The last day of Coachella was easy like Sunday morning should be, especially for the sake of saving enough energy for the weekend’s brilliant finale. The grounds continued to showcase talent all around, starting young and growing older.

The Cool Kids kicked off a glorious afternoon teasing rap songs my generation would call old school (Skee-Lo’s “I Wish” anyone?), but with their own fresh Chicago spin, skater punk duds and Super Soakers in tow to relieve the crowd from the sun.

Barely legal Texas-bred glam rock cherubs Electric Touch took the stage just next door, turning in their fake ID’s for glam rock tunes that would make Kings of Leon or The Darkness proud. Just following, the similarly young men of Manchester Orchestra made their Coachella appearance a memorable one for me as a hometown supporter. To have their sound fill the field of the second biggest stage was seriously something special.

I’m From Barcelona didn’t invite us into their treehouse, but rather their more welcoming “you-and-me-house,” as they took over a tent to fill it with balloons and confetti. The Swedes were a sweet spectacle on the Sunday afternoon, and if anything, the collective made me want to get onstage with 25 of my own friends and sing twee tunes for fun.

Holy Fuck had the fury of garage-band kids fused with the funk of bouncing disco. For only three guys, they truly make it work and they definitely made an impression on the filled-out tent.

Shout Out Louds were nothing short of outstanding. In the time that I’ve been familiar with them, they’ve progressed from a quirky acoustic quartet to a synthesized Swedish new wave sensation. The pace of their set built perfectly, ending on a very high note with their recent hit “Tonight I Have To Leave It.” More cowbell!

Spiritualized was less than impressive. Whether it was the drum-and-bass trance blasting in a tent nearby, the technical problems that often outshone the orchestra onstage, or the one time all weekend where soundboard was an artist’s worst enemy, I was almost embarrassed. But their efforts were valiant to make everything work smoothly as it was intended.

I received word from friends that actor Sean Penn was quote “dropping knowledge” over at the main stage, so we ran to watch the actor/activist embrace his people. There were rumors running about that Eddie Vedder was in the building, but what we actually saw was 15 minutes of Penn making a strange solicitation for people to drop everything and depart for a New Orleans mission trip the very next morning. Following his impassioned speech, the day’s most highly anticipated show was finally about to start.

My day had finally gone from littler-known acts to legends. Legends-in-the-making My Morning Jacket brought in an influx of people from across the festival grounds, opening their set with “One Big Holiday.” Whereas most bands tended to drag on within their short sets throughout the weekend, it took MMJ so very little to fill a mere hour. For their biggest fans, the band was somewhat cheated out of their element due to time constraints, but for fans-to-be, it was a perfectly energetic introduction. The well-rehearsed quintet made ends meet at the halfway mark with both new and old songs that captivated the entire crowd; it couldn’t have been more fun to witness Jim James coming alive as a fun-loving, lighthearted frontman embracing his gusto as a main stage arena rock god.

The band served as the perfect opener for a piece of their own inspiration: Roger Waters of Pink Floyd playing Dark Side of the Moon. It was an ideal way to end a weekend that puts equal emphasis on music and art: the carefully orchestrated setlist, the art projected behind the band, the crisp sound on the speakers playing in surround mode that had creepy laughs and effects coming in left and right, a laser show that created a colored cloud ceiling over the crowd, an encore of “Another Brick in the Wall” and “Comfortably Numb,” pyrotechnic explosions and a full-on fireworks display… what a production. Added bonus: If anyone wanted to maximize their Dark Side experience, a projector was playing The Wizard of Oz on the top side of a tent towards the back of the field.

In the spirit of R. Kelly, after the party it’s the after-party. I sashayed to the faraway Sahara tent for my Coachella icing on the cake with hour sets from Simian Mobile Disco, Chromeo and Justice. After an hour that could have felt like a few minutes, I think I figured out that there’s a reason why Justice’s iconic symbol is simply a cross: dancing uncontrollably to beats that infectious is only akin to something religious.

Saying goodbye to Coachella was bittersweet, but in my last day alone I was lucky enough to see it at its very best and worst. Until next year, Coachella…

If the first day of the Coachella fest was an ease into a slow build, the next one was a rollercoaster all around. From comfortable crowds to considerably packed, from slow and stirring country croons to driving DJs spinning electronica and such, Saturday was far from a day of rest for festivalgoers.

It was a day to celebrate the breakout acts of the last year or so, as more seasoned elder statesmen like VHS or Beta and Minus the Bear began the day performing on the main Coachella stage and other more recently hyped acts like Kate Nash and MGMT kept tents tightly packed. The psych-heavy college crazies of the latter saved the crowning glories of their catalog for the very end of their time in the Mojave tent, sending the kids off into their sunny afternoons with the energetic anthem of the same name and finally “Time to Pretend.”

After a little sidestep to a slower-moving Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks and the cuteness of Nash, it was finally time to tap into the reserve of energy I’d been saving since before I left, for Saturday night was going to be nothing short of my ultimate dance marathon. Like clockwork, it was just starting to cool off at the start of Hot Chip. Made in the Dark dominated the greater part of their set, as classics like “Over and Over” could be found sandwiched between new tunes like “Hold On” and “One Pure Thought.” The Brits were cheeky and charismatic as they provided an electric charge to the alt-rock heavy morning schedule.

I had to take a breather after being in a place so packed, and I was more than pleased for that break to take the form of some new music from Death Cab for Cutie. Ben Gibbard was confident and endearing as ever fronting the band as it played a few from the forthcoming Narrow Stairs. “I Will Possess Your Heart” washed over the crowd with visuals from the abstract album art, and the band later forayed into much older songs from the vault like “We Laugh Indoors” and “Title and Registration.”

Things were heating up again as Rilo Kiley shook its “Moneymaker” the next stage over and Islands charmed their way through some technical problems, too. It was finally time for less of a formula and more artful freestyle as I made it to most of Animal Collective. Engaging and captivating, I couldn’t have been happier to hear new songs with seamless transitions in perfect tribal time, the first of which led into none other than Panda Bear’s “Comfy in Nautica” with the audience swaying and stomping in unison to the song’s driving chanting sample. His and Avey Tare’s frontman duties were virtually split 50/50 over the entire set and the lights blasting on cue during the climaxes of “Fireworks” were completely fantastic.

