Brad Barrett’s SXSW Diary: Day One

Bright. White. Sharp. Light. Bleary eyed and a mere 27 hours of waking time has somehow smeared a permanent bloodshot jam across my eyes. Sleep has done nothing to remove the red eye glare, a reminder of a whole day of flying and dragging anchor-weight bags before the notoriously chilly countenances of US Customs officers.
Must. Leave. Apartment. It is a mere 10:30 am when the glorious sunshine brings a healthy optimism to not only to my mood but also to the gas-guzzling pickups and garish neon signs adorning what can somehwat generously be called restaurants. Crossing the "bat bridge" - so called for the dusk hunting parties that swarm in a jet black column from underneath - into the bustling metrpolis of downtown Austin from the sparse stretch of South Congress is like stepping from parochial England into Wonderland, except with a few less schizophrenics, far more bands and not a tea party in sight.
As a dedicated follower of well-meant advice, SxSW Day One is a purely selfish endeavour, drinking in the sights, sounds and cuisine at my own pace and of my own selection. Therefore, the first entree is stewed with slabs of granite-hewn noise. And So I Watch You From Afar from near Belfast are a ferocious instrumental rock band whom I've refused to stop banging on about since their Smalltown America festival replacement slot two years ago. Torrents of meshed guitars rain down upon us, forming an aural black hole - you're sucked in exorably nearer and couldn't escape even if you wanted to. These four Irishmen on their very own St Patrick's Day humbly accept our exhilirated applause and continue to supply us with riff after riff after motherfucking riff. Devastating in a way so many bands just aren't - sonically.
A hop skip and jump to the legendary Emo's gives us a fleeting look at the future of dual thrash duetting. Fuzzy, unrepetant grooves are slapped aside by swathes of scruffy noise and joint mantra chants. Japandroids are almost shamanistic in both delivery and their dedication to following a careering, unruly tune to it's very end.
Following a fairly unremarkable hip hop performance, not by myself I must add, I catch the elastic fun of Bad Rabbits, an unholy concoction of funk, rock and humour that merely accentuates the sunshine and the alcoholic consumption to the level of crunk in a wholly unironic use of the term.
A chat with the affable teen songwriter Cosmo Jarvis at the lavish Hilton hotel interrupts the outdoor Candian showcase where the old-wave seduction of You Say Party! We Say Die! flows from curly haired Becky's larynx and the effortless melding of arcing synth, masonic bass and metronomic timing.
At this point anyone indulging in prolonged daytime drinking and soaking in UV rays needs a break, if only to drop off the amassed collection of flyers, free press publications and assorted medical aids - throat sprays, condoms and bandages - at your living space. Not only does the taxi ride back mean more pearls of wisdom from locals - unless of course you're a racist called Troy, who only gets a mention in the hope that anyone who meets him ALSO takes his number and ALSO publishes it on the web under a KKK banner - and a chance to gaze longingly at the bewitchingly beautiful Austin ladies, but time to try and retain as much information as possible for regurgitation at leisure. By the looks of the length of time you've been pouring over these words, possibly through boredom, this time was well spent.

Unfortunately missing off-kilter pop-punk Welsh quartet Straight Lines, I catch the flame haired statuesque Melissa Auf der Maur belting out her oceanic, thrusting rock stratas.
Mexican culture is unavoidable in Austin. At least 70% of the food you are offered is Mexican in origin and even the weather feels imported from across the border. As it is mariachi music is a much maligned art. No longer is it a marginalised form, or damned to mediocrity by philistines, in the hands of NYC rioteers The Bronx. In traditional mariachi garb, Mariachi El Bronx play irresistible sweetness and sadness with violins, vihuela and guitarrón.If ever there was a more appropriate SxSW band, I can't imagine them.

The antithesis follows - the utterly incredible and terrifying ferocity of The Dillinger Escape Plan. Seeing them unleashed at the Camden Barfly a month ago was, as every show of theirs tends to be, a sight and sound to behold. Seeing them let rip upon a sheltered stage to the bemusement, horror and delight of a varied throng is exquisite. Hanging upside down from rafters playing the stabbing, staccato discordance at the end of 43% Burnt, Ben Weinman is a flailing guitar-welding maniac. Powerhouse frontman Greg Puciato is a powerhouse looking as if he could bench press the audience at a moments notice. Roaring, screaming, crooning and wailing, his voice echoes the cacophonous complexity streaming from the four men behind him. A band and a performance for the ages.

The midnight performance from heart-wrenching Scots Frightened Rabbit is easily the most powerful I've seen so far. Delving mainly into their less jagged yet still decidedly dark new material from third album The Winter of Mixed Drinks, it's Scott Hutchison's imploring tone that grips and shakes you. Singing along to the glorious line "it takes more than fucking someone you don't know to keep warm" in a sweltering club in Austin is both surreal and completely appropriate.

Rather than bore you with the following two hours - nothing turns me off more than a writer gibbering about backstage, VIP, blags and fucking networking, we all know it happens it just happens to be very uninteresting - I will let you all know that I have started Day Two with a beer, somne Cap'n Crunch and spent two hours writing this. If it gets edited down, I'm going to invoke the kind of justice most customs men would deem acceptable to foreign journalists.