Blind South By - Day Three

The man in the cowboy hat saved me again.

This morning at noon I had Chris Catalena drop me off on Rainey Street. Rainey is a strange part of Austin; a once-bereft residential area where all the houses have been converted to bars, it feels both comfortable and illicit in its downhome simplicity. After a Breakfast of Champions (grilled cheese and some water), I wended my way to the Innovative Leisure showcase. IL is a record label that, though it's known for its garage rock, is much to its credit striking out in all kinds of different directions.

But the thing is I had to wait in line. And suddenly I understood why none of you are at SXSW. Wandering up to the front and obliviously asking if I was at the right place didn't work for me this time; The security guard was low-level, assigned to admit or dismiss on a binary code. I was sent packing to the back of the queue, standing in the sun with the non-badge-holding public, trying to make meaningful and friendly conversation. The combination of being alone and standing in a line is enough to kill all social credibility, though. This is why most people bring sunscreen.

Once I was actually inside of Clive Bar, the afternoon turned peachy. After four hours of sleep and no shower, the seven-dollar beers weren't even appealing, and I settled for more water (a $2 bottle with the blind guy discount), and found myself a shady corner of the backyard to cozy up in. It was kind of a relief, and IL brought the heat like no other single showcase that I've been to so far. The Allah-Las lifted everyone's spirits, the Tijuana Panthers got everyone shimmying, Superhumanoids kneaded and delighted, and Bass Drum of Death pounded at your deepest longings. This is a label that knows its garage rock back and forth, and doesn't waste your time with hackneyed bullshit. I finally stood up and moved to the front for my most anticipated act, Badbadnotgood. BBNG plays like the Bad Plus in a sandbox. They're obviously trained in jazz, but the performance is anything but. In addition to their own, sizzling fusion, they knocked out covers of Flying Lotus and TNGHT, their drummer Alex all the while trying to coax the unfamiliar crowd into wyling out.

The Allah-Las absolutely destroying the Clive Bar.

This was the point that I realized how different seemingly "open-minded" music fans can be from each other.. My friend Nick, who joined me for the BBNG set, stood next to me in awe, asking, "How could you not love this band??" and some dipshit toe-headed aviator-wearing 30-something throws his stupid face in the air to give this real standard-issue chortle. Of course all the girls he's with chuckle along, unsure of what the actual joke is (is he really making Canada jokes? Dude, you're going to hell!), and I resist the urge to ram my blind guy stick into his kidneys. The guy spends the whole set mocking the band right in front of me, just because they don't have a fuzz pedal and a star on their bass drum. Ten feet to our right there's a pit of kids gigging their faces off, woh I just wanted to run to and twirl around. They're cheering at all the right moments, and not caring whether or not it's garage-rock or instrumental hip-hop as long as it feels good. By the time BBNG finishes with their frenetic cover of Gucci Mane's "Lemonade," it's totally unclear whether this grumbling toe-head's cheering is real or just blatantly cruel, tongue-in-cheek narcissism. Regardless, Badbadnotgood is one of Innovative Leisure's most adventurous picks to date, and will hopefully pay dividends for the label. We left before blues rocker Hanni El Khatib came on (heard it all before, sorry), but the absent presence of the day was definitely Rhye, one of IL's newest pickups. Honestly most people go to see Rhye because they just don't believe that it is actually a man singing (I still don't have proof), but Rhye is one of the most promising and unadorned R&B bands working today. Let's hope I see them by the week's end.

After the major success of this showcase, I was ready for coffee and beer. With the help of an old fellow NPR intern I found Chicago Drafthouse, a respectable beer bar which, if not for anything else, posts all its brews on a massive wide-screen TV that even I could read. If this is the future, I'm going to be sloshed.

If you've never been backstage at a major concert, I suggest you make some friends in bands. Sure, they were serving the same booze, and yeah, the exact same Taco Bell fare, but when you're on a plush black couch with Miller Lite throw pillows, dipping your feet in a 9-inch deep "pool," everything just tastes better. It was thanks to my friends and schoolmates of the band Trails & Ways that I found myself a VIP at the Hype Hotel, and if they hadn't bribed me so well I wouldn't have written anything nice about them.

SXSW branding has gotten a little out of control.