Although I’m a little too young to have experience the height of its career, Portishead could not have been more impressive. The quixotic blend of trip-hop soundscapes and sweet vocals was truly something to behold. Certainly an investment for the future.

My personal dance marathon was due for a comeback and I could not have been more excited to see Scottish dance sensation Calvin Harris. The young and gangly guy took his bedroom-spun digital crunk and translated it perfectly to a stage show with a full backing band. As he performed songs from his self-released debut I Created Disco, my expectations were exceeded with pleasure. I literally could not fight moving and kept my feet off the ground from start to finish. It was the perfect introduction to the performance no one at Coachella would forget.

The bottom line is that the day of quick-shifting fast-and slow/happy-and-sad dynamic definitely belonged to Prince. For a second I completely forgot where I was, wondering if I was either transported to 1985 or Las Vegas, or both. Wearing a white linen tunic lined with bedazzled silver, Prince blazed through a set of hits and unpredictable cover songs like Radiohead’s “Creep” and Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel” with backup dancers and the extra support of none other than Sheila E and Morris Day. He was something to behold across the tired crowd, shimmying through songs all over his shape-shifting catalog including “7,” and, of course, the undeniable party anthem “1999.” It was incredible to see the showman truly embracing the crowd ("Coachella, this is MY house now!"), encouraging the endless dance party he had apparently envisioned. At times looking like Hendrix and at others dancing wildly like James Brown, the littlest man with the biggest batch of soul knew how to keep us hanging on, saving “Purple Rain” and “Let’s Go Crazy” for the bittersweet end of Saturday.

As we grow up, children typically cultivate inspiration from dream lands in space, kingdoms with knights in shining armor, or deserts where dinosaurs roam. When I was a kid, my guiding light for some reason was the glitz and glamour of California. Whether it was because I watched a lot of movies or took my ‘90s-influenced fluorescent fashion tips from Barbie, I have always longed to experience life on the left coast.

It was time for me to head to the land of my childhood heroes like My Girl 2’s Anna Sultenfuss to pseudo-rock stars/time travelers Bill & Ted as I embarked on my very own Excellent Adventure. After a whirlwind flight across the country, arriving in Los Angeles, driving a few hours through the desert, settling into a last-minute accommodation in an Entourage-caliber crash mansion in a gated golf community, and protecting my pale skin from the high heat and hard sun one thing is certain: California completely lives up to its ideal of perfection, and it’s all personified in Coachella.

You can feel the vibrant essence of this festival within mere minutes of arrival and it only gets better as the day goes on: clear skies despite the nearby bouts of smog, the mountains around the valley appearing purple at sunset, perfectly cured green grass fields lined with towering palm trees and virtually zero litter, incredibly pleasant crowds, easygoing attitudes, an undeniable level of energy, immaculately stellar sound quality (especially at the main stage of all places), and innovative visual art displays coloring your travels from stage to stage through an entirely stellar lineup.

Considering it’s my first Coachella, the first day was spent on getting my bearings. This made for a stimulating journey of sounds beginning with Black Kids, whose high energy dance pop kept people moving despite the sun retreating from high noon. And it might have been sweaty, but the chill came soon thereafter thanks to a memorable and incredibly charming performance from Jens Lekman. Backed by an orchestra of sprightly and lively females from keys to cello and viola, I was sidestepping with a smile on and singing along to “The Opposite of Hallelujah” in the perfect setting.

On my way to see Aussie dance dominators Cut Copy, I could hear The Breeders’ “Cannonball” blasting from across the field perfectly clear. Once I got there, they seemed to start slow and carefully pick up the pace, pulling an impressive crowd for the smallest tent on site.

The same kind of crowd convened at the second largest stage for former 4-To-Watchers Vampire Weekend – undoubtedly one of the weekend’s most-hyped sets. It was the first time all day that the audience was more akin to a brick wall, packed to the fringe and dancing to “A-Punk” and others from the quartet’s debut.

I ventured for the first time to the main stage, taking in Tegan & Sara backed by an impressive assembly of other musicians. The twins were louder and livelier than I could have ever expected. Lovely to watch as the sun started to set.

Then I trekked to the complete opposite end of the festival ground for just one of the overflowing DJ options throughout the weekend. It was hard to refuse Diplo playing with the mountains situated directly behind. As the crowd congregated over the period of an hour it was clear that typical signs of life are shifting towards a dance-dance-revolution. The tent was filled with people of all ages, shapes and sizes, eventually welcoming surprise guest M.I.A. to the stage as the set closed.

I was more than pleasantly surprised by the show(wo)manship of Santogold, representing Brooklyn with outpourings of sass and style. If anything else, I found it impossible to tear myself away from her expertly choreographed backup performers flanking her at both sides.

The Raconteurs were finishing up right afterwards; nothing short of marvelous as expected, closing their set with “Steady As She Goes” and “Carolina Drama” – the finale from their new album Consolers of the Lonely. In cahoots with the wholly underrated Brendan Benson, the sight of Jack White’s rambling passion was enough to remind us all he’s solidly secured his place at the helm of modern-day rock ‘n’ roll.

I stuck around lucky enough to catch return of The Verve, which opened its set with “This Is Music” and subsequently soaked the dusky desert with loud and resonant Brit-pop electric guitar. After a much needed break for beers, brats and an incredible showing from The Swell Season (Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova of Once), I got the ethereal experience and privilege of hearing “Lucky Man” and “Bittersweet Symphony” performed live. I’ll always remember lead singer Richard Ashcroft holding the microphone against his chest to amplify his beating heart as he finished singing the song and the controversial Rolling Stones sampled strings resonated over the excited crowd.

I wasn’t exactly ready for Jack Johnson to make me slow down (it had been too good of a day so far), and though I’m upset I missed secret special guest Matt Costa later in his set, there was one final act demanding of my attention.

