Hey reader-folks,
I'm sick as a dog at the moment, something that happens to me at every odd-number-year SXSW for some reason. Today's update may come a bit more slowly. Here's a start. -- Ed.

Georgy Cohen writes,

Is it possible to spend a busy, varied and fulfilling day at SXSW without setting foot on 6th Street? Of course! But is it possible to do so without venturing west of Congress Avenue (the east-west dividing line downtown)? Indeed, since I ended up doing just that.

While researching where the day would take me, I realized that the Merge/Barsuk showcase was waaaaaay west of, well, anything with which I was vaguely familiar. But I discerned that it was walkable (if you know me, you know that most anything is walkable). Thus began an arduous trek down west 5th Street that eventually landed me at Pok-e-Jo's smokehouse. It was well worth the mini-adventure, even though I walked far enough to merit a last-minute booking of the Proclaimers. Not only was there free beer (well, not for me ­- the length of the beer line kept me sober), but there were picnic benches for sitting. And sit I did, the whole goddamn time. And it was fantastic.

(Nice to see the younger folks embracing the virtues of sitting. -- Ed.)

As I am apparently wont to do, I arrived at the end of the Rosebuds' set of thrashing pop, just in time to be wowed by Ivan Howard's fantastic set of pipes and his band's crisp form. However, nothing could have prepared me for Crooked Fingers. Their majestic, homespun melancholy blew me away. "Don't Say A Word" was especially affecting, with its hauntingly sung chorus "They say you learn / The more it burns / But what good does that do / If what you learned / Don't help to bring / The one you lost back to you?" The harmonies were sometimes chilling, and the overall set was sublime and heartbreaking.

Jesse Sykes was next with her spare, languid alt-country. Joking about having to perform in the "morning", she provided a dusky, slow burn of a show. Next up was John Roderick of the Long Winters, reuniting with former bandmate and renewed Harvey Danger frontman Sean Nelson. Ranking high on the witty banter factor, they dubbed the reunion "our Central Park". And Roderick showed why the Long Winters will come to be a force to be reckoned with, bringing his songs to life with a vibrant performance, especially on the heartrending "It'll Be A Breeze". Roderick also debuted "Ultimatum", a twisted love from an upcoming Long Winters album sporting the line "I wish we were naked / and I wish I could take it / when you turn on me." The duo also performed "The Commander Speaks Aloud", which thankfully is much better live than the subpar studio version on the Move On compilation.

On the other hand, the Radar Brothers turned in a flat, uninspiring performance. Their downtempo rock is rife with lazy, pretty melodies that don't do a whole lot or go much of anywhere. Maybe it was just post-Roderick letdown, but the Radar Brothers didn't register a blip on mine.

Thankfully, Matthew Caws of Nada Surf turned in a stellar solo acoustic set, heavy on songs from his band's most recent release Let Go and noticeably (and predictably) devoid of a certain one-time MTV staple. From those heavy-rotation days, Caws has evolved into quite the songwriter. Though he apologized to the crowd for three straight songs evoking the word "love" in the title or the chorus (he suggested we substitute the word "lunch"), the topic is surely his forte, if the fantastic and vulnerable "Inside Of Love" is any indication. Caws's performance was spirited and well-received ­- only one catcall for "Popular" could be heard.

The guy I was sitting next to taped the endearingly indifferent M. Ward's performance. Explaining his appreciation for Ward, he said, "Tom Waits isn't going to be around forever." While I am not sure if that's a fair comparison, it's definitely fair to say that M. Ward should see himself vaulted into the cadre of premier American songwriters at any moment. "Sad, Sad Song" dripped with bluesy angst and heart, just as the gritty "Helicopter" crashes with defiance. He also delivered a fantastic down-home cover of "I Can't Hold Out" by Elmore James. As Ward's set ended, my new taper friend called his music "true", and that's really all you can call it, because that's all it is.

Here's Jenny's daytime report.

There's nothing more disorienting than afternoon shows at Beerland. The contrast between the club's grimy, battered, black-painted interior and a sunny spring day is the kind of thing that brings on early heart attacks; still, the fact remains that if you like punk, garage or hardcore, you're going to be at Beerland, and you're going to enjoy yourself. Nine or ten of the bands you want to see will be there.

