Wednesday Reviews and Photos

Yesterday, the music portion of Austin’s SXSW shifted into third gear and with it, the full HN crew is now in Austin. Managing editor Chance Solem-Pfeifer, contributor Andrew Dickinson and I rolled into town late in the evening (in fact, snagging our festival badges about 30 seconds before registration closed).

Contributor Chris Dinan has been here shooting since Sunday (see some of his early week work here) and contributor Bridget McQuillan joined the ranks yesterday evening, as well.

So we’re all here and ready to cover the hell out of this festival. But for me, a SXSW virgin until last night, I’m still trying to figure out what that means, exactly. So far, it seems like a lot of walking psuedo-purposefully up and down hopelessly crowded streets, looking for you’re-not-sure-where . It means ducking into a a bar without a line to catch only the final minutes of a punk trio, members each dressed like Frida Kahlo, and failing to get the name of the group.

It also means dashing up a few blocks off the beaten path (as Kyle Gibson did, for which we’re grateful) to catch Kill County frontman Joshua James’ last-minute set at Liberty Bar. It means standing in line for a venue and getting mobbed because apparently A$AP Rocky is inside. Last night, it meant watching Spoon play a hometown show to (what is for them) a small crowd.

Josh James (Kill County) at Liberty Bar | photo by Kyle Gibson

So covering SXSW can take many different shapes. Among the chaos, lost or canceled shows and crappy food, there is good purpose for the anonymous crowds. It’s the essential reason we, even the faceless masses, are all here.

Read on for photos and reviews from Wednesday.

—Jacob Zlomke

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Courtney Barnett at NPR Music SXSW Showcase at Stubb’s

photos by Bridget McQuillan

Stromae at NPR Music SXSW Showcase at Stubb’s

photos by Bridget McQuillan

TV on the Radio at NPR Music SXSW Showcase at Stubb’s

photos by Bridget McQuillan

Publicist UK at 720 Club

Our primary hook for seeing Publicist UK at 720 Club last night was Eric Nyffeler’s SXSW stint with the band (about a half dozen shows this week.)

And it’s no wonder the former Masses and current Bus Gas guitarist finds a home in the five-piece. With its members from every corner of the country (New York, New Jersey, Virginia, Colorado), each member is less in charge of a musical part, and more guiding a layer of sound. There’s an understanding of arrangement here that’s vertically organized, an aural mash, as much as composed.

Backed into the club’s corner stage no more than 10 feet by 10 feet, Dave Witte’s drums punctured everything through the melodic prog metal. The Municipal Waste drummer shook loose a palpable anger from the often brooding guitar lines.

If you were more focused on singer Zachary Lipez, you might have assigned Publicist UK as a sort of spoken-word metal. Sometimes backed by (what sounded like) nature documentary narration, his vocal delivery resembled a kind of intense recitation, before turning to screams. Contrary to the rest of the band’s flying hair, leaping back-up vocals and guitar hoisting, Lipez was posed as a hip-and-knee-locked mix of passionate and captivatingly stiff.

The band’s debut record is due out this year on Relapse Records. Follow them here.

—Chance Solem-Pfeifer

photos by Andrew Dickinson

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Spoon at FLOOD Fest at Cedar Street Courtyard

photo by Andrew Dickinson

Around midnight, when Spoon was scheduled to come out at FloodFest, a man with a bandana over his face and shoulder-length hair descended Cedar Street Courtyard’s stage stairs to modest cheers.

And, so, Win Butler’s turn as DJ Windows 98 was fun and a little tight-shouldered.

The Arcade Fire frontman couldn’t seem to decide whether he wanted his face to be seen or not, periodically pulling down the banana, growing uncomfortable and then pulling it back up. “Cut the fucking lights,” he said over and over, starting with a slightly electronicized version of Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation.”

When it got going, Butler proved an able DJ with his taste for musical adornments carrying over to this project. The addition of two live drummers marked a turn toward some Caribbean beats and rhythms, tracks that sounded like they could have been altered B-sides or remixes from Reflektor.

photos by Andrew Dickinson

When Spoon went on, whoever turned the fan on in front of Britt Daniel must have had some mental image of how good it is to be Spoon right now.

His hair ruffled back in the fake wind, adding a small level of comedy — like someone rock ‘n’ roll photoshopping the actual show.

Here was Spoon, more than 20 years from where it began, without any of the drama or seeming catharsis that could come with a hometown show. But then that’s Spoon for you. Casual, but sharp. When the band released its much-lauded They Want My Soul last year, Grantland’s Steve Hyden wrote a great piece on how the band has resisted career narratives with its propensity to make good rock records and little else.

And, then, a year later to have your new record feel indispensable to your set — it’s a rare thing.

From the middle and back of the tent, “Rainy Taxi” began a bit muffled. But you could feel the band itching to push through the so-so soundstage. Eno drummed harder. Bassist Rob Pope seemed to increase his intonation. Daniel’s odd, unmistakable snarls — those exhumation of his nasal cavity — were earned over the course of the set. The first one that really turned heads came in “Rent I Pay,” the lead single off They Want My Soul.

By “Inside Out,” a reverie of an electronic soul jam, Daniel was elated enough point his chin in the air and sing with a look or pride. Also elated: the man in the crowd who took this opportunity to scale the tent and do a few half-pull-ups from underneath its canopy.

photo by Andrew Dickinson

“Look at that motherfucker,” Daniel laughed incredulously, the way someone remarks about a small rainbow or silly cloud in the distance. Eno never quit pounding.

Mostly, the set confirmed what anyone who’s vigorously enjoyed a Spoon record already knows. The brilliance isn’t so much in the chords, the volume or the showmanship of solos. It’s the brilliant, slanted twist with which they perceive rock music. With the whole crowd woofing along to “Underdog,” the razor’s edge of the song is still Daniel screaming “Right!” at the end of the chorus. Call it attention to detail or a celebration of throw-aways.

—Chance Solem-Pfeifer