For as much as this festival resembles a fantasy land, I couldn’t possibly cap off Friday without a little taste of home. Future documentary subjects and hometown heroes The Black Lips closed the day among tired eyes and still super-energized skate punks. While they were in their element, us regular showgoers couldn’t help but complain that we thought they’d toned down their act. That was until the very end. The crowd was warned of a “champagne toast” but the guys seemed to have forgotten the liquor and brought lighter fluid instead. As they said goodbye, their electric guitars were set aflame, smashed onstage, and tossed out to the crowd with the hopes no one’s teeth were knocked out. Antics and all, it was a real treat to share a taste of home with a bunch of total strangers.

Day Two is a conundrum from the get-go and will most certainly be putting my A.D.D. to the test. However, despite prospects like Prince, Animal Collective, VHS or Beta, Death Cab and Stephen Malkmus at the very tip of the iceberg, part of me is still waiting for Bill S. Preston, Esq. and Ted Logan’s band Wyld Stallyns to make its glorious comeback. San Dimas High School Football (and Coachella) RULES.

by Nikki King

Winter crashed the party at Vandy’s Rites of Spring on Saturday. Despite inclement weather, freshmen girls showed up in skirts which we can assume were intended to impress the freshmen boys. Frisbees and footballs were tossed in an effort to keep warm, which gave the back half of the Alumni Lawn all the aesthetic of a popcorn machine, what with all of the recreational objects flying through the air. Speaking of popcorn, the kettle corn stand that occupied the thatch of lawn beside the Paste tent had heavenly fare. Moving on…

The early attendance could have been for Oscar Anthony and the Westfolk Band, one of the winners of the battle of the bands held earlier in the week. Or it very well could have been the self-proclaimed “rock opera” of H-Beam, which was also not on the initial bill. Entitled Jane, the presentation was a comedic take (we hope?) on the sexuality of the protagonist. The former included a solid landscape of saxophone, accordion and southern rock inspired jams, in the vein of John Butler Trio. The latter included tight red pants, a giant panda (dubbed the “Love Panda”) and lots of hair (see below).

H-Beam

Needless to say, by the time Alana Grace took the stage, I was ready for a change of pace from the psychedelic innuendo. Grace seems to be best known for her track “Black Roses Red” from the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, which she made sure to note, her style nearly too reminiscent of Evanescence. Then she covered 4 Non Blondes’ “What’s Up,” which (let’s be honest) is a song we all would rather just forget existed.

Lord T (or is it Eloise?)

Lord T and Eloise was by far the most refreshing surprise of the day. “We are the richest men in the world and we are here to save rap music,” they proclaimed from the stage. This statement should be prefaced with the fact that one was wearing a ridiculous powdered wig and the other had gilded gold skin. Cody Dickinson of North Mississippi Allstars renown backed the group on drums (unfortunately, he did not assume a costumed persona). The “new crunk” sensations rapped about riding around in black limousines, riding on their high horse and life in the Middle East (“where the oil is crude”). The group will be at Bonnaroo this year and is worth almost whatever you have to miss to see them.

Hill Country Revue

Hill Country Revue is a spin-off project from two of the North Mississippi Allstars: Chris Chew and, again, Cody Dickinson. The band could be classified on the more legit side of the jam/country rock genre, with solid guitar solos and swelling harmonica interludes. This led into the Randy Rodgers Band, a country band that is true to their form. “Thank you for inviting our country ass to your party,” Rodgers said from the stage after the first set of songs. “Hope you are having a good day.” Ah, not only were they solid musically, they were charmers to boot. By the time they had finished playing, the crowd had filed in, filling Alumni Field beyond the sound booth.

Grace Potter

Grace Potter and the Nocturnals blew expectations out of the water. The set was constant movement, with Potter switching from keys (and sometimes a Hammond B-3) to a Gibson Flying V midway through songs, almost like her musicianship was fueled by an acute case of ADD. She played the expected singles early on, playing “Falling or Flying” and “Ah, Mary” before debuting a new song, “Sugar,” that was a slow Joplin-inspired swoon: “sugar, you’re just too sweet for me / I’ve got a big ole pot of coffee / all I need is a little cream.” The song lent itself well to an extended version that morphed intriguingly into jam that reflected the austerity of a southern hymn, “won’t you take me down to the water / yes we’ll all go there together / there’s hope for us again.”

Potter wins the award for best band introduction ever: after announcing names, everyone (including Potter) grabbed drumsticks and broke it down on the five-piece. It was somewhat like Stomp, but with Wayfarers on. Without missing a beat, Potter walked authoritatively back to the Flying V, picked up the guitar and started the next song.

Old Crow Medicine Show

The Old Crow Medicine Show is a band that claims Nashville as home base after their early days of busking the streets of Music City, USA. Naturally, they were one of the anticipated favorites for the evening. But even though they played a lot of favorites and several songs that aren’t even on albums yet, they seemed to be executing more than performing. They did, however, play a track from their next album, slated to arrive in late summer. Don’t get me wrong; they were decent. But it was not necessarily a set that transcended what one would get from listening to their albums.

Leslie Feist started out her set with a slow take on “When I was a Young Girl.” Standing in ambient red and blue light, her visage matched her ghostly, wispy vibrato. Little effects throughout added intrigue, including makeshift snowflakes on “Mushaboom” and silhouettes of high heels and stemmy legs on “Sea Lion Woman.” On “My Moon, My Man” Feist stopped singing to the young girl and started singing to the stage crew that was making a racket backstage. Inevitably they stopped whatever they were doing; Feist launched headlong into “Gatekeeper,” followed by “I Feel it All,” where at the end of the song she just held the end of the note, stepped away from the mic obviously still screaming the same note before stepping back behind the microphone. Badass.

