countessian

south by southwest, blow by blow (part two)

(Countessian SXSW slideshow here for people too lazy to click.)

FRIDAY, MARCH 14TH

1000: Breakfast in the lobby. Yummy chocolate milk. Scary family at the next table. Shakes.

1200: Call a cab. Sit on a bench and enjoy the Santa-Ana-esque Texas breeze.

1300: Give up and get picked up by Sean, who runs us to the Pitchfork party at Emo’s. Meet another good bartender who kindly disregards his credit-card minimums for silly girls who already spent all their ca$h.

1340: Fuck Buttons play. We love them. Babygirl experiments with flash vs non-flash photography. We leave after one song because we’re anxious to get to Ms Bea’s to see Yacht, but beat him to the venue. Bah.

1430: Yacht! Hurray! The face-slapping dance moves meet with much approval.

1500: Kat, SG and Babygirl hit a liquor store while I leg alone it to Mohawk for Blitzen Trapper (see how dedicated I can be?) Run down Sixth like a lunatic and arrive all out of breath and sweaty only to be greeted by Brian and Marty who report they’re not playing for another hour. Aiyayai. Chit chat with Erik and then Michael’s fantastically charming girlfriend tells me that she looks at my pictures online and if my Blitzen Trapper viewcounts get a spike, it’s her.

1600: BlitzenT play, big sunglasses all round. The girls appear on the balcony above, then suddenly Babygirl appears next to me, hands me a drink and starts dancing like a madwoman. Nice one, Probly.

1640: Upstairs at deVille. Best tacos ever. Everyone happy.

1700: Hotfoot it to some field somewhere for the Vice party to see the Mae Shi. The Raveonettes are playing when we arrive. Suddenly feel very sleepy and wobbly. Lay down in the grass to take a nap, but get distracted taking bad pictures of good shoes.

1730: Find out the Mae Shi played hours ago, so cross the street to see Wooden Shjips‘ last song. Realise that I can’t see straight and should probably take a real nap. Realise that naps will not be forthcoming for some time.

1745: Back to the field to see Dark Meat. Get glitter in my hair and eyes and mouth and handbag and camera. Get confused by the epic number of people on stage and lose ability to do anything but walk in circles.

1800: I have no idea what happened for the next few hours.

2000: Go with Kat to get hot dogs, promising to meet Babygirl at the iheartcomix party because she is adamant that she cannot wait. Refer to the schedule for the address and trek to Seventh and San Jacinto (henceforth known as That Fucking Street).

2015: Arrive at Seventh and That Fucking Street, but find neither Babygirl or the party. In fact, there’s pretty much nothing there. Thank God for Kat’s iPhone.

2030: Try to find Third and Guadalupe, which seems to be the correct address. Get really confused by misinforned passersby, angry friends and the fact that the street numbers seem to be going in the wrong direction. Eventually find it but the the world and his wife are in line, Babygirl’s not answering her phone anymore and the novelty of pronoucing Guadalupe like “guada-loop” has worn off, so grab a cab to go home for a nap.

2045: Babygirl calls. Driver drops us off and warns us that those dorky bike cab things aren’t allowed to charge, but they do. Some bar, some whiskey.

2055: Sean grabs us and whisks us back to iheartcomix, where the line to get in is long but fast moving. Huzzah! However, the line to get upstairs is slow and snotty and the man with the rsvp list is behaving like a coked-up douche who didn’t get enough hugs as a child. Dude. You just had to go on the website and click a button to RSVP. It’s hardly an exclusive guest list. Get over your stoopid self. Decide I hate this party.

2130: Eventually make it up to the overly swanky penthouse pool place. Realise it took two wristbands and two hand stamps to get into one bloody party. I mean, I’m pretentious and all, but I’m nowhere near pretentious enough for this nonsense. Decide I definitely hate this party.

2200: Erik arrives. Ninja girls steal me a soda. Matt & Kim make the concrete floor bounce like nobody’s business. Life is good. Decide I love this party.

2330: Amanada Blank is a fantastic wiggly skinny badass in J Brand jeans.

2345: SPANK ROCK. Honestly, I was so happy I almost cried. Best party ever. Climb on stage, lay down, take pictures, dance.

SATURDAY, MARCH 15TH

0000: Diplo dance party of doom. Garcia girl booty dancing competition. Glee. [Repeat until fade.]

0200: Schlep our danced-out feet all over downtown Austin trying to figure out what to do with our lives. End up at the van Adriana had been sleeping in so she could get her stuff and join us in our palatial suite. No one’s home, so she writes them a note and we stagger bruised and blistered to a strange staircase on a street corner, where we pretend to be NKOTB while awaiting a cab.

0245: World’s most solemn driver contemplates the illegality of squishing five passengers into his taxi. While he stares frowning at our hotel’s address, a van pulls up along side the cab. The driver yells “Hey ladies!” or something similar, and then the side door slides open to reveal an alarmingly overstuffed vanful of boys who serenade us with a frantic version of Kelly’s Clarkson‘s “Since You’ve Been Gone”. One was using his flask as a mic. We stare in awe.

0250: World’s most solemn driver complains bitterly about the disrespect the singing boys showed him. I try to protest but Babygirl hushes me up with a menacing finger-across-the-throat gesture.

0400: Filthy. Achey. Glittery. Still laughing.

Related posts:

• south by southwest, blow by blow

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 19th, 2008 at 4:45 pm. It is filed under documentary, music. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.