So, I found myself, on a brilliant, blue-sky and breezy day, entering into the black hole of Beerland just in time to see the Winks. Other people have already covered them, so let me just say that they were unreasonably fun, reminding me of L7, the Donnas, Ms. Pakman, and Fabulous Disaster, without leaning too heavily on any of them.

They were just finishing up when an unholy buzz arose from the floor between the stage and the bar, the kind of thing you might hear just before blowing to pieces in a land-mine field or in the wind-tunnel where they test new airplanes. It was, it turned out, the Coachwhips, staking out a piece of beer sticky floor and the buzz was just the beginning of it. John Dwyer, hair combed straight down his forehead, eyes wild behind the thatch, played like his guitar was carrying a 1000 watt charge, thrashing and buckling and nearly swallowing the dented, pitted mike. The crowd pressed tight around Dwyer, his keyboardist Val-Tronic and drummer Matt, throwing beer at a videotaping crew unwise enough to bring expensive equipment in radius. It was brutally distorted, blues-filtered, punk-sped-up wall of noise -- and maybe even a bit more distorted than usual. I say this because Dwyer asked mid-set if the band could use anyone else's amplifier; apparently theirs had been damaged en route. The damage must have been pretty significant because remember, this is a band that found its drum kit in a bush. The set was frantic, short and brilliant -- definitely one of this week's highlights. I recognized "The Alarm" and maybe one other song from Bangers Vs. Fuckers, one from Get Yr Body Close to Mine, but really, there's no point in pinning down which song is which. You listen to the Coachwhips with your heart pounding and your brain on fire, and there's no time for analyzing lyrics. The band that would rather play anywhere but an actual stage at an actual club announced a couple of other gigs, one at a skate park on Saturday, and that was that.

The A-Frames were in the audience, and I think maybe they were going to play next but I took off, because I knew it would make my life much simpler, less full of long walks and more regret-free if I could see Calla in the afternoon. (They were also playing that night, but sort of inconveniently to the rest of what I wanted to do.) I headed up to the Red Eyed Fly, blinking like a mole person in the bright sunshine, and got there in time not just for Calla, but also the Deathray Davies.

Last year, I saw the Deathray Davies almost by accident, bought their latest Midnight at the Black Nail Polish Factory and gradually fell in love with their trippy power-pop vibe. Here, a year later, they were back with more of the same, wearing black shades and black shirts and playing the kind of sweet but spine-full music that cannot help but make you happy. They were trying out material from their upcoming album (which will undoubtedly include a song called "They Stuck Me in a Box in the Ground, Part Six"), and slipping in some older stuff, including the sublimely psyche-poppy "The Girl Who Sold the Eiffel Tower" and another really great twisted song, something about buying a chain saw at a pawn shop.

I should mention that Anton Newcombe from the Brian Jonestown Massacre was there spinning between-set tunes, which was not as good as him being there playing with BJM but still kind of fun. You spend a lot of time at SXSW watching people tear down one drum set and put up another, and it helped when Pulp's "Common People", one of my all-time favorite songs, played in the background.

So, then it was Calla, whose last album, Televise was a masterfully droning, bass-driven excursion into VU-dark dream pop. Their set was good deal more rock-oriented than I remembered the album being. Still there were ur-Calla moments when the whole room was filled with reverbed washes of midnight black sound, the bass pulsing under, the drums ticking through. It's the kind of sound that floats you forward as if you're in a dark current of water, cool and enveloping and inky black. You can't move, you can't think, you can't feel anything but the music. Or maybe it was the mid-afternoon beer, I don't know. But it was cool.

George adds...

Sometime later this year, you'll see footage of me in a FOX special called When Labors of Love Turn Around and Bite You in the Ass. Between editing Splendid's SXSW stuff, prepping reviews for next week and completing a pair of interviews, I didn't make it to any of Friday's daytime gigs. What's more, I've been sick all week and it's getting worse, so the interviews I did in my brain-dead, headachey, low-blood-sugared state aren't going to put me in line for a Pulitzer any time soon. Gah.

Here's Andrew's report on the evening...