Feist loves...you...inside and out (photo by Lance Conzett)

Her banter was not limited to scolding the roadies backstage. She split the audience up based on year in school and taught them a harmonic note so they could sing along to something other than “1, 2, 3, 4.” She also announced the presence of Ron Sexsmith in the audience. A fellow Canadian, co-writer of “Brandy Alexander” and songwriter classique, Sexsmith was in town to play the Belcourt Theatre on Monday with Nick Lowe in support of his forthcoming album, Exit Strategy of the Soul. Feist played his song “Secret Heart” in homage.

“Keep those New Kids on the Block hands up in the air; it lets us know you’re alive,” she said before finishing the set with “Inside and Out,” “1, 2, 3, 4,” “Mushaboom” and “Sea Lion Woman.”

After Feist, Lil Jon was on next (there’s a transition I thought I would never write) and as one fest-goer behind me noted, “that guy’s a marketing genius.” He was right. I am sure the set we saw was different from what they perform on any given tour; they completely catered to the college crowd, playing songs that most would know (whether they would admit it or not) including “Get Low,” “Snap Yo’ Fingers” and “Bia Bia.” They ended with karaoke, dude-bro style, with Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama,” Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

Though not technically the beginning to the festival season, the Rites of Spring gave a glimpse of what to hope for in the months to come: fun-lovin’ hip-hop, timeless performances and, at the very least, warmer days.

by Sara Miller

There’s a reason Nashville is nicknamed Music City. On every street, there’s a venue hosting a different type of music or a record store, or both. This weekend, a few of us lucky Paste interns got to experience a little taste of what Nashvegas has to offer, thanks to the magazine’s sponsorship of Vanderbilt’s Rites of Spring festival.

Vanderbilt University has held the annual concert on its campus in the heart of downtown Nashville for over 30 years now and the maturity of the fest shows in the professionalism and incredible friendliness of the students (and they’re almost all students) running the show.

This year’s eclectic line-up offered a Whitman’s sampler for the ears, with local, national, and international acts ranging from Birmingham indie-rockers Wild Sweet Orange to Louisiana rapper Cupid to up-and-coming pop-country act Lady Antebellum to Austin’s stalwart minimalist rock-n-rollers Spoon.

We pulled up to Vandy in the early afternoon on Friday and strolled onto the grassy field just as Spoon started soundchecking. The band’s still cruising on the momentum of last year’s Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, which debuted at #10 on the Billboard 200 and ended up on zillions of best-of-’07 lists (including Paste‘s), and we were delighted to hear a horn section playing alongside the quartet during Ga^5‘s “The Underdog” and “You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb.” It was a portent for the fine times ahead.

Paste‘s Palmer Houchins mans the booth on the Vanderbilt lawn

We set up our booth as Wild Sweet Orange, led by the ebullient Preston Lovinggood, kickstarted the afternoon with juicy rock ‘n’ roll enriched with reverb and the occasional effects-pedal freakout. “Worth many more listens,” say my notes. They were followed by the AAA-ready Jeremy Lister, a Nashville singer/songwriter with a pleasant, if somewhat generic, sound.

As if to present the antithesis to Lister’s laid-back crooning, N.C.’s Avett Brothers took the stage to a crowd nearly as rabid as Scott and Seth Avett’s forcefully-hollered vocals. While the band’s records are great, the shows are where Avett Brothers fans are converted into full-fledged acolytes. Rites of Spring proved a receptive venue for the Avetts’ unique, traditional-bluegrass-meets-black-metal performance style—the audience was rapt, between mouthing catcalls at Scott and shout-singing along to tunes like “November Blue” and “Die Die Die.”

The Avett Brothers

I was entranced by cellist Joe Kwon, a recent addition to the Avetts’ touring line-up, who has an irreverent approach to his chosen instrument; he plays the cello standing up, bowing wildly during most songs but occasionally picking up the orchestra staple, rotating it into a horizontal position and strumming it like a gigantic guitar. He fits in remarkably well. After the bridge in second-to-last song “Pretty Girl From Chile,” the centerpiece of last year’s vibrant Emotionalism, Scott Avett and bassist Bob Crawford swapped their acoustic instruments for electric ones to shred out the song’s screeching finale—a perfect near-end to a fiery set from a band that’s the most fun study in contrasts to ever emerge from Carolina.

It was going to be tough for anyone to follow the Avetts, and Nashville natives Lady Antebellum didn’t fail for want of trying—in fact, they attempted to lead a crowd sing-along to a cover of Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” just three songs into their set. Oh, how I wished they’d kick into Eddie Rabbitt’s soft-rock classic, “I Love a Rainy Night,” but no dice. Lady Antebellum’s girl/boy-vocals lent a pretty contrast to each other and the band’s stocked with skilled musicians; although the band’s songs won’t be spun on, say, Album 88 any time soon, the major-label signees will likely see success in their chosen pop-country genre. After an announcement that they had played the Ellen DeGeneres Show earlier in the week, one of my fellow Pasties finished the lead singer’s sentence aptly: “...and now we’re in Wal-Marts everywhere.”

The Eddie Rabbitt reference stems from the rain that began to fall during Lady Antebellum’s set, a chilly, steady drizzle that continued through the band’s entire set and into the first few songs by Cupid, a rapper from Louisiana. After roughly ten minutes of nondescript tunes, we left as Cupid was instructing the ladies in the crowd to “do a sexy dance” and decided to dry out a bit over at the Cannery Ballroom. Luckily, two of the best bands in North America—Austin’s Okkervil River and Vancouver’s The New Pornographers—happened to be playing there!

Although we missed the first half of Okkervil River’s set, we walked in (right behind Spoon drummer Jim Eno and the New Pornos’ Kathryn Calder) as they were finishing up “John Allyn Smith Sails,” the album-closing barnburner from last year’s The Stage Names. Much like the Avett Brothers, Okkervil River’s sound defies easy description—it’s not quite folk, not quite punk, and not quite rock ‘n’ roll. The band has been edging in a more straightforwardly rockish direction, especially with the recent tour-only (for now?) addition of Wrens frontman Charles Bissell, who is remolding the large and multitalented shoes of former Okkervil guitarist Brian Cassidy into his own squalor-filled shitkickers.

