First, a handful of observations in the wake of a long, long day:

• Airport security: If you're going to search my carry-on bag for sharp objects, please have the decency to find everything that upsets you on the first try. This is just a guess, but people will probably be kind of hostile if you try to send them back to baggage check twice. Also, if I can hijack a plane with a screwdriver, couldn't I also hijack a plane with a ballpoint pen? Or a really long, sharp fingernail?



• South By Southwest: Your primary purpose is to expose people to new bands, right? So why do you ignore the biggest captive audience of them all -- people in the badge line? We spent 90 minutes in the badge line, and we were desperate for entertainment -- so desperate, in fact, that we'd have welcomed whatever nth-string tripe you threw at us. Think about it.

Anyway, about South By Southwest...

Several of us opted to start the evening at Club DeVille with buzz-heavy UK act Selfish Cunt. We arrived a few minutes after eight -- just in time to see Selfish Cunt play two and a half songs, then leave. Seriously, either their whole set was over in eighteen minutes or they started early. We didn't get to hear "Britain is Shit" or anything. Vocalist Martin Tomlinson, dressed in what looked like a clown outfit, engaged in amusing antics -- the usual "swing from the rafters"/"climb the speakers" hijinks. We'd tell you more, but we only heard two and a half songs. What the hell?!

Chicago's Devin Davis was next on our list, playing a couple of doors down at the Velvet Spade Patio, the latest incarnation of an outdoor patio venue known for its irritating noise pollution problem.

Jennifer Kelly notes:
Davis has a full band, with himself, a drummer, bass player, keyboard, trombone and saxophone, drawn, he told me in an interview last week, from the improv jazz musicians he got to know working at a Chicago recording studio. The band is a little rough, perhaps showing the signs of being assembled recently, and the sound, at this open-air patio (situated back to back with the much louder Birdman showcase we just left), is pretty awful. To top it off, Davis seems to be losing his voice. Still, the set picks up noticeably as it goes on, with hitting most of the highlights from the new album -- "Cannons at the Courthouse", "Transcendental Sports Anthem" and "Iron Woman" among them. Davis closes strong, with two of his best songs, the Who-like "Giant Spiders" ("I won't stand still / till I'm upside down in the back of your eyes.") and the big brass-band filled "Deserted Eyeland". "He's really a lot better than that," I tell George, Andrew and Margot as we leave the venue, and George remarks that it must have been the sound guy's first-ever show.

Some of us scurried back to Emo's to catch the last few minutes of the A Frames' angular, Ex-like set. Unfortunately, they, too, must have started early; they finished playing a mere two songs after we arrived. We like what we've heard enough to try to buy Black Forest. No chance, says bassist Min Yee when we catch him and guitar/vocalist Erin Sullivan near the merch table. The album's not out until next month and all the band has, at this point, are burned copies. We'll have to wait and you'll have to wait, but we're guessing it'll be worth it.

Jennifer, who stuck around for Thermals, notes,:
The Thermals were probably at the top of my bands-I-really-like-but-keep-missing-the-opportunity-to-see list. (I've probably been with ten miles of a Thermals show six times in the last several years, but fate has always intervened.) They play an energetic set, larded with favorites from More Parts Per Millions ("It's Trivia", "No Culture Icons", "Overgrown, Overblown!" and my favorite, "Back to Grey"), as well as newer tunes from Fuckin' A (don't you love asking for this CD at your local record store?), like "How We Know" "Remember Today" and the rousing "A Stare Like Yours". The Thermals are manic and sweet and adorable on stage, bouncing in unison to the pop punk beat. The new songs seem a little less frantic than the old ones, and there are a few I didn't know that seem to be moving in a slightly starker, less saturated direction (more talk, less eighth-note guitars). Still you get the sense that, like the Ramones, it's all one song. Fortunately, it's a good song.

A few of us headed over to the Blender Bar at The Ritz to check out former Austinites Drums and Tuba -- and if you were wondering if the band has a drummer and a tuba, you're already on your way to winning a big fat gold star! Toss in a guitar player and live sampling (done by tuba-player extraordinaire Brian Wolff) and you've got the band in full form. D'n'T was always tight, and years of constant touring have honed their skills even further. A flurry of Helios Creed-like guitar showered down upon us as drummer Tony Nozero smoothly laid down rhythms in bizarre time signatures that we just couldn't figure out. Really -- we tried. We counted. We failed. While D'n'T has always appealed to the indie-rockers, there was a strange "jam-band" vibe to the set. Somehow this trio has bridged the gap between Don Caballero and Dave Matthews. The set was well-received and D'n'T left the stage in a sweaty mess -- the sign of a fine performance.

