Holy crap, SXSW was awesome.

I could give you the blow-by-blow (which would include, I might add, being accosted at 3a.m. in the parking lot of a motel in Lampasas, TX by a naked man who introduced himself as ‘Chile Con Carne,’ and which would also include what was probably the greatest show I’ve ever seen—Matt Pond, PA, followed by Casiokids at the Galaxy room).
Or I could tell you how well represented was our fair city, and pontificate on the nature of our scene and just how goddam valuable it is.

But blow-by-blows always read like recipe books and insofar as I am steadfast in my resolve to update more often, pontification should be the norm.

So for now, I’ll just say this: there were, throughout this past weekend at SXSW, these tiny instants of self-reflection—one on the dance floor at the galaxy room, another unable to sleep on the floor underneath a friend’s kitchen table, a third crammed tight in the back of a car, drunk, and rocketing down the interstate—where you recognize just how fucking happy you are.

Now whether this is endemic to SXSW, or is just a function of some particularly good luck we had finding the right people to be with at the right places at the right time, I don’t know, but next year you should come with when I try to find out.


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