In the last few years, lead singer Will Sheff has tamed his voice—once so untrained and key-slippery that it bordered on unlistenable—into a roaring beast on a leash that he slackens only when it’s most effective. For example, in “For Real” (one of the best songs ever written, for real!), Sheff muses on a souring relationship, fusing sex and violence into an alluring come-on-no-wait-back-off-just-kidding-come-ON that demonstrates the power of dynamics as the song slowly escalates from nearly silent to full-throttle screaming, adding charging drums and some feedback for good measure. I could go on (and on and on) but suffice it to say that catching Okkervil at all was an unexpected bonus after an already great day at Rites of Spring. But we weren’t done yet!

After watching a chunk of the, sadly, Neko Case-less New Pornographers set, which was heavy on material from the group’s last two albums, Twin Cinema and last year’s Challengers, we emerged into the night to get back to Vandy in time for Spoon.

Spoon’s Eric Harvey (keys), Britt Daniel and Rob Pope

The rain had stopped while we were in the Cannery and Spoon hit the stage right on time, reminding us that “when you believe, they call it rock and roll,” as lead singer Britt Daniel howled in set opener “The Beast and Dragon, Adored.” Fellow intern Nikki mentioned that Daniel had the quote of the night with his offhand “glad to know that spring still has rights"—like the right to boogie down, which she and I promptly utilized to start a mini-dance party in our section of the field.

Spoon, always tight as a rope, mostly stuck to cuts from 2005’s Gimme Fiction and Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, although Kill the Moonlight stunners “Back to the Life” and “Stay Don’t Go” made appearances, too. Continuing the apparent Rites of Spring tradition of peppering your set with at least one cover, Spoon killed the final minutes of the midnight hour with The Rolling Stones’ “Rocks Off,” sending us to bed with a reminder that even though Music City holds wonderful aural pleasures in many tucked-away nooks and crannies, sometimes dreamland is the only place where one can be truly content.

Tom Waits once compared New York City to a ship floating on an ocean that’s on fire. Somehow the analogy fits SXSW, too. Even though I live in Austin I feel that when I go home each night I’ve left some sort of insane, big top outpost but I find myself perversely persuaded to return to it each morning. And no matter how selective you try to be you inevitably will miss the one event you told yourself you would absolutely make. But I’d do it all again, though maybe after a little more sleep.

The Music
Luckily, some of the best music of the festival was performed at Paste parties at Volume on Sixth Street. It was a treat to hear folks like Lightspeed Champion, Kaki King, The Weakerthans and lots of others including a band that sounded as good as their name: Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin. But my personal highlight was going to the taping of REM‘s performance on Austin City Limits. The band was great--simple, stripped down, with lots of guitar. Lead singer Michael Stipe was incredibly gracious to the crowd and his voice really soared.

More Films
Full Battle Rattle is one of the more interesting and enlightening docs to come out of SXSW. Somehow, directors Tony Gerber and Jesse Moss got the okay to film in the fictional Iraqi town of Medina Wasi which is actually located in the California desert where U.S. soldiers learn to work with the town’s citizens while they fend off terrorist attacks from Al Queda. It’s all make-believe, of course, but the film does shine some light on the difficulties the soldiers face when they get to Iraq. Most of the town’s citizens are originally from Iraq and the film follows their personal stories as well.

Even if you’re not a fan of the Harry Potter series of films and books, the characters in the documentary We are Wizards will charm you and maybe even convert you to their perspective on the fantasy world of witches and muggles. There’s the “Wizard Rock” movement with bands like Harry & the Potters and Draco & the Malfoys. Surprisingly, the music’s not bad. We also learn about a Potter web journalist who becomes a celebrity herself. Then there’s Brad Neely who has recorded his own unique narration of the first Harry Potter film. (Neely has also written for “South Park”.) We Are Wizards was one of the festival’s best.

This week’s national release Stop Loss made its regional premiere at SXSW. Starring Ryan Phillippe and Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and directed by Kimberly Peirce (Boys Don’t Cry), the film dramatizes the U.S. Army policy of automatically re-enlisting soldiers after they’ve served their terms. A group of small town boys who served together cope with a variety of war-inflicted wounds, both mental and physical. Great performances from Gordon-Levitt and Abbie Cornish.

This year’s “Charmer” award goes to Young @ Heart. Director Stephen Walker documented the rehearsals, performances and personal lives of the Young at Heart Chorus, a group of senior citizens from New England who sing some very un-senior songs like The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” and James Brown’s “I Feel Good” plus tunes from Coldplay, Sonic Youth, The Ramones and others. Their relationship with chorus leader Bob Cilian is hugely entertaining but the serious medical problems that befall some of the members give the film its true heart.

The talented banjo player Bela Fleck makes a special trek to Uganda, Mali, The Gambia and Tanzania to explore the origins of his instrument in Throw Down Your Heart. Director Sascha Paladino has made something rare, a joyous film about Africa and its people.

This film won’t get a national release until late summer but those who were lucky enough to see The Assassination of a High School President at The Paramount were treated to a very funny movie. Bruce Willis plays the slightly mental principal whose obsession with catching gum chewers is actually more important to him than discovering who stole the SAT exams. Mischa Barton (“The O.C.”) is the sexy teen angel and Reece Thompson (Rocket Science) is the unpopular kid who is only remembered for being tied to a penis snowman.

SXSW, over and out.

SXSW Film Fest 2008: Day One
SXSW Film Fest 2008: Day Two
SXSW Film Fest 2008: Day Three
SXSW Film Fest 2008: Day Four

Well, our friends over at Stereogum just promised they’re never posting about SXSW 2008 ever again, and it’s about time I do the same. I seem to recollect promising some photographic evidence of Paste’s exploits in Austin, so here you go.

Nick gets intense with a potential “Pay What You Want"-er.

Moby landed his spacecraft and made some white folks dance (eventually) in Stubbs’ back yard.

Akron/Family at the Convention Center-- an awesome, freaky, trippy, folky show during which I could not shake the gray-ceilinged, industrial-carpeted, modular-walled feeling of being back at one of my high school Model United Nations conferences.