Swinging back to Beerland to catch some of the Mortville Records showcase, several of us were assaulted by four young gals who love their punk rock. Known to Austinites as The Winks, these chicas give it to you short 'n' sweet -- just the way punk rock should be played. There weren't any guitar solos, rock 'n' roll breakdowns or silly rounds of stage banter heard here. A few amusing verbal assaults directed at the lascivious men in the audience let the crowd know that you don't fuck with The Winks (though they don't seem to have any problem posing for as many pictures as the drooling male audience members can take). The band's very brief set (was it really only 20 minutes) included great versions of "Spoil Me" (their sugar-daddy tribute track) and "You're Gonna Die".

After strolling back across town to frat-bar central (Maggie Mae's), we caught a set by Dolour. Seattleite Shane Tutmarc has a knack for writing endless pop melodies, and he happily plugged away at his keyboard and he sang round after round of catchy choruses. The trio did a decent job reproducing stuff from Dolour's albums, but there's obviously a lot of extra behind-the-scenes production work going on, as there was something missing when the songs were played live. The simple fact is that some big label needs to snatch Dolour up and get him into an expensive recording studio to crank out the tunes. He'll yield one perfect pop record after another -- we're sure of it.

Those of use who skipped Dolour (and the long walk that went with them) had the definite delight of seeing most of The Apes' set at Club DeVille. The crochet-clad wonder-rockers churned out a stirring set: Amanda Kleinman flailed away behind her keyboard, Jeff Schmid battered his drum kit like he was getting $10 for every stick he broke (we think he made about $50) and Erick Jackson's flailing basswork staked a strong claim to his side of the stage. As for singer Paul Weil... well, he was as nuts as ever, but entertainingly so. More imporantly, there was substance and melody and variety in the group's freaked out, wide-eyed rock 'n' roll. Listening was easy.

Pickings for the evening-ending 1:00 a.m. slot were pretty thin, and while most of us agreed that the Sleater-Kinney show at Emo's was the best option, only one of us actually made it. We'll add his update to this page tomorrow.

Meanwhile, Splendid's Georgy Cohen was on the other side of downtown at an entirely different showcase. Here's her report.

I decide to situate my SXSW baptismal away from the infamous 6th Street, away from the "area of detail" on all the maps at a little place called Tambaleo, which promised an evening full of indie-pop goodness. The showcase did not disappoint.

After George threw me out of his armor-plated SUV at high-speed and left me on the streets of Austin, cold and alone (totally untrue -- I came to a complete stop! -- Ed.), I found my way to Tambaleo, formerly the Electric Lounge (once so-named for the ominous power plant visible across the way). I entered the club about 10 minutes into the Mercury Stars' opening set. They put on a solid show, strutting out their Brooklyn blend of dreamy guitar textures and standout keyboards. Even if the vocals didn't impress, their enthusiasm made up for it. "Options", a song from an upcoming EP, kicked off with a nice drums-and-riff interplay, boding well for the band's prospects.

Following up were crosstown neighbors, Manhattan's The Brilliant Mistakes. Imagine if Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers or the Jayhawks decided to go power-pop, and that pretty much describes the Mistakes ­- shiny melodies with depth and heart. With hooks to spare and the heartfelt harmonies between Alan Walker (keyboards) and Erik Philbrook (bass), their songs of broken romance resonated with harmonious thunder. They made me think of the Rembrandts if the Rembrandts hadn't, you know, sucked. Their cover of the Zombies' "She's Not There" was a big crowd-pleaser. The title track from their most recent album, Dumb Luck, boasted a gorgeous piano-driven melody. Another piano ballad rang true as it dramatically closed with a crash of drums and a curl of guitar. If only they hadn't attracted the obligatory front-row Crazy Dancing Guy (Looks like it was Beatle Bob, so kind of an honor. -- Ed). Oh well, at least he was having a good time. That, or a seizure.

The main attraction of the evening was pop maestro Jason Falkner, prompting the crowd in Tambaleo to swell to double its size within the span of 15 minutes. While I've never given Falkner a fair shake -- blame a bad mental association with an ex-friend -- his collaborations with Brendan Benson prompted me to give him a second look. I was glad I did. Falkner ­- who hammed it up for the crowd the whole night -- proved his chops as one of the premier pop songwriters of the past 10+ years, going out solo electric and laying into classic tunes like "The Hard Way", "She's Not The Enemy" and "Revelation." In an interesting twist, as he shifted gears to show off some new songs, the backing CD track played as he did the guitar work and vocals. If "Stephanie Tells Me" is any indication, the new album is yet another winner, with its head-bopping melody and catchy refrain. "Hurricane", true to its title, charts a furious path of clashing guitar chords. The last of the new cuts, "Say It's Time", slowed things down with its sweetly sung plea. Falkner, taking a request for his last song of the evening, played "Miss Understanding" from Author Unknown, and the audience ate it up. Something so sweet can't go ignored.

