Tale of the Wristband

This story will appear in an upcoming issue of Campus Circle...

I survived SXSW. Perhaps you've heard about this festival. Perhaps you've heard that this is where bands go to "get signed", and how this is the hallowed ground where Zach Braff created Indie Rock. Maybe you heard that there are thousands of bands, and millions of record industry execs who use record contracts as toilet paper, and toilet paper as record contracts. None of this is exactly the case, but rumor has it that signing a major label deal can have a scatological ending.

Last year was my first time at South-by. I played an outdoor showcase at a taco stand. It's common to turn gas stations, pharmacies, and really any building with a roof or a port-a-potty into a venue for the festival. I went for the entire four days in '06, which is not unlike eating a quadruple-decker burger. You better pace yourself if you're going to see several hundred bands trying to out-rock each other. You're also going to need an extra liver if you have a wristband and feel the need to take advantage of the open bars.

There is a caste system at SXSW: the haves (those who have a badge), the also-haves (those who possess an official wristband), and the have-nots (the poor saps who have only their wits and a smile to get into the official shows). This year and last, I kept it real and had no wristband or badge to speak of. Last year I drove from LA to Austin and bought some beef jerky along the way. The top of the bag was purple and plastic, so I used all the pluck and moxie I could muster and taped it to my wrist. It bore a striking, yet ultimately useless resemblance to the official wristband. I saw great music, but it was not my homespun bracelet that got me past the bouncers, it was the timeless "who you know" factor. That would prove true this year as well.

Friday I attended a BurnLounge showcase. I was told to go to the back alley of Emo's to get in. The smell of the SXSW dumpsters is something that you must experience to believe. It's like seeing the Grand Canyon or meeting the Dalai Lama, only you'll have an unforgettable desire to wretch. We eventually found our way inside and listened to what seemed like an eternity of not-so-fresh hip-hop before a welcome barrage of indie-rock saved the ears.

Even if you are a "non-wristy" and get in free, there is still a price of admission. You get stamped, marked, prodded, and branded each time you get through a door. Have you ever seen a cartoon where a package is mailed around the world and it comes back covered with stickers and stamps? This is what your hands will look like. I was marked with two profoundly black letters that allowed reentry to the back alley of the club. The marker was so dark that I'll be trying to explain what "RC" means to my grandkids.

This year, I moved up in the world because I played in an actual indoor venue as part of an official showcase. Although without having a wristband it was possible I could've been denied entry to my own show. I played at the Six Lounge, which is Lance Armstrong's club. I was disappointed that Matt McConaughey and Lance weren't there wearing matching outfits, but the show went well and we celebrated by double-fisting all the free well drinks we could afford.

The great part about SXSW is the sense of community. It's like a Star Trek convention, except you don't wear pointy ears, you rock your really skinny pants and deliberately chaotic hair. For me, the finale of SXSW was playing in a late-night jam at the One to One bar where musicians would walk in the door and right to the stage to sing harmonies for their friends.

I didn't discover the next big thing this year or last, but SXSW is a necessary rite of passage for the modern musician. It teaches you all the essentials: know people, do your drinking before the open bar closes, and above all accessorize with a fluorescent wristband.