SXSW 2012: Day One | Festival Review

by | published

words, photos and video by Michael Todd

Hundreds of books lined the shelves at Logan's on Sixth, but we had our noses in our pocket guides, scribbling down artists, times and venues. It was nearing 8 p.m. on Wednesday at mission control, and this team of reporters and photographers felt like family after the extended drive down. Then Bon Jovi's "Let It Rock" played on repeat at least five times — real funny, jukebox — driving me to estrange myself and begin this year's South by Southwest festival.

But wait, SXSW is a test of patience. With all the commotion, it's easy to bypass the good in search for something transcendent. Brazillian Renato Godá held my attention for about two songs at Maggie Mae's, but it felt like a worldly open mic. Sure, the guitar duo in Portuguese was that one act that would blow your mind at songwriters' night. In Austin, they're just part of the noise from which to escape, part of the force driving people to go back to their drawing boards or find others stapled to buildings.

Past the women offering free shrugs, past the rapper with a portable PA, folks are dancing in the street. The Pinstripes are singing directly to a group of women who are caught swooning a bit before they find their bearings on Sixth Street. It's soul with a trombone. It's enough emotion without amplification to pull in a sizeable crowd, but then again, Fiona Apple is a mere half mile away with Sharon Van Etten on deck at Stubb's. Until next time, guys.


A few times throughout the night, the festivalgoer is asked to measure their favorites' worth in wait time. Even with a wristband (thank you, boss), some lines are made for walking away from, and that's just what I did. Church was about to start at St. David's Historical Sanctuary anyway, and I hate being late to church.

Clare and the Reasons were the foreground to a hallowed altar, a triptych of biblical scenes. Everyone was quiet, and no one would enter or exit during a song. Even the glow of my cell phone felt like a light form of heresy, but this group isn't all pure. There's something disjointed beneath the beauty of Clare Manchon's voice.

It's a Disney soundtrack for 30-somethings, more Bedknobs and Broomsticks than the lighter, youngster-friendly fare. In fact, if Julie Andrews were to enjoy a meteoric love with Willy Wonka only to have it crash and burn, Clare and the Reasons would exist in the moment just before the break.


After a failed attempt to see Jimmy Cliff at The Main, I felt something impelling me to walk toward Easy Tiger. Draped in blue light was the reason why: redheads. Yes, this was the Scottish showcase, and I was with my people watching French Wives. True to our superior race, people would go out of their way to get out of my way as I manhandled my camera to the front.

French Wives produce unobtrusive pop songs, and the nose-in-the-air quality of fine wines and bakery bread at Easy Tiger was snuffed out by the polite crowd listening along. The band wasn't exactly colorful either, and it's hard to get behind something that moves to let you walk on by.


Back toward the church, I caught a pair of puppeteers controlling what appeared to be an aging Rastafarian and a Romanian, a couple locked in perpetual marital dispute a la All in the Family.

Onward to St. David's, I took one look at Anais Mitchell and I thought first of how to explain this heart palpitation to my girlfriend. The Vermont native is a weaver of plot lines so rich, the sweater she could spin with them would keep you warm at Montpelier's highest point in winter. Her soft, harmony-heavy set featured banjo, muted drums with a cymbal sitting on the bass drum, a xylophone sitting on the drummers' two toms, a melodic electric bass played like a standup and Mitchell's own nylon acoustic, graying like an old dog.

As we sat down outside the church's library downstairs, I asked her if it's important to promote local music:


To close the night, I raced back to Stubb's to the call of Andrew Bird, fresh off the release of Break It Yourself. It was my first trip into the photo pit, and from a few feet away, Bird's slight twitches at a plucked violin note or a swoop of his whistle were more discernible. He's a masterful player, a dense lyricist with eyes that can reach miles without actually focusing on anything.

The NPR crew who were hosting the set stood midway back or sat with their laptops, watching the mix as it made its way online. It's a wonder to think of the recorded material born these handful of days in Austin. Piecing together all the tweets, photos, streams, videos and all else gives you an almost omniscient perspective on the festival, even from afar. Stay tuned with us the rest of the week as we contribute our part to the larger work.


Michael Todd is Hear Nebraska's managing editor. He wishes to form a federation of redheads and rule the world with kindness. Reach him at michaeltodd@hearnebraska.org.