Brad Barrett’s SXSW Diary: Day Two

Do you know how much it costs for a non US band to get a working visa? Do you care? Probably not. It's the kind of figure which dwarfs the amount I've spent getting here and of course a visa doesn't include flights, transit of instruments, travel insurance, accommodation and food and drink when the band is here. So, it's incredibly heartbreaking to see the frankly bewildering amount of bands strewn across Austin's web of music venues. Though many are Austin locals and natives to the US, a sizable, obese proportion are from elsewhere. Clawing an audience away from the inexplicably popular The XX is nigh on impossible, perhaps due to the willful waste of time expressed by those queuing to excess.
But who am I to criticise? I'm just as fatigued from just the sight of the SxSW timetable, let alone all of the unofficial parties and showcases. To plan is folly. Designs on who to see and when soon throw themselves through plate glass as the unavoidable Austin stroll - scraping along in the modest heat attempting to navigate through the heavy asteroid shower of bodies trying to navigate around you - takes hold.
Enough exposition and procrastination. Vivian Girls' unavoidably feminine vibe, thanks to the trio being eponymously female, have often been the subject of critical segregation. The old boys club that spin those - often awfully ponderous - words just can't accept that a band making shimmering spirit-stirring noise are perfectly able to play. Playing doo-wop sheared with searing layers of sound where sparse, lo-fi guitar balances atop mutant bass with jigsaw drums, Vivian Girls are celebratory and swiftly becoming an essential benchmark for wildly brilliant rock music.
Liars, bolstered with an additional bass player to etch out their coruscating mirage, are as compelling as ever. Nevertheless, it takes an amp malfunction and several of the seemingly contextural reliant Sisterworld songs, before their voodoo begins to strike its ominous chord. The abrasive volley of Scissor and Plaster Casts Of Everything sees towering frontman Angus bellowing and cooing with an intensity rivalling the fierce rays emanating from the afternoon sun. From the violent thrash of Scarecrows On A Killer Slant to the oblique chill of Sailing To Byzantium, Liars are completely unfit for a daytime show. Yet nothing will stop the incessant, rippling force that somehow floods from their ensemble.
SxSW without a Fucked Up show, is no SxSW at all. Unfortunately the ugly tension in the gang, along with an ability to finish a song, leaves an uneasy atmosphere. Playing outside, as is their wont here, it takes a Hole and Nirvana cover, the guitarist's unhealthy obsession with playing Vampire Weekend riffs and an increasingly frustrated frontman before, finally, a run of ferocious punk rock anthems spurts out.
Queues. They afflict us all. Some say English LOVE a good queue. I've never actually met these people. If I were to meet them I'd be sure to recommend SxSW and give them a map of where to go. One of the key places to indulge in your queuing fetish, for instance, is at Pure Volume house. In order to get your pass to get into the venue later in the evening, you have to join the legions of RSVPing minions JUST so you can get free drink and tacos after midnight. Butif you're of the queuing persuasion you may just want to throw the pass away and queue again come the early hours.
As dusk approaches and the bats begin to emerge from their nocturnal slumber, it's time to search out some hardcore-fuelled English rock. Failsafe play right into our hands and don't fail to satisfy. Just to be contrary and in the name of journalistic confusion, Olaf Arnalds provides the sweetly sung, delightfully picked Icelandic aura. Getting a middle ground between full tilt and echoey lullaby could prove difficult to any other city in the world, but Efterklang happen to be playing a mere 2 minutes across the road. Up to seven people adorn the stage dressed in pastel colours. This stirring Dutch band revolve around cylical rhythms, building percussive and melodic ideas - a trumpet duet, sparse guitar, extra snare and cymbals - all parading around Casper Clausen's disarming voice. It's a polite riot appreciated loudly by everyone here.
Welsh lads Straight Lines may be playing a venue almost off the map, yet they give it their all. Jerky, discordantly tuned riffs make a convincing battleground for vocalist Tom's resonant whine. The songs stack melodies high enough to see from the top of the Capitol Building. Pop this most definitely is, but the edge is in the articulate guitars clashing against traditional harmony.
Toro y Moi - the mask under which the extraordinarily named Chazwick Bundick hides - is a solo attempt at mimicing the ocean. Languishing beats ride through a slowly seething backdrop, a wash of reverberations, feedback and loops. Vocals are merely instruments with each uttering built into this liquid barrier. Mesmerising, hypnotic and very very now.
Finally the persistence of queuing earlier leads t results. The Pure Volume House has post-hardcore legend Walter Schreifels climbing up to barriers, grinning and generally confirming him and his reformed band Rival Schools as part of the indelible DNA of post-millennial US rock. Playing everything from their 2001 debut, every song is a veritable hit. Finishing with the unstoppable Used For Glue, it's a reminder that the constant search for the new can sometimes be a distraction from the very point of music. Why spend all that time pressuring yourself to find something fresh when vintage is imbued with quality? Kudos to every single unknown on the bill, I will get to you soon enough - please please keep playing and developing and don't be disheartened. Today is an early start, so Day Three promises to be jammed with sights and sounds. Keep reading, dear follower.