Roky Erickson – The Pleasurecraft

March 15, 2011

Chances are that by Saturday you’ll want to strangle the shit out of anyone carrying an instrument case, sporting an outrageous hairstyle, or handing out any kind of printed material. “So your steampunk barbershop quartet has a 3am unofficial showcase at the Brixton? Well do-re-mi-fa-so what motherfucker?” By Saturday you’ll be sick of free beer but too broke to buy liquor. You’ll also be craving a salad but still eating free barbecue and Wonder Bread. In fact, by Saturday the only thing keeping your digestive tract flowing will be dangerous overdoses of ibuprofen and promotional vitamin C packages. Cannonball those in the morning with a couple of quarts of water, and you’ll experience a vigorous cleanse – something similar to what you’d get after a couple of weeks ingesting nothing but lemon water and cayenne, or drinking Tijuana sewer water. It’s best to travel light anyway, and by Saturday you will have reduced your club crawling essentials to flip-flops, a banana hammock (or daisy dukes), and a lanyard attached to a plastic pocket that contains your South by Southwest badge, ID, credit card, and a pair of dirt- and wax-covered swag earplugs pungent enough to be used as trolling bait for catfish. If those earplugs are that gamey, imagine what must be going on down in those daisy dukes … the only thing that’s keeping you from being trailed by a herd of feral cats is the fact that there are several hundred thousand other roving tuna canneries throwing them off the scent. Maybe you should take a short walk across the bridge to South Congress and pick up one of those overpriced Mexican sundresses. Yes, they’re the same dresses you can buy at the mercado in front of the Fiesta Mart for $15 a pop, but these have cute shit like hummingbirds and geckos silk-screened on them. Regardless of what you pay, Mexican sundresses offer superior ventilation, and if nature is overly insistent, you can cop a squat in the middle of Sixth Street and not cause a big scene. Easy enough, right? As thousands of doe-eyed musicians prove every year, it’s not easy to cause a big scene during SXSW. You have to be truly remarkable. It’s not enough to be a really awesome band that plays really awesome music. You have to be a really awesome band that plays really awesome music, dances like OK Go, dresses like Lady Gaga, and gives away free cocker spaniel puppies at every show. Why? Because the Perez Hilton party has Madonna performing with Justin Bieber on a leash in a gimp suit, free D.O.M and Beluga, a bouncy castle lubed with Astroglide, and gift baskets that include cocaine-filled Fabergé eggs and mittens made of baby seal fur. Oh yeah … and a tribe of pygmies is going to slaughter a bull elephant with machetes. “What was the name of your band again? Oh … that’s right … who gives a fuck?” By Saturday you’ll probably have that phrase tattooed on your forehead. Like every other SXSW attendee, you started out an innocent lover of music and ended up a bitter, jaded, and exhausted hater. Perfect! You are now ready to experience the Austin Music Awards. This Saturday the Chronicle will honor the bands that made it through the meat grinder of the live music capital of the world and came out on top – no small feat. Austin audiences feel like SXSW attendees do year-round, so when they recognize talent, it’s usually legit. Come see for yourself this Saturday at the Austin Music Hall. Yes, there will be awards, but also sizzling sets by the Wagoneers, Joe Ely, Sahara Smith, Will Sexton, Bubble Puppy, Bright Light Social Hour, the Meat Puppets, Roky Erickson, and the God-stomping, 18-piece orchestra Mother Falcon. If you see Mother Falcon and still want to choke the shit out of musicians, you’ll have your work cut out for you.

JULY 10, 2007

People are like puppies: Eventually they stop being young and cute and get old and cranky. At some point you just want to drive them out to a nice place in the country, open the door, and yell, “Look, a rabbit!” Of course, with old people you might have better luck saying something like, “Look, a Luby’s!” or “Hey, is that Wilford Brimley and Angela Lansbury making out behind that tree?” Still, they might fall for the rabbit thing, too, depending on the potency of their meds. If a trip to the country seems a little costly, you might try dropping them off at Whole Foods or Central Market, where old people seem to be able to occupy themselves for days at a time, clogging the aisles with nearly empty shopping carts while loitering around the sample tables. Apparently in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, each new schmear of herbed goat cheese on a cracker tastes deliciously different, even after repeated samplings. Or, it could be that Whole Foods and Central Market are gastronomical gauntlets to the afterlife. Perhaps plowing through a smorgasbord of sample-sized snob cuisine is a one-way ticket to Heaven, or maybe it just tastes like it. Here’s the thing: Old people aren’t going anywhere soon. Yes, they make jokes about not buying green bananas or spending money on their teeth, but with advances in nutrition and medical science, it’s very likely that most old people will be around until you’re old, too. With enough Viagra and Retin A, 80 might be the new 40. There are surely benefits to that, but if you’re planning on surfing DIY porn sites in the future, you’re going to want to invest in some therapy. So, tossing aside “final solution” fantasies like Logan’s Run and Soylent Green, what are we going to do with all those extra old people? Put them back to work? Maybe, but how many Wal-Mart greeters can the world take? Imagine a spindly wall of glad-handing, blue-vested cotton tops blocking your way to the $1.99 Faded Glory sleeveless T-shirts? Time to do a little Billy Jack-style euthanasia. No, the true value of the aged is their wisdom and experience. Old people know a lot and have had a lot of practice. These traits, which are particularly annoying in young people, are what make old people tolerable, even likable. It’s unlikely that an old person is going to take your job or shag your significant other – they’re too tired – and even if they do, you have to admit they have serious, Clint Eastwood caliber game. The old can, however, be highly entertaining and informative, often at the same time, sometimes on purpose. If you need an example of this phenomenon, buy some tickets to Roky Erickson’s 60th Birthday Party at the Paramount Theatre this Friday. Erickson is crazy with wisdom and experience. The leader of the Sixties psych-rock band 13th Floor Elevators, Erickson took the whole ride: fame, drugs, insanity, and redemption. Recently, he’s been rocking harder than ever. Who knows? Maybe 60 is the new 20. Regardless, $36 gets to admission and a copy of the soundtrack to You’re Gonna Miss Me, the 2005 film documenting Erickson’s rise and fall.