Best of the Fests
South by Southwest is the biggest, best music festival around. Sorry, Lollapalooza.
By Zac Crain
In comparison with most people I know, I’m a bit of a Luddite. I was an extremely late adopter on a number of fronts (cell phone, laptop, iPod). I only learned how to adequately text-message a couple of years ago. I still don’t have a BlackBerry — or something similar. More often than not, I write with pen and paper. More often than that, I write with pen and the palm of my hand.
I’m truly embarrassed by most of this. I’m too young to affect a nostalgic, back-in-my-day pose. We’re basically still in my day, and I’m behind the curve. Even if I wanted to cheat, guess what? The world wasn’t better before all those things. Perhaps we’ve gone too far, with the Bluetooth earpieces and all, but that doesn’t change my essential question: How did we used to do anything?
I always think about this during the annual South by Southwest Music, Film and Interactive Conferences and Festivals, which take place every March in Austin. Without a cell phone there, I would have been wandering around by myself. I would have had to rely on my friends and colleagues to be both punctual and unwavering in their plans. If you knew my friends and colleagues, you would know how hopeless that strategy would have been.
It’s even simpler than that, though: If you’ve been to South by Southwest recently, you wouldn’t even have to know my traveling party to know how pointless it would be to try to navigate that scene without the latest in modern technology. There are almost 100 clubs, close to 2,000 bands, and countless fans. It would be like trying to find a pin in a city full of haystacks. Here’s a good example: At one point during this year’s festival, the Who’s Pete Townshend got onstage with the Fratellis (whom you may have heard via their insanely catchy iTunes spot). My phone instantly started buzzing. A decade ago, I wouldn’t have found this out until the next morning, at best.
Somehow, we managed. When I started attending the festival, in 1995, I was still a student at the University of Texas. About a dozen or so of my friends would congregate in Austin for the week. None of us had cell phones, yet we all generally found each other amid the crowds. It doesn’t seem possible now, but it did happen.
Back then, though, we were at a different festival; it was more of a music-industry-only shindig. This was back when South by Southwest (SXSW) was thought to be one of those fabled places where an upstart band could perform, and if the right people found their way to the right show, the band could leave with a major-label recording contract. This didn’t happen too often, but the possibility remained, and that was good enough to keep those upstart bands coming.
After those kinds of hopes dimmed, the thinking changed, and the crowds did too. SXSW became a place where a band that had already secured its record deal could make a big splash. This relied less on the right people finding their way to the right show and more on lots of people, irrespective of their jobs or connections, finding that band. It seems counterintuitive, but the idea seemed to be to attract an interminable line of prospective audience members, few of whom had any chance of actually setting foot inside the venue. If you couldn’t even get in, obviously you had to be missing something. Right?
Now everyone pretty much takes the festival for what it is — and really always was: spring break for the music industry. That’s not to say that no one was working during this year’s installment (March 14 to 17). Reporters had to file stories; publicists had to try to get their clients into those stories. But now it’s less about the people working and more about the bands (the Fratellis, Mew, Kings of Leon, Spoon, the M’s, and the Pipettes, to name but a very few that made a mark this year) and their fans. Even as recently as a few years ago, it was possible for a then relatively unknown group to take over the town for a few days (the Strokes, the White Stripes) and then leave as conquering heroes, on their way to bigger and better. These days, the victors tend to be long-established names. This year, for instance, the reformed Stooges were responsible for the biggest buzz (and the biggest crowd).
This current trend has turned South by Southwest into just another music festival, like Coachella or Bonnaroo or whatever. Except for this: In many ways, it’s bigger than them and, I would argue, better. The bigger part requires no argument — more people and bands attend over more days. That’s just simple math.
The better part? I think that’s easy too. Unlike many of the other festivals, SXSW isn’t located in the middle of nowhere. It’s in a city with plenty of transportation, hotels, and so on. When you go to bed at night, you (probably) won’t be in a tent in a field with a few thousand of your closest friends (Bonnaroo) nor have a long drive out of the desert (Coachella). It’s during the spring, so the weather is better than average. When you go to see a band, the venues are small enough that you can actually see the band. If you can get in, that is.
That’s pretty much the only knock on the festival. It sets a new attendance record each year, and since the clubs aren’t getting any bigger, it’s harder than ever to get into the most-sought-after shows. But I don’t think that’s too big of a deal, really. If you can’t get into a particular show, sure, it’s a drag, but there are at least 100 other bands playing at the exact same time. You can just walk down the street and see something else great.