Austin (the WebWarrior, not the city) takes on THE BLOGGER CAGE!

Keds-wearing Peter Moren and a largely superfluous string section play our day party at Volume.

The Dell Lounge folks hung up this giant banner on the first day, and throughout the next three days our party patrons graffiti’d it all up. By the last day, it had taken on the look of a whacked-out middle school bathroom wall. Sophomoric doodling abounded.

Look, it’s Bon Iver playing Mohawk’s patio! Yeah, exactly. I’m not a short person, but this was as good as the view got for me.

The best seat at Volume was this big box under the front staircase. And by “best seat” I mean “practically the only actual seat in the entire venue.” Good thing it was right behind our table o’ free stuff. This is Kaki King, incidentally. She could probably beat you up.

Liam Finn and EJ at another of our day parties, shortly before he threw off his guitar and maniacally drummed-and-sung his way into our hearts. This is a better photo that more closely conveys Finn’s greatness, but it’s vertical and all the other photos were horizontal and it was really uneven looking and that freaked me out.

Garbage, garbage, Nate, Austin. Nate is taking a picture of Caren and I with one of the disposable Kodak Digital cameras we handed out at the parties. If you happened to get one of those cameras, and if you happened to actually develop the pictures, you can email them to pastegumpix at gmail dot com.

Caren and I took a pedicab ride. Despite whatever my facial expression here might indicate, it was actually SUPER FUN!

Kevin Barnes’ DJ set closed out our day parties. This basically involved him sitting at his laptop. However, he wore a sparkly red cumberbund while doing so. You can’t see it here, but trust me, it was a mighty fine cumberbund. As cumberbunds go. Shall I say cumberbund again? Cumberbund!

On our last evening in Austin, 3/4ths of the Paste multimedia crew pass out in the one hotel room the staff was left with for the night. And I cement my position as Paste’s Resident Creepster McGee. The end.

[Picture above: Greta Gerwig and Joe Swanberg of Nights And Weekends]

I saw 18 films during my four days at the 2008 SXSW Film Festival. Here are a few words on my favorites:

1. Nights And Weekends – Easily the most gorgeous, arrestingly honest film I saw at this year’s festival. Joe Swanberg and Greta Gerwig’s supremely collaborative picture, Nights And Weekends, offers a tender, unflinching look at the arc of one couple’s romantic journey. Mattie and James negotiate the inevitable complications of trying to make a relationship work despite the geographical divide separating their lives in Chicago and New York, respectively.

Swanberg directed Gerwig in Hannah Takes The Stairs and you can sense a deep well of intimacy between the two actors, which partly explains why the romantic longing in this film feels so raw, so bruised and complicated (Swanberg is married to someone else in real life). Working without a script and using themselves as templates, the actors channel the dizzying highs and stomach-upsetting lows of craving a love that isn’t meant to be. The indie-budget, HD-cam look of the film makes it feel that much more like a documentary.

I’ve never seen an onscreen love story that felt this true to life—the cutting jokes, the embarrassing false starts, meandering conversational threads, breakups, makeups. The film also deserves recognition for humanizing the act of lovemaking, celebrating it as unrehearsed, giddy, occasionally spiked with conversation, vulnerable and playful. A big-budget Hollywood “love story” is content to offer boobs and moaning, while Nights And Weekends believes that sex does nothing for your story if it doesn’t unpack the characters’ emotional nakedness in the process.

Nights And Weekends isn’t just a triumph of Mumblecore filmmaking. It’s a living, breathing document of relational struggle and cooperative self-definition. And it’s a movie that will guide you with a steady hand through hurt and revelry, prying your heart wider open as a result.

2. The Black List – Film critic Elvis Mitchell and photographer Timothy Greenfield-Sanders captured interviews with a sprawling list of influential African Americans—subjects as diverse as Slash and Colin Powell, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Toni Morrisson. The approach is simple. Get out of the way and let these individuals tell their stories. Mitchell, the interviewer, never appears in the film. And Greenfield-Sanders uses a camera technique that lets each subject speak directly to the audience instead of looking past the camera to the interviewer. Yes, there’s discussion of the black experience in America, but the stories are more so about the struggle for authenticity and self-confidence in a world that too often makes people—of any ethnic background—feel woefully insignificant.

3. At The Death House Door – I was exceptionally moved by this story of Reverend Carroll Pickett who worked as the death-house chaplain at Huntsville prison for 15 years. The film charts his journey from his early days as a proponent of the death penalty to his realization that, in the end, the death penalty accomplishes nothing but producing yet another dead body. Of the 95 executions that Pickett oversaw, he speaks of the one that changed him the most profoundly—the wrongful execution of Carlos DeLuna, who asked Pickett if he could call him “daddy” when they strapped him to the execution table (DeLuna never knew his father).
After the killing of a gas-station clerk, DeLuna was picked up near the scene of the crime without a single drop of blood on his clothes or body, while another man who looked like DeLuna confessed to the crime and had been seen with the murder weapon. You can feel the stoic reverend’s pain as he recounts the botched execution of DeLuna, which took 11 minutes to finally stop the man’s heartbeat. Sometimes the best ministry you can have is to keep your hand on the ankle of a dying man.

4. Second Skin – The video-game medium has introduced parallel universes where people can live out heroic fantasies that their boring nine-to-five existence just can’t rival. You can slay dragons, combat dark forces, raid castles, woo potential lovers and converse with other people role-playing in the game world, all without leaving your computer desk. While some might scoff, this documentary by Juan Carlos Pineiro Escoriaza examines the lives of gamers who are addicted to the fantasies provided by massively multiplayer role-playing games such as World of Warcraft.

The film persistently digs into the reasons for the countless hours logged by these hardcore gamers—some of whom spend upward of 12 hours a day in the game world. These are not loners. These are people in search of community and belonging. A number of the people interviewed counted themselves as actual residents of their virtual world of choice. As technology progresses and the line between reality and virtual experience gets increasingly blurred, how do we maintain our sense of self and identity? This film does an admirable job of probing these difficult issues.

