March 16, 2010

Austin Music Hall

Walk outside. Inhale deeply. Smell that? That’s the smell of fresh meat: thousands upon thousands of fame whores, sycophants, big shots, losers, and a few real, honest to goodness normal people who somehow got sucked into the roiling clusterfuck that is South by Southwest. The air Downtown is thick with the scent of desperation and disappointment – not just because of the maddeningly intermittent cab service and ubiquitous sub-par catered barbecue, but because of the collective realization that the city of hope is built on a mountain of crushed dreams. Somewhere between the last windmill armed power chord of their 8pm showcase and the hungover, stale-farted van ride back to Nowheresville, legions of starry-eyed hopefuls will experience the painful epiphany that they just don’t have what it takes. The hardest lesson to learn is that a dream is not enough. It’s not enough to want it really badly. You have to want it really badly and be really, really good – exceptionally good … or at the very least exceptionally good-looking. Even more sobering than the overwhelming number of truly great bands showcasing at SXSW is the thought that each year fewer and fewer of them will become superstars in the classic sense. They might occasionally experience a few golden God moments – a bed full of naked groupies, a TV defenestration, their names spelled out in coke on the hotel coffee table – but most of the humping they will be doing will involve carrying their equipment on and off stages in a never-ending succession of forgettable towns. Of course, touring musicians are the lucky ones. The music business is a pyramid with a very fat bottom. As a percentage, anyone sharing a smelly van ride back from SXSW is probably at the top of his or her game, careerwise. Even still, it’s no real consolation that the fall from such a low pinnacle is much less painful than some loftier achievement. The artistic ego is fragile. The hurt is real. At least SXSW sweetens the pot by offering an ocean of free booze so the sad sacks can drown in something other than their own self-pity. Moments of weakness and self-doubt were made for refreshing American pilsners. Don’t think for a minute that if the Medellín cartel had a chance to sponsor SXSW it wouldn’t. You can’t really make a drug abuser until you make a drug user. Drink up all you Johnny B. Goodes, the dream is gone. The music, however, remains. So maybe it can’t feed your children or pay your mortgage, but it can feed your soul and maybe buy you a little happiness and mental health. In a city as crazy as Austin, that shit is priceless. Success in music comes in many forms, and not all of them pay for the Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons. This Saturday at the Austin Music Hall, Austin celebrates some of this year’s musical successes at the 28th annual Austin Music Awards. See some of Austin’s brightest stars get their due and watch performances by outstanding musicians like the Texas Sheiks, the Explosives, Peter Lewis of Moby Grape, Stu Cook of Creedence Clearwater Revival, Sarah Jarosz, and Mother Falcon. Not a bad way to finish the largest music festival in the world.