Could you think of a better way to start off your Friday night then testing the very limits of your eardrums at the Hydrahead Industries showcase at Emo's Annex? With a formidable lineup that could convince many SXSWers to park their haunches at the parking lot-converted-into-a-stage, Emo's Annex isn't too bad of a place to be. Sure, the concrete ground is a filthy mess and there are Port-o-Potties substituting for a real bathroom, but isn't that what rock 'n' roll is really all about? The Red Sparrowes started the evening off. Featuring members of such heavy-hitters as ISIS, Neurosis and Halifax Pier, The Sparrowes delivered a stunning visual and aural display of freaky images and crushing metal-laced riffs. With three guitars and a bass that would make hip-hoppers get a hard-on, The Sparrowes impressively created aural tension and then released it with sporadic bursts of melody. It was powerful and pure but unfortunately a bit short.

Following The Sparrowes were Mare. This Canadian three-piece was well-suited for the gloom rock showcase with the singer/guitarist letting out both screams and surprisingly well-sung verses over a thick bed of sludgy riffs and crashing drums. There were moments, but Mare seemed more distant and wavering than they ought to be; it would have been better to have a few more minutes of The Sparrowes.

While SXSW has a high density of clubs in a small square-mile area, it can still be a bit of a trek to make it from one venue to the other. We booked it over to the Cedar Street Courtyard to check out The Anubian Lights. While the band's recordings are generally electronic-fused beats with freaky synths and unusual samples, their Friday night lineup included vocalist Adele Bertei. Let's set one thing straight first though: without the awesome beats and synth programming of Len Del Rio, The Lights would have some serious issues. With a crowd that consisted of everyone from punks to your father drinking a glass of Merlot, the Cedar Street backdrop provided for a surreal surrounding. The Lights were awesome; Bertei delivered round after round of spectacular vocals. Visualize Patti Smith, Chrissie Hynde and Blondie all swirled into a megaphone-bearing frontwoman who spouted off political jargon in between the tunes and you have a good idea of what Ms. Bertei is all about. The Anubian Lights were perfect, displaying excellent technical poise as they fluidly moved from song to song. It's too bad that Cedar St. was off the beaten path, as more people should have seen the Lights' fantastic set.

George interjects:

I was on hand for this one as well, and concur -- the Lights sounded fuller and richer than any other band I've seen so far this week. That said, there was something endearingly dated about the group's -- and particularly Bertei's -- shtick; from her dance moves to her banter (and charmingly naive perception that SXSW featured only independent acts), she reminded us that there was a time (round about 1983) when it was okay for even angry rock bands to look good and sound slick. And as much as I hate to use this word, there was something kinda MILFy about her. Andrew commented that he was a little disturbed to see "his mom", naked, on stage talking about politics. (Bertei wasn't naked, but she was showing a lot more midriff than most women her age. And damn right that she did.)

Back to Andrew now...

We did a lot of wandering and the required pizza eating stop somewhere after The Lights and before the next shows. We briefly caught the end of former Alarm frontman Mike Peter's set at The Elysium. Armed with only a 12-string acoustic guitar, Peters happily played such classics as "Spirit of '76", "68 Guns" and "45 RPM" (wow, that's a lot of numerical songs, isn't it?). The small but enthusiastic crowd happily sung along, probably inspiring Peters to believe that he has a shot at a career revival.

Poor stage management and band setup planning found The Rezillos running a bit behind. However, the Edinburgh-born band was in perfect form, delivering their '70s-era art punk with loads of energy. It was as if the band had never broken up in 1985 after all.

The much-hyped New York Dolls showcase lured us to Stubbs. While it was difficult to tell who the fill-ins were, it looked as if Izzy Stradlin was doing his best Johnny Thunders imitation. David Johansen stalked the stage with a midriff shirt. While we didn't stay for the entire hour and a half set, the band stormed through such faves as "Subway Train", "Puss 'n' Boots", "Looking for a Kiss" and "Private World". Unfortunately, someone thought it would be a keen idea to cover "Piece of My Heart" and we left dejectedly, wondering why anyone would want to hear The Dolls waste their breath on such an overdone tune.