5. Wellness – A hapless, middle-aged salesman named Thomas Lindsey (played by talented newcomer Jeff Clark, one of the many untrained actors to appear in this year’s slate of narrative features) bumbles his way around a small town trying to get people to invest thousands of dollars in an obviously bogus dietary-supplement racket called Wellness.

The most poignant scenes involve Lindsey assuring his wife during intermittent telephone conversations that things couldn’t be going better (he does confess in a moment of vulnerability, however, “I’m not tired…I’m weary”). Director Jake Mahaffey never lets you see Lindsey’s wife or hear her side of the phone call, suggesting the possibility of a much sadder self-delusion. And while the film draws occasional laughs at its protagonist’s expense—Lindsey posts homemade signs in a motel conference room containing quotes like “Your Future: This Is It,” “Investment!” and “Paradigm Shift!!”—Mahaffey displays a profound sensitivity for human striving, even the misguided sort.

I didn’t mention it then, but during my last venture into the blogger cage my cerebral cortex was being melted by Fuck Buttons (or “F**k Buttons,” if you believe all our signage). In MySpace parlance, they’re “experimental / progressive / other.” That “other” could be all sorts of things. I’d say “migraine” works but maybe that’s unfair, because I’ve never actually had a migraine-- so let’s say, um, they sounded like “how I felt on my fifth day in Texas.” Their droning buzz was my lack of sleep. And food. Their frenetic yelps channeled through a Fischer-Price tape recorder were my still-blistered feet crying out for mercy. Their distorted Game Boy bleeps and bloops were my overambitious showcase-attendance schedule, adherence to which soon proved as futile and overwhelming as anything beyond the second level of Tetris. I’m not saying it was bad. It just made me feel like goo.

The night before, after my second meal of the week at Stubb’s, I dragged Caren and Nate over to Antone’s to see Basia Bulat. She’s one of our Emergent (née Four to Watch) artists in the newly re-designed April issue, and her debut album Oh, My Darling is quickly becoming one of my favorites of the year so far. It’s by no means a perfect album, but her voice is beautiful, her lyrics clever and twisting and thoughtful-- she’s definitely worth keeping tabs on. Antone’s was packed and she’d already played a few songs by the time we arrived (in one of the most frustrating moments of the week, a bunch of non-badgeholders were let inside the venue before us and we were left to wait outside as she and her band bounced through “In the Night,” my favorite from her album and the catchiest auto-harp driven anthemic pop song you’ll hear in a while) but we squirmed our way inside and caught the last half of her set, which included my second ("Pilgriming Vine") and third ("I Was A Daughter") favorite songs from Darling.

Foreign Born came on next, and I swear that until the minute they took the stage in their worn-out corduroys and plaid cowboy shirts, I thought they were a hip-hop group. What? ‘Scuse my ignorance, it’s not like a work for a music magazine or anything. Jeez. By the time I’d fully wrapped my head around this, the set was mostly over, but I remember it being pretty fun, full of twangy, bright guitars and a closer that found the lead singer tossing down his acoustic, grabbing the mic off the stand, and sauntering around the stage, making me wish he’d broken loose a little earlier.

After that, this other band played… I think they’re called Vampire Weekend? You’ve probably never heard of them. They’re these four kids from some fancy school in New York, they just put out a new album, they’re kind of catchy and… okay, this is getting weird. It’s hard to be sarcastic about Vampire Weekend, to make understatements about their popularity, to kid about their youth. For all intents and purposes, you shouldn’t have heard of them. They are practically kids. (And I say that as a kid myself.) Their first album was just released in January and before that they’d just recorded songs during stolen moments between classes at Columbia. When we picked them as one of our Four to Watch in February, we felt like we were letting our readers in on a secret treasure-- except all you NYC people, who were totally over them back in, like, October. And I guess at the time they were a secret. You know, two months ago. But now they’re on the cover of Spin. What? Yeah.

This explains why, once we found a place to stand at Antone’s on Friday, we soon could not move from that spot. By the end of Foreign Born’s set, we were blocked in from all sides. The bartending staff kept sending their tiniest hipster envoy into the crowd with drink tray after drink tray, delivering Bud Lights and returning minutes later to collect the empties, her painfully ironic 80s mom glasses knocked askew by stray elbows more than once. If there had been a fire, we’d have been fully toasted. I kept getting poked in the butt crack by what I can only hope was the overloaded tote bag of the person standing behind me; once Vampire Weekend took the stage, the woman standing in front of Caren began dancing so violently and in such a strange manner (extremely erratic hip/butt thrusting) that the woman standing on the other side of her actually expressed concern for Caren’s safety and offered to “keep an eye on her” in case a stray thrust her flying.

Fortunately, there was no fire and Caren stood steadfast against all the booty bumping. In fact, you can read her comparative analysis of Vampire Weekend’s SXSW show with their performance at the EARL in Atlanta just days before, right here. As for me, the show was pretty much what I expected-- really fun, great energy, suitably bouncy musicianship and smiley delivery of most of the songs from their self-titled XL debut. But the crowd of flailing arms and shouted-along lyrics-- while certainly preferable to the detached, stoic crowd Caren described at the EARL-- only added to my anxious suspicion that maybe too much is happening too soon for this still really young band. Or maybe that’s the tote bag up my butt talking.

We snuck out before the last few songs-- didn’t even get to see “Oxford Comma,” the full-on geekiness of which endearded me to them in the first place. Caren and I ditched Nate (sleep, I can has it?) and tromped back down to 6th street to the Parish for She & Him. Nothing could keep us from M. Ward and Zooey Deschanel’s swirly, ukelele-y, girl group-y, nostalgia-overload… except a line so huge that it required stanchions like the ones we used to control the lines when I worked at the ticketing counter at the Tennessee Aquarium. Later we heard that Britt Daniel did some time in that very same line-- good thing we left, then, because if Spoon’s lead singer has to stand in line for his own label’s showcase, we certainly didn’t stand a chance.

