestack lightning from the Bud Light stage.
We debated whether to head in to see them or off to home. One of us wanted to also check out AVICII. I had slated the Keys as the capstone of my day. But then again, they were a highlight for me of ACL 2005 – right up there with loudly mocking Coldplay as “twee shite” on the way to their day-closing show and through most of their sticky cotton candy set of pop that sure don’t rock – back when Auerbach and Carney were just their original duo.
That afternoon I’d just seen the Allman Brothers Band miraculously reborn with Warren Haynes and Derek Trucks not simply sampling Duane and Dickey in their primes but embossing their own sizzling six-string brands onto the songs, and Brother Gregg in splendid world-weary bluesman voice. I have little if any time for the many who play what I feel is too much guitar anymore, but I’d been reminded how when master git-blasters let loose, it’s a thrilling ride indeed.
A pal popped up to next to me with some low-slung camp chairs just before the Keys came on and they knocked my dick in the dirt. Auerbach can let loose and wail into my ears anytime, plus they had the songs, strength and sting to bluesy rock my butt and take my full name. Reclining by the side of the stage, I was blasted into blissdom. Sweet memories are made from such sets. Two guys, just guitar and drums, yet nothing more was even missed.
This time the Keys had a full band behind ‘em, and in the media grove it sounded great. But I was starting to wane and my feet were feeling testy after the marches ‘round the park and then some. I’d already had my peak Keys experience. Home was beckoning, so I called it a day, trooped up to the shuttle, quickly found another car2go when I got downtown.
Yeah, I am not a big fan of fests. And even if I can’t say I had big time fun – maybe I will at Fun Fun Fun next month – it was an enjoyable day. One down, two to go. ACL Fest is what you make of it.