We soon forgot all about it, as Emo's Main Stage offered up the world's original dirty rapper. Known as Clarence Reid to some and Blowfly to the sick and twisted, the Blowfly machine did its best to offend everyone in its tracks. Decked out in his classic extra-sparkly matching cape and mask, Blowfly stalked the stage, harassing females in the audience about their ass size, poking fun at small-dicked males and obviously having one hell of a good time doing it. Complete with a three-piece horn section and two dancing go-go girls, Blowfly cleared out half the room with the remaining hardcore fans singing along to "Blowfly for President", "Hole Man", "Booty Bus" and "Shitting on the Dock of the Bay", to name a few. Yes, it was offensive, but it ruled the night. For all the sub-par schlock that we'd seen throughout the week so far, Blowfly easily reminded us that certain showcases carry the festival, and Blowfly's was one of 'em. The self-proclaimed Porno Freak kept going until 2:30am, finally ripping off his mask and leaving the stage. With aching backs and sore feet, we made our way back home.

George adds...

After the Anubian Lights, I made the somewhat foolhardy decision to trek across town to Club DeVille for New Orleans's Blackfire Revelation. I made it in a little over ten minutes, sore-footed and wheezing, determined to hear "Battle Hymn". The band obligingly opened with it a few minutes later.

Blackfire Revelation may have a hard road ahead of them simply because they're a guitar and drums blues duo; I suspect people are a little tired of those right now. Guitarist/singer J.R. Fields and drummer Hank Haney played like crazy men, though, and seemed prepared to shed blood if necessary. I retired to the back of the house after shooting a few pictures; there was a lot of beer being chucked around, and I didn't really want to spend the rest of the evening cold, sick and wet. Of course, I almost immediately got a beer spilled on me by an amorous couple who were flailing their way through the kama sutra, still clothed, while sitting in one of the club's creepy outdoor armchairs. Fortunately, they eventually retired to a romantic bathroom stall. Meanwhile, Blackfire Revelation were getting sludgier and sludgier as the set wore on -- which, while not unpleasant, lacked the attraction of "Battle Hymn"'s more melodic rock-out.

The Immortal Lee County Killers were up next, and since Jenny knows them far better than I do.

Jenny says...

That was it for the afternoon. Evening started at Beerland again, much less cognitively dissonant now that it had become dark again, with a band called The Observers from Portland. The Observers are a young band, but they draw from late-70s/early-80s punk roots -- the Adverts, Wire, Sex Pistols, the Wipers -- with a truly ferocious energy. They're jumping around on stage and off, lead singer and guitarist making testosterone-fueled forays into the audience, bumping and bobbing and shouting into people's faces. It's like 1979 again, except I can drive, and I'll definitely be checking out the band's new CD So What's Left Now when I get a chance.

The Observers share a bass player (Colin Grigson) with The Chlorox Girls, who were on next, and I'm not sure how this works most of the time, what with the commute and all, but tonight it was just fine. I've been enjoying the band's debut since last summer (I bought it at Wowswille Records in the East Village, and if you like punk/garage and ever get down there, it's the best record store on the planet), and tonight's set was mostly familiar Cali-punk into-Buzzcocks anthems, short, sharp and surprisingly tuneful. Cuts included "Vietnam", "Am I the One?", "Virgin Suicide", "Golden Boy" and then something I hadn't heard before, whose main lyric was "Your Mom smokes dope." Great stuff; it was turning into a very good night.

Next up were the Functional Blackouts, out of Chicago, whose "Tick Tick Tick" song had become something of an obsession over the winter, though I knew nothing else about them. Here's what I know now. The Functional Blackouts are the single loudest experience I have ever had in my life -- louder than Mission of Burma, louder than Comets on Fire, louder than the No. #6 train screeching to a halt in Grand Central Station. Even the soundcheck was brutal, ear-recoilingly loud, every "check", every snare whack drilling a hole directly into my head. But while the vocals were clearly turned way, way, way up, the only time you really heard them was in the opening, when the three-man band shouted "Chemical, chemical, chemical" over and over in unison. When the guitars came in, you could see their lips moving, and you knew they were saying something, but you couldn't hear it over the cacaphonous, chaotic sound. It's pulverizing, at one point both the singer and the bass player are literally screaming into the mics, their howls barely ruffling the black morass of hard-core punk guitars. Occasionally, the singer breaks for short blurts of talk -- "This is a Beatles song" (it's not), "This is a love song," (it's hardcore). And then there were these sudden stops, bits of white hot silence, that caught you off-guard before the onslaught continued. I didn't think they made punk like this anymore -- Stiv Bators eating his own snot has nothing on these guys spitting beer from one guy to another, and mostly missing, but swallowing the bit that made the trip.

