Today's emphasis: quality over quantity.

After a leisurely stroll (or two) through the convention center, we headed over to the Bloodshot party at Yard Dog Folk Art. Much has been written in these pages about Bloodshot parties at Yard Dog, and we won't belabor the point; indeed, our only objective at Yard Dog was to catch the opening performance, by Jon Rauhouse, whose Steel Guitar Airshow album a certain editor won't shut up about.

Rauhouse's short set, a mix of classics and originals, was excellent, assuming you were in the mood for western swing/Django Reinhardty music at noon on a Friday. The performance was made all the more palatable thanks to the presence of two of the album's guest vocalists, Kelly Hogan and the Mekons' Sally Timms, both of whom performed their songs from Airshow. If you've ever read Splendid before, you'll know that we were impressed by Hogan, but Timms's version of "Perfidia" was also impressive.

Later that day, we dropped by a Fat Wreck Chords event at the Omni, where we had an -- ahem -- interesting experience interviewing Me First and the Gimme Gimmes. You'll read about it here eventually. Suffice it to say that we were more into their music than they were. And now maybe we're not.

Now we'll turn you over to Jennifer Kelly. We're not sure where she saw some of this early stuff.

Sons of Hercules were just finishing up when we arrived, pummeling through a monumentally rocking version of The Chambers Brothers' "Time Has Come". I couldn't see much from near the door, except the rows on rows of fists pumping the air.

While the bands changed, we elbowed our way to the stairs for round two with the Dirtbombs. If you were tuned in yesterday, you may recall that we saw the Dirtbombs Wednesday, too, but like the good book says, through a glass, darkly. This afternoon, we were just out of sweat-throwing range, but definitely close enough to appreciate this amazing band. Right from the start, Collins warned us that the band is only going to play songs they can get through drunk, which, it turns out, was pretty much everything. Opening with the guitar line from Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit", the band segued into familiar cuts like "Underdog" and less well-known ones from their upcoming album, which sounds likely excellent. And then, just as we were all settling in for a whole night of rough-assed soul, the Dirtbombs announced that they were "Through with White Girls" and through with us.

At this point, there was some talk of Kinski and of an in-store with the Lazy Cowgirls, but we ended up blowing our chances at both and headed back to the phones to regroup.

The Paybacks, a Detroit-based quartet borrowing at least some equipment -- and a good shot of ass-kicking -- from the Dirtbombs, were on early at Antone's. Wendy Case was already growling in a voice so hoarse and low that we had to check to make sure it was a girl singing. The band has amazing energy and attitude, but fell a little flat right after the Dirtbombs.

(Andrew adds: Finally a night worth remembering, and no, it's not because we decided to take a break from the alcohol. Friday night begins where the previous night left off -- with more good music from Detroit. Straight from the Motor City, The Paybacks took the 8:00 o'clock slot at Antone's to a surprisingly large house. Antone's is known for its blues, and even though The Paybacks stormed through several tunes from their debut Knock Loud CD. Wendy Case's gravelly voice took a beating but kept belting out the tunes without losing any potency.)

Kill Rock Stars' The Decemberists, another ten minute hike across town, provided a dramatic change of pace. One of us had promised her favorite man in the world a Kill Rock Stars tee-shirt, if such things were available, and The Decemberists show seemed like an obvious place to get it. Upstairs on a plant-filled patio, with the moon out and a gorgeous breeze in play, Privilege's Patio felt like Hemingway's clean well-lighted place, and The Decemberists' soaring, lilting pop cut through the day's sweat and toil like an ice-y towel. Led by Colin Meloy, the band ran through most of its upcoming KRS disc, building a lilting, traditional very American core of sound, then somehow slanting it British, veering somewhere near where the Kinks might turn up, if they ever decided to try adding accordion and upright bass to the mix.

Meanwhile, our editor was checking out the first hour of the Overcoat Records showcase. Nicolai Dunger was playing, backed by a guitarist and a violin-player, and fighting bleed-through from the nearby Privilege Patio (the Decemberists, as it happened). Hearing Dunger for the first time is a trip; he's from Stockholm, and when he speaks his accent is obvious -- but when he sings, he sounds like Sam Cooke, investing his epic-length songs with amazing soul. When he hits his stride a few songs into the set, flailing away at his acoustic guitar, he's absolutely fucking sublime.

Now we'll hand you over to Andrew...

Standing in line seems to be the hip thing to do the past several nights, so we decided to try our hand (er...feet?) at it once again, hanging outside for the Fat Wreck showcase. Nerf Herder's nerd pop could be heard from behind the brick walls. Realizing that there wasn't going to be a whole lot of moving goin' on, and hearing the Herd trample a lifeless version of "Nosering Girl", we jettisoned around the corner for a few Lazy Cowgirls tunes at Beerland. No bullshit cow-punk kept the crowd engaged for the few numbers we heard. The Cowgirls keep getting older, but their music is definitely a timeless part of punk.

NYC's Turbo A.C.'s took the stage, giving the night a well-needed shot of adrenaline. The band's speedy three-chord punk brought to mind The Devil Dogs (and a teeny bit of Dead Milkmen) -- it was tight, fast and well-received by the energetic crowd. It seems we weren't the only SXSW denizens desperately looking for something to get us moving.

When you're in a college town, you can't ever get away from frat guys. Downtown Austin during SXSW shows no mercy, either. We made our way to Buffalo Billiards and after fighting through a crowd of meat-headed polo-wearing fucks™, and get upstairs just in time to see the magnificent Bobby Bare, Jr. and band take the stage. Bare's countrified latter-day Replacements-styled rock sounds great, and Jr.'s stage presence casts a spell over the crowd. Bare begins with a thrashed out version of the Shel Silverstein poem "Painting Her Fingernails" and dives into "The Monk at the Disco". "Monk" is played more gruffly than on the album, but sets the mood for the rest of the set. Bare picks through his catalog, but unfortunately avoids playing "Stay in Texas". Come on Bobby, you're in Austin, for Chrissakes! Redemption occurs with an absolutely magnificent country cover of Quiet Riot's "Cum on Feel the Noize". We're left speechless.

The goal of the night is to see The Oxes, so in order to avoid another painful "waiting-in-line at Emo's" experience, we wander back over to the punk-rock mega-complex early. Ink hits the stage, sounding like a deft cross between Joy Division and Gang of Four. It's moving, somewhat out there and the band smartly ends the set just as people begin to lose interest. The percussion is amazing and the unusual guitar playing gets an A+ for creativity.

And at last, Monitor Records' kings o' roxing, The Oxes, emerge. Clean slabs of wireless guitar genius pour over us, leaving one particular writer (nah, every fucking one of us -- Ed.) one happy man. It's frantic, clever, unpredictable and ultimately a brilliant way to end the evening. Not only do The Oxes kick your ass on record, they do just as good of a job live. If you miss 'em next time they hit your town, you're most certainly missing out. They were Ox-some.