Blind South By - Day Two

The scene at Ryan Hemsworth; taken from Will's Instagram feed.

I have no idea where I am.

It's now exactly 5 a.m. and I'm guessing I'm about four miles from downtown Austin. No clue, though. We definitely got on a freeway, went up and down a few hills, and took a few side streets to get here. Parked out in front, sitting next to the driver, young man in a crisp cowboy hat, I wondered how long the walk back would be, and who the hell I'd call if I got there. These people are friends of friends of friends who I met at about 12:45 a.m. They're spinning some actually very impressive records by local psych bands like UFO Club and The Black Angels. They're talking about firing up a hookah and smoking mushrooms. Zipadeedoodah.

I had to shake my rideshare buddies this morning and that's why I'm here. They were real Class-A pals, but I needed to explore. Plus I thought I could maybe graduate to sleeping on something warmer than the a floor. I walked a mile or so east through downtown, to where the piece-of-shit Apple maps app told me to go, looking for a Hype Hotel party. Wrong place. I met some rappers instead. Learn to love losing.

An hour later I'm at the Hype Hotel—pardon me, accidentally cutting the entire line at the Hype Hotel (I see you dude that arrived 2 hours ago)—mostly just to see the boy wonder Ryan Hemsworth DJ (more on him later in the week). But I find myself first watching Charli XCX, who, despite many merits makes the most unapologetic and generic pop music you'll ever hear at a so-called "indie" showcase. So effing what, though, right? Charli was on some blissed out late-nineties shit, barreling through songs like a dubstep Gwen Stefani, nailing arm thrusts and air-punches like where are the backup dancers. Then there's the bizarre twist of the day. Shlohmo, another winning producer of deep, low, funky electro-R&B instrumentals, cancels due to illness (cough) and is replaced by: The Polyphonic Spree. Of course. Don't get me wrong, I loved that one song from the Eternal Sunshine soundtrack about the sun. Shlohmo was going to be the tasty creme brulée and the Polyphonic Spree was definitely just a huge pie in the face. Not unfun.

Hemsworth DJ'd to a subdued, sloshy late-afternoon crowd and was immediately followed by Disclosure. I'm not going to lie; I don't know who that is; but it's now 6:13 a.m. so you're going to have to cut a man with tired eyes some slack on this one. Anyway I was on my third round of drink tickets. At Hype Hotel they give you two drink tickets at a time, but re-ups are weirdly unlimited. I had realized too late that vodka-Pepsi was a shitty combo, so the Miller Lite was basically just ginger ale for my quaking gastrointestinal tract. And onward.

So then I tried to go on a caper. A certain guy I know, let's call him Scramp Totem, called me with an enticing tip. Scramp produced a number of succesful mixtapes last year, after which one of the rappers abandoned their working relationship in favor of a hotshot manager. So, though Scramp wasn't going to South By with said rapper anymore, he was still on the list for a badge. All I had to do was pose as the proverbial Mr. Totem and I could have all the condescending VIP moments I wanted. The only thing that's better than being blind is being blind AND having people think you're in a band. So I strolled into the convention center (I swear there were like 40 rappers in there eyeing me), got kindly escorted to the registration desk. Figured I was so in. Put up a big scene of losing my wallet and all forms of ID. Threw my sweatshirt on the ground, dumped out my food bag on the registration desk, my wallet (in my back pocket) nowhere to be found. For some technological reason far beyond my understanding, it was a complete failure. And though the sweet young French woman was very apologetic to the panic-stricken blind man, there was no way it was going to happen. The upshot is, the convention center has great bathrooms. If you've ever got an empty stomach with a few vodka-Pepsi's and three Taco Bell Doritos Locos tacos rolling around in it, I highly recommend you check them out. So I collected myself, waited for the sun to go down, and texted Kitty (Pryde) for the first time. More on that later too.

I made my way up to a showcase called Megablaag, a giddy little gathering of "bloggers"—we're talking dudes with Tumblrs, Blogspots, and the occasional big company or enterprise-funded indie powerhouse like Gorilla vs. Bear. Hoping to collect some color on these elusive, basement-dwelling indie obsessives, I learned basically nothing. It was the most clique-y event I've been to, the only one so far where I've stood around feeling like a dumb sad blind guy for more than an hour. Luckily the soft-spoken Australians (!) of the band High Highs were there to quell my anxiety. "Open Season" is a delicious song and if they made more tunes like that they'd be huge, but such is the way with low-flying blog bands. The bloggers with razor-sharp ears rise to the top, and the others root for the underdogs. It felt like a while before I found friendly folks. Adjust your backpack. Lean on the bar. Don't lean on the bar now. Try to look at that girl. Is that a girl? Honestly it kind of felt like high school, but that's probably just because I don't see very well and didn't know anyone. The only person who ventured into my little pain bubble to introduce himself was Cliff. Cliff has a band from Washington D.C. called Gems. They're "dream pop" and I haven't yet listened to them either, but I'll go ahead and recommend them because Cliff is a nice guy. I will try to see them on Saturday.

By normal standards the night is pretty much over, but oh yeah, past midnight and no place to sleep. Hm, well, let's just keep on going. A friend of a friend told me to call a girl. She's at Hotel Vegas, this wild and legendary Austin co-op/bar/venue, and the text I get from her is literally "Come! I'm brown wearing pink shorts. Phone is gonna die."

For someone who is visually impaired, that is basically the most decimating text message imaginable. Long story short, no I did not find her, but I found SOME people (her friends?), and, of course, they were great. True "fryers," my friends would call them, in an abstract sort of way. Oh, and there was some New Orleans sissy bounce. If Big Freedia has become the greatest promoter of the grunting, hyper-sexual (in the best way) brand of NOLA rap, Katey Red should be considered a close second. Ass everywhere. Then I meet Chris Catalena. Who knows why he's there—all the folks who hang out on the East side of Austin seem to know each other. Catalena, who plays all over solo and with his band the Native Americans, is a suave and bedeviling Texas crooner with a real serious Stetson that never leaves his head. No really, he's sleeping out front in his van right now. And I bet he's still wearing it. The bar closes. Still no place to stay. Chris asks if I want to see his van. Regardless of the most basic life lessons and my essential inability to physically defend myself, I get in his van. And that takes us back to the beginning. So now everyone is asleep and I guess this is where I'm staying tonight.

TODAY BY THE NUMBERS
Number of people who said, "You're not blind": 3
Number of unnecessary or awkward compliments: 4
Number of people scrambling dramatically out of my way and laughing: 3
Number of times I asked for directions: 9
Number of times I cut an entire line: 4

If you're looking for me the rest of the week follow me at @willkbutler or stalk me with the hashtag #SxBlindGuy.