Okay, so, I can't hear anything now, all other shows for the night were filtered through a deep, hypnotic buzz of what used to be my hearing, but that's okay, because I'm switching clubs and decades of reference at this. I walk from Beerland's late 70s/early 80s vibe to DeVille's bluesy, garage scene -- I should probably walk backward, but I don't -- and get there in time to meet George for Blackfire Revelation, who kind of reminded me of the Immortal Lee County Killers.

Immortal Lee County Killers, though, have changed quite a bit since their last record, 2003's Love Is a Charm of Powerful Trouble. The nucleus of Chetley Weise (the hardest-rocking political economist we know) and drummer J.R.R. Token is still there, but they've added Jeff Goodwin on Hammond B3 and Rhodes. That addition has altered the sound dramatically, putting a '60s psych-soul vibe into what had before been a relatively stripped down blues rock. Tonight's set conjured a wide array of influences, from the trash-rock glory of "Revelation Summer" to the slightly altered Sex Pistols vibe of "Here Comes the Queen" (it's sort of a cover of "God Saves the Queen"), to the hallucinatory surge "Blues". There were some weird moments -- Token's a capella rendering of the Byrds' "You Don't Miss Your Water", and his final, tent-pole-swinging close.

Athens garage revivalists The Woggles follow, bringing tent-revival fervour to their '60s Nuggets pop. One thing you should know about SXSW is that people are not big on audience participation. They are, and I speak for myself here, largely introverted, self-conscious music geeks, uncomfortable with their bodies, their selves and other people, so you have to judge The Woggles' extraordinary success by that standard. They had the white belts clapping out eighth note rhythms, doing a soul-flavored version of "the wave" and on their haunches gator-style. The middle of the audience pit turned into part of the stage as Professor Woggles and his crew shuffled in and out of the mass, never breaking character or stride. By closer "My Baby Likes to Boogie" the band was swinging their instruments -- bass, guitar, tambourine -- in wild arcs with the music, high stepping through the crowds and getting pretty much everyone there to wave their hands like the saved at a tent revival.

The last show of the night belonged to Atlanta's Forty-Fives, whose MC5/Sly/Sonics/Stones/surf groove blends the best of white and black '60s music. Drunk, sweaty, out of control and utterly captivating, they smoked a set that included a Sonics cover, a bunch of songs from last year's High Life High Volume ("Daddy Rolling Stone", "Bad Reputation") as well as the other two Forty Fives Records. Again, audience participation was unusually high, a tribute to the band's barn-burning live show. If you've never seen kids in horn-rims pointing fingers skyward in unison, as a molten bass line and furious tom toms push the beat of a song like "Shake", you've never lived. The end of a great day.

Georgy's two cents follows...

Friday evening saw my first real miscalculation so far this week. I headed to Antone's to catch the Heavenly States and Nicolai Dunger, waiting in line with all the folks vying to see The Frames. The Heavenly States, from Oakland, were a great, explosive pop-punk band, with a violinist who could shred with the best of them. Frontman Ted Nesseth was charming, throwing out lines like "I know this ain't the Bloc Party, but you can still boogie" as he worked the crowd. Soulful Swede Nicolai Dunger impressed with his tie-less tux and Robert Redford looks, but his folksy, hearty blues wasn't totally up my alley. Seeing as I went in knowing nothing about the guy, I suppose it could have been worse.

My plan after Dunger had been to see Ash at Eternal, which was right across the street from Antone's... right? Nope. That was some other E-club. One thing about Austin is, far too many clubs begin with the letter E. With those intentions thwarted, I decided to try my luck at La Zona Rosa to see Spoon. After forsaking my water bottle, being searched and passing a lie detector test (well, two out of three, at any rate), I made it in just in time for the second half of Robyn Hitchcock's set.