But seriously, this is their pre-show routine: they give each other massages as needed, each spend some alone time with their matching crystals, and make sure to have a big group hug. This would all be pretty laughable if they didn't also happen to be the most genuine, caring people I've ever been in a club green room with. Nonetheless I was weirded out so I made them all take shots before they went on stage.

Trails & Ways' dreamy bossanova pop was followed by the ever-engaging Beach Fossils, and then, in kind of a surprising order, by legendary UK ska outfit The Specials. We skanked and I'm drawing a blank on whatever other dance you do, but it was truly a special thing to be able to catch a band like The Specials at a mid-week SXSW set. I don't know who else played because at this point it was 12:15 AM and it didn't look like Trails & Ways wanted me to sleep at their house. Here we go again.

Skanking to the Specials.

At this point I'm awaiting SXSW-related text messages from: random girl, college buddy, high-school friend, old editor, and Bob Boilen. Bob tells me he's at The Parish, where I go and am callously turned away. I stand in a cess-filled, molten gutter in the midst of a crawling 6th St., waiting for an update from somebody. Anybody. Nothing. It's peculiar what South By does to people's phones.

Now it's 1:15 a.m. and I decide maybe if I go to VICELAND someone will recognize me as their Blind Guy and let me curl up in their bathtub for six hours. Unfortunately Snoop Lion has already roared his mighty roar and is probably two blunts short of a weed coma at the Hilton, so that means there's almost nobody left at the venue. I meet a guy named Ben, and he's just about as polite as one needs to be to a blind guy at this time of night but basically tells me to go away and let him go back to his hotel so he can get back to LA as soon as possible.

So now I'm walking towards the interstate and it's 2AM There's only one thing left to do and that's call my new friend Chris, the man in the crispy Stetson who drove me into town this morning. And I'll say it now this man is a saint. He picks up, tells me exactly where he is, and admits I'll probably have to take a cab but he wants me to come join him. That's enough, so after soliciting an oblivious couple from Kansas to hail me a taxi I'm zooming eastward to a random address.

I would never have guessed that Austin is the place for a blooming, self-important speakeasy, but why the hell not? I get dropped off (Chris is somehow now a mile back in the other direction looking for his lost keys) and walk up alone to an unmarked door where a skeptical looking young man just stands there and stares at me. I tell him I was invited and he lets me in because I have this weird white stick that means I need extra help.

Inside I'm pretty much no good, bumping into every single individual in the place and asking too many questions to guys named Albert and girls named Lulu. The space is completely swagged out, replete with candles, red glowing bar-lights, and all manner of cool odds and ends that I wasn't able to identify. The bartender is sluggish, kind of asocial, and charges a ten-dollar "donation" for each drink. Apparently he can do this because it's not a bar but is actually his home, and since nothing else is open at 3 a.m., well tough shit, Austin.

Chris' keys are still missing so eventually our only choice is to walk back exactly where I came from and search his van. By 4:30 a.m. I'm sitting on the sidewalk ready to investigate some serious backup plans, mostly the ones involving family members and pitiful begging. It looks like we're sleeping in the van. Chris calls Val Kilmer's daughter to see if she wants to hang out. She's on a bridge somewhere downtown and doesn't have much to offer us in the way of advice. Finally at the last moment, Marie, our host from the previous night, drives all the way downtown to rescue us.

So after all that I'm exactly where I was last night: Somewhere I'm not familiar with, still awake at 7:00 in the morning, and contemplating the drawbacks of psychedelic drugs for the visually impaired. Oy vey. Here's the bright side: I spent a considerable chunk of the day lining up some very exciting activities for the rest of the week, involving in various combinations; some rappers, ice cream and/or fro-yo, and maybe a little mouth-to-mouth.

Today By the Numbers:
Number of people who ignored my texts - 5
Number of massages recieved - 2
Number of miles walked - 4
Number of uneccesary dollars spent - 28
Number of trips to the VIP bathroom - 3
Number of people saying, "You're not blind!" - 3

If you want to get some action this week or at least make sure I don't sleep in a ditch, follow me at @willkbutler or stalk me with the hashtag #SxBlindGuy

To see the rest of Will's blind coverage of SXSW 2013, click .