That scenario happened to me this year on the very first night. I went with a friend to see two bands at a club called Emo’s — the Mountain Goats and Blonde Redhead. There was a line out the door that blockaded the street. We could have hung around and maybe even gotten inside. But by then, we would have missed the Mountain Goats, and I’d already seen Blonde Redhead a few times before. My friend suggested a band he’d seen several times in Chicago, a sweet-sounding coed sextet called the 1900s. They happened to be playing just a few doors down, and there was no line. It ended up being the best thing I saw all week. At least, that’s what I text-messaged to someone during the show.
More Music Festivals
Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival (www.bonnaroo.com)
June 14 to 17, Manchester, Tennessee
Lollapalooza (www.lollapalooza.com)
August 3 to 5, Grant Park, Chicago
Bumbershoot (www.bumbershoot.org)
September 1 to 3, Seattle
Austin City Limits Festival (www.aclfestival.com)
September 14 to 16, Zilker Park, Austin
Keep in Mind for Next Year
Coachella (www.coachella.com)
Sasquatch Music Festival (www.sasquatch festival.com)
 Hard Rock, Rocking
It only makes sense that the Hard Rock Cafe would eventually get into the concert business in a big way. Last year, the company did just that, kicking off the Ambassadors of Rock tour with a two-day stand at London’s Hyde Park that was headlined by the Who and Roger Waters.
Building on that success, Hard Rock is giving it another go and is starting at the same spot. This year’s Ambassadors of Rock tour starts with Hyde Park Calling 2007, a weekend of shows topped by Peter Gabriel and Crowded House on June 23 and Aerosmith on June 24.
Following the Hyde Park gigs, the tour will continue on to Caracas, New York, Chicago, Orlando, Nagoya, Singapore, Tokyo, Osaka, and Hollywood (Florida) with a different set of headliners (and all worthy of the title “ambassador”) performing in each city.
One lucky so-and-so will be able to attend four shows free of charge. It could be you: Visit www.hardrock.com/promo/ambassadors to register.
 Sonny Smith, Fruitvale, (Belle Sound)
Bay Area pop eclectic Sonny Smith has made a lot of friends. Alt-country stars like Neko Case and Jolie Holland have handpicked him to open tours for them, and Green on Red guitarist Chuck Prophet essentially started his new Belle Sound label specifically to put out Smith’s latest, the concept LP Fruitvale. Smith’s been working quietly underground for years while accumulating this host of high-profile admirers. In 2000, he self-released his first album, a low-budget job called Who’s the Monster … You or Me? Its follow-up, This Is My Story, This Is My Song, found a home on the tiny San Francisco label Jackpine Social Club, which technically made it his debut. However, it had a belated 2003 release, and Smith had already moved on from those songs by the time the record started attracting positive reviews. By then, Smith was living in a funky Latino neighborhood in Oakland, one whose odd characters would provide the inspiration for Fruitvale, which plays like a postmodern barrio version of Our Town set to music. Featuring an ambitious song cycle, Smith’s album refracts the fragile pop of Daniel Johnston, the cracked bohemian poetry of Tom Waits, and the underdog narratives of Randy Newman — all through his own skewed kaleidoscope. Largely recorded in Chicago with arranger and coproducer Leroy Bach, who is best known from his time in Wilco, Smith’s funny, fragile voice infuses his strange little kitchen-sink dramas with a passion and a pathos that are hard to resist. — Bob Mehr
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 Screamingly Funny
John Landis will make you laugh, cry, and when he’s really on his game, do both.
By Bryan Reesman
John Landis has experienced an amazing career as a leading comedy- and horror-film director; he’s responsible for monster hits like Animal House, The Blues Brothers, An American Werewolf in London, and Trading Places, not to forget Michael Jackson’s immortal “Thriller” video. Having become frustrated with a modern studio system, which tampered with his last two big movies, namely Beverly Hills Cop III and Blues Brothers 2000, Landis has spent the past several years working more in television and on smaller film projects, but he still has plenty of creative irons in the fire. The infectiously energetic, hilariously insightful Landis chatted about Family, his recent Masters of Horror episode, which stars Cheers veteran George Wendt as a lonely, homicidal lunatic who kills strangers to collect a “family,” as well as about his forthcoming Don Rickles documentary.