The surprise of the evening was The Redwalls, a band of Chicago kids barely (or not even) old enough to drink, dressed to the eight-and-a-halves in half-unbuttoned collared shirts and loose neckties. If the Beatles had been a garage band, they might have sounded like the Redwalls. Their danceable, hard-edged pop had the crowd going nuts. With the good times they were having unmistakably painted on their faces, they shook up the more subtle vibe of the evening for the better. Despite their youth and gum-chewing swagger, they had everything down pat, from stage presence to sharp musicianship to their alternating three-man lead vocals and harmonies. Even though "Political" -- their F-U to the FCC ­- loses its edge by virtue of a gratuitous "fuck" here and there, I can't help but think that the Redwalls are going places. And with a recently-inked deal with Capitol, that road is all put paved with gold (their indie debut, Universal Blues, was released on Undertow Records on 2003). If there was any doubt -- a band that can compel someone who's been awake for 22 hours to stand and groove through their 45-minute set deserves a heap of accolades for that feat alone.

The evening closed with Palomar, a sunny New York foursome featuring three women (a blonde, a redhead, and the raven-haired lead singer) and one guy. But don't let the gender dynamics fool you. If the mouth they gave the sound guy about the volume levels on their mics isn't any indication, let their smart and sassy indie pop do the talking. While their albums tend to tamp down their grit a bit, they've got a big sound live. The highlight of their set was the bouncy romp "Albacore", from their latest album, Palomar III: Revenge of Palomar. From humorous attempts at coordinating dance moves to using the wheezing of a pet squeak toy as a nifty bit of instrumentation, their show was fun to watch as well as listen to.

Although Austin's own The Real Heroes were set to close out the evening, I decided that if I was to be a real anything the next day after 22 straight hours of wakefulness, sleep was a dire necessity.

Jason Jackowiak adds:
The unwashed miscreants had crawled out of their hovels, in search of booze, pot and rock 'n' roll mayhem, and they found at least two of those at Friends during the Czars' downtempo 8:00 p.m. set. Denver's favorite sourpusses delivered a solid if uninspiring performance that only occasionally bordered on tedium. The crowd was appreciative, yet in true Friends fashion, refused to shut the fuck up as the band played on. As the band played on we headed off to Stubb's to revel in the glory of a thousand Billy Idol fans, and Detroit proto-poppers the Sights.

Texas Tea in hand, we watched the scarily young Sights flail about the massive Stubb's stage like toddlers whose mile was spiked with amyl nitrate. Lead singer Eddie babbled like a psychotic between songs, introducing his two bandmates no less than four times, and pleading for the gathered masses to buy the band's new album so he could "move out of [his] parents' house". Their thirty-five minute set was spiked with a smattering of favorites from Got What We Wanted, but was heavy on material from their upcoming eponymous release. Their set over and two Texas Teas drained, we upped sticks for Bikini Atoll's performance at Friends.

Much hyped Londonites Bikini Atoll were... well, less than stellar. Three songs in and they'd yet to build any real momentum, and the same feckless fucks who talked throughout the Czars' set were still talking, only louder. After a refrained chorus of "Fuck This Shit", we sauntered over to Parish to attempt to see Les Georges Leningrad.

Big Mistake. The fucking line is out onto 6th street (safety hazard, no?) and attempts to blag my way in as a member of Magnolia Electric Company failed miserably, so we retired to Emo's for the remainder of the evening.

We get to Emo's Jr. just in time to catch one of Eugene Mirman's brief between-song sets, and man did he fucking kill it. A cross between David Cross and Seinfeld, Mirman is at once observational and downright pissed off, spiking his barbs with anecdotal remembrances and odd asides. We're so impressed that we buy his album, a stunning achievement indeed.

As the liquor and sleep-depravation take hold, the rest of the evening starts to blur together, but here it is in short-form as I remember it.

Walk into the Emo's main room, see the Thermals, yet are thoroughly non-plussed. Drink more Jim Beam in he courtyard, see some folks I know. Back into Jr. for the waning moments of Six Parts Seven's set, am again, thoroughly non-plussed. Think I see Jon Brion, but turns out to be some random jackass in a blue suit. More Jim Beam for me. Go see somebody else on he main stage, but can't, for the life of me, remember whom. Back into Jr. for the Headphones, who look almost as bored on stage as I do watching them in the crowed. David Bazan looks like he's just gotten off shift from a water treatment plant. They play some keyboardy songs, then trudge off. Switch to Lonestar, see a publicist friend and wait for Eugene Mirman to re-take the stage. Think I see Zack Gallifinakis but turns out to be just some random jerk with a neckbeard. Mirman rules again. Hella are setting up, so we go watch Sleater-Kinney screech their way through a few new songs before my eardrums can't take it anymore and we go back to Jr. for Hella… who are still fucking setting up. Say "fuck it", try to go see Static Age across the street at the Annex, but they're already done. Hella still aren't on yet. We purchase gyros from a street vendor. Best food ever. Go to bed to sleep it off and do it all again tomorrow.

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Splendid's SXSW coverage by George Zahora, Andrew Magilow, Jason Jackowiak, Jennifer Kelly, and Georgy Cohen. Photos by George Zahora and Georgy Cohen.