I'll be honest -­ I hadn't heard anything from this British pop-rock master before. I know, I know, you can stone me later. (We're going to have to talk. -- Ed.) Nevertheless, I was pleased to finally get a chance. But who should take the stage with Hitchcock upon my arrival but Mr. Sean Nelson of Harvey Danger, whom I had just seen with the Long Winters some seven hours prior? He gets around, I suppose. But in contrast to the easy-flow of one-liners and camaraderie he shared with former bandmate John Roderick, Nelson was obviously nervous ­- and who can blame him? Regardless, the pair worked together beautifully, especially on Hitchcock's ode to Nelson's hometown, "Viva Sea-Tac".

I wish I could tell you about John Cale, but I can't. During his set, I repaired to a far corner of the surprisingly expansive La Zona Rosa and caught a quick catnap (Yep, we really need to talk. -- Ed.), while amassing an impressive collection of SXSW Miller Lite-themed swag. Beer cozy, anyone? Man, am I awesome or what?

I roused myself in time for Spoon, who were warmly received by their hometown crowd and returned the favor with a spirited set of some of their better known songs, including a rockin' version of "Me and the Bean". And with that, I bid the catacombs of La Zona Rosa farewell and repaired to my European chateau... I mean, pull-out sofa.

Finally, Jason begins his evening at Emo's Annex...

Doom-metal supergroup Red Sparowes are first tonight, and set about the business of shifting the heavens with their heavier than thou brand of avant-hardcore. They play a host of selections from their recently released At the Soundless Dawn, while semi-sacrilegious film footage illuminated the space above them. As the band aren't touring, or at least not widely, this was a great opportunity to see them in action, as well as secure those always crucial bragging rights for the next six to eight months.

Next up at the Annex were Mare, and unfortunately, though their debut EP is a work of sheer brilliance, their live show left more than a bit to be desired. Lead singer Tyler Semrick-Palmateer has an impossibly graceful voice, yet did little but growl as the band lurched their way through a sloppy-as-fuck set of grindcore-cum-slowcore. I had to apologize to those in attendance with me for this atrocity against music and buy extra alcohol to help quell the pain.

A relatively short walk to the Velvet Spade later, I found myself in the specious company of Austin's Swords. Their supercharged brand of Camaro rock was delivered at deafening volume, and with all the requisite scumbag accoutrements -- long-ass hair, big muffs and bourbon. They rock like a wildebeest with its nadgers caught in a trap, and you can't really say that about Spoon.

Downstairs from the zoom of Swords we caught Appalachian-flavored crooner William Elliott Whitmore in the Velvet Spade proper. His death-folk tales sound as though they were recorded two hundred years ago, his raspy drawl illuminating his songs of hurtful regret and salvation through death. It was short-but-sweet, and then we were off to Stubb's.

Bloc Party's 10:00 p.m. slot at Stubb's was one of the most hotly anticipated evens of the week, and like so many super-hyped acts before them, they didn't quite deliver the way we hoped they would. After some initial sound issues, they got on track, but they didn't project as well as they could in such a colossal space. Had they played Emo's, they would have been gods, but as it stood they were merely a promising band that still need to prove themselves in this volatile market.

Leicester lads Kasabian were up next, and they fared quite a bit better than Bloc Party. Their Happy Mondays-meets-Oasis shtick was a winner, especially as lead singer Tom Meighan kept thanking Austin and chanting "God Bless". They rolled through a forty minute set heavy on their hits ("Club Foot", "L.S.F" and "Reason is Treason") with little muss, sounding stronger as the set progressed and their drugs took full effect.

After Kasabian left in a flurry of feedback and flashing lights, we shagged ass back to the Annex for Pelican's 11:40 set, and were amply rewarded for our promptness. As usual, the Windy City quartet fucking killed it, slaying the audience with titanic instrumental metal that was strong enough to move mountains and shift tectonic plates. The gargantuan lurch of "G.W" was absolutely mind-blowing, and we once again bowed to the masters of metal.

Tonight's 1:00 a.m. slot was up for grabs, and with the line for the Bravery bordering on the outrageous, I slid over to Nuno's to see Bobby Conn and Glass Gypsies. Conn is always amazing, as is his band. The only problem tonight was that his band wasn't there, save for one Gypsy, so the set was heavily programmed and lacking its usual glam-tastic feel. Still, bad Conn is still better than 90 percent of anything else in the world, and though a sea of assholes with goatees were attempting to snag some woman, any woman, to go home with, it was still strangely fantastic.