Though discouraged, Caren and I weren’t fully exhausted, so we decided to read through every other act playing at 12 AM. Then we were exhausted. And about a dozen blocks from our hotel. And exhausted. Did I mention we were exhausted? We were. And we saw this as the perfect opportunity to hop on a pedicab. Best $20 we spent all week.

Days uno, dos and tres of South By Southwest disappeared as fast as the guy I saw urinating in a public trashcan, but not in comparison to Saturday. It turned out to be the day of legends past, present and future, and I leave it to you to figure out where Daryl Hall fits in all of that. Flying “solo” without Oates, DH still can hit them out of the park, although his voice has aged a bit. Just don’t call him blue-eyed soul, and if you want to sample “You Make My Dreams,” pay up! “Sara Smile” and “Rich Girl” done acoustically worked a bunch of monster fans into a lather during the latter portion of his Q&A session at the convention center.

Although I didn’t use the Dell Blogger Cage provided (maybe it’s for Perez-level scribes), I still enjoyed Paste‘s final day of partying at Volume. I think there were a lot of other sponsors involved in the weeklong event, including some happy avocado farms. The High Places were finishing painting musical palm trees on the walls just as I came in. Then Portland twang bangers Blitzen Trapper sorta impressed me. I was drawn in by the amount of instruments a red-headed fella handled, including acoustic guitar, cowbell, melodica and a Casio. Sadly, no kazoo.

Blitzen Trapper @ Volume

After a brief intermission and more free Southern Comfort, No Age showed that two guys are all you need for a raw, noise-punk racket. When drummer Dean Spunt got some flak from the crowd for removing his neon sunglasses, he shot back: “Are my eyeballs that ugly?” New tracks and old faves like “Everybody’s Down” got guitarist Randy Randall so riled up that he perched himself on top of the speakers at set’s close.

No Age @ Volume

No Age @ Volume

A resourceful pal alerted me that legend and current overlord J. Mascis was about to play at an outdoor party held on the grounds of the French Legation Museum, a swank spot surrounded by stone walls and classy architecture. The revelers packing the elegant lawn and rows of folding chairs set up under a massive tent made for a scene straight out of a college graduation. Looking a bit like a wizard with his stringy, grey locks, Mascis roared through old favorites. With the help of a distortion pedal and a sampler, his acoustic guitar buzzed louder than a hedge trimmer.

J. Mascis (from a ways away) @ French Legation Museum

No less potent was Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore amping up his acoustic for cuts from his latest solo joint, Trees Outside the Academy, including “The Shape Is In A Trance,” “Silver Turns to Blue,” and “Friend” (for all of his “dudes"). Phosphorescent‘s Matthew Houck and ace blogger/musician Carrie Brownstein were among the observers. “See you in the streets,” Moore said to his audience at the end. “Either that or I’ll see you at Jandek."

Thurston & Band @ French Legation Museum

No point rehashing too much on She & Him after seeing them earlier in the week, but it was nice to see Zooey Deschanel, M. Ward able to get a little more comfortable onstage Saturday. They rolled through nine songs from Volume 1, in stores Tuesday. For the whistle-worthy “I Thought I Saw Your Face Today,” she slid behind a vintage keyboard to accompany herself, and M. joned here there at the very end. A group of people leaving the show at the same time as me were making plans to “grab a six-pack and head to the church.” Yup.

She @ 7th and Red River because they turned out much better

Him @ 7th and Red River

One of the shows I was most excited for coming into SXSW was brash folk singer-songwriter Pepi Ginsberg. Sincerity is hard to come by at a music livestock show, but she joyfully kicked her legs and showed that her voice—the most evocative and unique that I’ve heard since Joanna Newsom—is genuine and even more stunning in a live setting. I will never tire of hearing “In My Bones,” and hopefully she can teach her backing band to sing the delicious harmonies found on Red (featuring plenty of assists from Dr. Dog’s Scott McMicken), out in May.

Pepi Ginsberg @ Emo’s Annex

Savory mole enchiladas were on the menu at El Chile, so it wasn’t the end of the world that I got back to the Emo’s tent just as The High Strung bashed through the last infectious bars of “Rimbaud/Rambo.” My stomach did turn a little during the set to follow. The string-enhanced, male-female indie ensemble Ra Ra Riot prompted a trusted pal to say he was hearing the literal “string cheese incident” and he wasn’t far off. I wasn’t sold on the softie singer and his goofy declarations, but the crowd got thick in a hurry. Many flashbulbs were pointed at Alexandra Lawn, the pretty cellist who seems to have a “come hither” look permanently fixed on her face. I used their set as an opportunity to sit down on the side and rest my legs, aching and sore from a whole week of just standing up.

Ra Ra Riot @ Emo’s Annex

I had to get the hell back up for longtime fave the Teeth. The stage came alive as this barnstorming Philly quartet smashed through Kinks-and-Costello-inspired material on their impeccable Carry The Wood EP and You’re My Lover Now. The choreographed cacophony included a pair of shoes hitting the roof, a popped red balloon and harmonizing you will hear when you see the Teeth when they come to your town and you buy a ticket and go.

Teeth in action @ Emo’s Annex

Yes, he eventually pops the balloon @ Emo’s Annex

Playing the waiting game was better than standing up during the Spinto Band. Although these guys are scrubbed as clean as the first day of 9th grade, I couldn’t do it. I did tap my foot during “Oh Mandy” from the sidelines.

Before I started ignoring Spinto Band @ Emo’s Annex

It all came down to rock technicolor masters Dr. Dog, a band I’m as familiar with in a live setting as any. “You only get two sets of ears in your life,” Scott McMicken said to those ready to brave the Dog’s noise from the front row. Although he corrected himself, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear it as one of their ass-backwards lyrics in the future. As they often do, the fellas closed the set (and my week) with the crowd favorite “Wake Up.”

The good Dr. @ Emo’s Annex

On that note, the balcony and the Moleskine notebook are closed. Many thanks to the folks who liberally share sunscreen, the folks on New Zealand TV and all of the brave individuals who bankrolled trudged around with me this past week.