Why did you choose to make Family?
Brent Hanley wrote a script years ago called Frailty. I desperately tried to direct that movie; however, the producer ended up giving it to Bill Paxton. I was very disappointed, because it really is the best script that I’ve ever read. The producers of Masters of Horror independently approached Brent Hanley, who lives in Texas, and asked him to write one [episode]. He said he would write one only if John Landis directed it. So they came back to me and asked if I would direct a script by Brent Hanley. I had intended to write my own, and I was very disappointed, but Brent is a wonderful writer, so I didn’t want to turn that down.
I was watching Family last night, and it’s more sinister than your other horror work. It’s more Twilight Zone than American Werewolf.
My [story in] Twilight Zone, which is obviously truncated, was trying to be closer to the spirit of Rod Serling, who was often very political and very heavy. Family is not that political. When I do fantasy, it tends to be stuff like American Werewolf, Deer Woman, and Innocent Blood, about fantasy monsters. In fantasy, I tend to like monsters, because I think that’s more difficult to bring off. Stuff like serial killers, mass murderers, and psychopaths is relatively easy, because they’re real. Vampires are not real. Werewolves are not real. So to create suspension of disbelief is harder.
For you, why are horror and comedy so closely related?
They’re both very unforgiving in that you either laugh or you don’t, or you’re either scared or you’re not.
You like to mix them together.
Yes and no. That’s not unique to me. Hitchcock always referred to Psycho as a comedy, and if you watch the film repeatedly, you can see it. Norman Bates says, “Mother’s not herself today.” It’s full of lines like that. There’s some very sly stuff in that movie. James Whale’s Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein are high camp. I find humor in the supernatural, and I think I find humor in it because it’s not true. Whistling in the graveyard is like laughing in church. It’s the same thing.
You’ve been working on a Don Rickles documentary, which I imagine could be kind of a horror movie in itself, given his abrasive sense of humor.
I actually met Don when I was 18 years old and a gopher on a movie called Kelly’s Heroes, which was shot in Yugoslavia in 1969, when “behind the Iron Curtain” actually meant something. I was at Don’s 80th birthday last year, and I looked around the room and thought that people don’t appreciate Don’s place in history or what he does. I discovered that most people know him from movies, TV, the Carson show, or the Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts, but most people haven’t seen him perform. He’s a unique entertainer, and he’s still out there.
This week, I’m going to Las Vegas to shoot his opening at the Golden Nugget, which is pretty much going to be the ending of the film. Last week, I shot the demolition of the Stardust, and last September, I shot Don’s whole show at the Stardust. He says, “Now I play a hotel, and they blow it up.” Well, guess what I cut to?
It’s quite a unique documentary, and I’m very excited about it. It’s a labor of love, and it’s going to be wild. It has clips from a lot of old performances, television, and movies, [plus interviews with] Chris Rock, Clint Eastwood, Sidney Poitier, Warren Beatty, and Sarah Silverman. Other than Michael Jackson, he’s the most opposite of his person onstage than anyone I’ve ever met.
What do you find most fascinating about him?
He’s just an absolutely dear, sweet guy, and he has nothing to do with that abrasive schmuck onstage. And he’s so funny. Here’s a guy who is as funny now as he was 50 years ago. He was the one who was brave. If you see what he was doing 50 years ago, it’s shocking. This is when there were real gangsters, when Vegas really was controlled by the mob. He has that great line: “Frank Sinatra saved my life. He said, ‘That’s enough, boys!’ ”
You started off with the camp film Schlock so many years ago …
A lot of people think I’m still doing it.
It’s surprising to learn that with all your success, it’s still tough to get certain films produced, like the offbeat musical Bat Boy, which you’ve been trying to make for years.
We live in different times. I look back with 20/20 hindsight, and I was very lucky to come into the movie business during the late ’60s and early ’70s. There was a good 15 years when the studios were collapsed and nobody understood what was going on, so they really allowed filmmakers, meaning writers and directors, to make decisions. I wrote An American Werewolf in London in 1969. I made it in 1981, and I got to make it only because of Animal House and The Blues Brothers. Do you think I’d be allowed to make Animal House or The Blues Brothers now? I would be allowed to make rip-offs [of the films], but I’d never be allowed to make anything as dangerous as those films, or even Trading Places or Coming to America.
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