words by Elliot Cole
photos by Randy Cremean
Ioda Day Show, Emo’s Annex
Most of us know Josh Tillman as the harmonizing, affable drummer of Soundcheck’s “Best Album of 2008” winners Fleet Foxes. His between-song banter is one of the most undervalued and charming elements of any Foxes set, and he seemed prepped to spread his wings (er…paws) for a solo set. Unfortunately, none of that was on display under the white tent of the Emo’s Annex stage. After some technical glitches, Tillman was forced to play his abbreviated solo set on ground level with the fans. While it’s engaging in theory, nobody outside of a four foot range could hear Tillman’s soulful crooning. And since Tillman didn’t announce that he was going to be playing at ground level, three-fourths of the venue had no idea he was even performing, making the surrounding chatter further drown out his guitar and vocals. Ultimately, it made for a regrettable waste of a timeslot, negating Tillman’s endearing, heartfelt, and charismatic persona.
With their Ford Racing t-shirts, plaid shirts, and grungy facial hair, Deer Tick could easily be written off as a niche southern-tinged blues/rock band…if only they weren’t so damn authentic. The formula for rough alt-country doesn’t require a lot of alterations, and the Rhode Island foursome does the sound justice with their own indie touch. The set dragged into mediocrity at times, but an enthralling closer was more than redeeming. Deer Tick also holds another notable accolade: they were probably the one band playing all day that was actually better served under the relentless Texas sun, which added even more to their southern-soaked aesthetic.
Red 7 (Terrorbird and Force Field PR Show)
Beach House is a delightful little group, but the Red 7 did them no justice. An uncomfortable side stage made the band hard to see, and the fuzzy feedback of the speakers was a reminder of one of the dirty little secrets of SXSW: the sound usually sucks. On top of it all, the staff seemed to be making no effort to track the number of people coming in the show (good for late stragglers like myself, miserable for those mired in the sweaty mass of people trying to get a view). Still, nothing could top the cough-inducing, reeking bar area which emanated toxic fumes from a huge Tabasco bottle shattered on the floor. While the airy, spacious sounds of Beach House were fair – particularly considering the circumstances - most fans were more bewildered by the mixture of sweat and spice.
4 AD Show at Central Presbyterian Church
With all due respect to Ladyhawke and The Decemberists and Stubb’s, Central Presbyterian Church had the best lineup on the opening night of SXSW. After a debacle regarding the restrooms (meaning there were none and you had to leave the show to use the portapotty with no hope of returning), fans situated themselves in the various pews of the church to watch Anni Rossi resonate with a dense, minimalistic and haunting sound akin to Regina Spektor. The sound of the church was phenomenal, almost making up for the fact that the crew allowed our bladders to act as live hand grenades until they figured out a solution. Almost.
M. Ward – who is returning to SXSW after a stint with She & Him at last year’s conference – did well to remind everyone about his musical chops. After playing some simple riffs with Zooey Deschanel and crew in 2008, Ward was able to unleash some fluid, colossal, and technically awe-inspiring riffs that carried more weight than some full bands can. Draped in a blue light, Ward was blinded by an array of photographers; credit SXSW for allowing any dunce with a camera to be a “volunteer photographer” for the festival. Nonetheless, his echoing voice and amazing string work were compelling and well-received, particularly when he made the move to piano or harmonica.
Department of Eagles was the big draw of the night, judging by the amount of the crowd that fluttered out into the city after their set. A somewhat discombobulated Daniel Rossen (better known for his work in Grizzly Bear) kicked off and ended the set with solo efforts, including a gripping closer that relied on the flannel-clad Rossen looping his own varied vocals. Rossen’s wispy voice was airy and recalled Sufjan Stevens at times, while the band was up to the task to match his range. Fluctuating between whimsical and poignant, the set was solid, if not remarkably interactive. Whether it was genuine fanship or the fact that the audience was watching from pews of the church, something seemed to make the band feel strangely distant. Still, the Eagles were impressive.
St. Vincent, like M. Ward, took full advantage of the intimate confines of the church. Annie Clark’s voice resonated and embraced the room, and her charming demeanor held true throughout the set. Between songs, she balanced an apprehensive appearance with the poise and warmth of a genial frontwoman. “What’s up Whataburger? Hey friend,” she said, targeting one of the true fast food havens of Texas. The songs were in perfect precision, each loop wrapping around the various saxophones, clarinets, and strings that the four backing members introduced. Some songs, including a handful off of St. Vincent’s upcoming album, showed off some surprisingly thick rock touches, but it was her voice that ultimately replaced the choir for the evening.
