Up at 4:15am. Text from Sir Ricardo Baca at 5am. Double-planing it to Austin. Caloric intake: a Luna bar and a coffee
Ridin' w/ funny, road-weary Irishmen (The Guggenheim Grotto) on day 1,245,555 of their US tour. Delicious BBQ, first calories after Luna bar & coffee, besides caffeinated mints. (Yes, you read correctly). Start to feel human again. Enjoy the company of Domino, Native Tongue, The Guggenheim Grotto, Max Tundra, Mara from Bug, Mike from McCann Erickson, & JT from Nike. Belly full.
Synthesized 80's lite through a veil of blonde bangs. "She could have been in Labyrinth with David Bowie. Who's got the baby with the voodoo? You do!" I say to Mo. She laughs. We hydrate.
Move closer, in Avett anticipation. Meet Carter w/ Rollo & Grady - he skools us in how to get yungins to gitcher drinks when you're at a show. It works. Carter is magic. Heartless Bastards...not so much. First two songs promising walls of wailing blues rock...and then it crawls into a wall and sits there like a dull midtempo country rock lump. They play for entirely too long. We fidget. They close with a number that included three REPEATED solos at the end. Like they're Primus. Or Zeppelin. Or...
THE AVETT BROTHERS
Delicious. Happy happy times. A yungin brings me whiskey on the rocks. Good kid. Ric Baca & Denver gang appear and hugs all around. Delicious hugs and happytimes. But what...5 songs? Turns out the Heartless Bastards, true to their name, played 20 min too long and we all lose out. But Avetts are awesome. And they play a catchy tune from upcoming Rick Rubin album, for which I am simultaneously nervous & excited.
DD/MM/YYYY ** HIGHLIGHT OF DAY **
Mo and I stumble in after Kevin Taylor mentions he might be at Emo's post-Obey. No Kevin, maybe b/c it's Emo's Jr. I just want to say "Elmo" when I type that. This show is THE RAD. (Except for the couple ballroom moshing. Perfect description.) Loud, melodic, punk, spazzy, tuneful, masterful noise orchestrated by 5 superrad Canadian kids. Their guitar broke. Their drumhead broke. Then they said, "We're still looking for a place to sleep tonight. We have a tent. We're sleeping in a tent and our stuff's broke." And then the rocked the shit some more.
MUMFORD & SONS
I go solo. (Rollin in my 5.0, with my ragtop down, so my hair can blow? No.) I realize my Artist band will gain me entry to Artist Lounge, so I go in just because I can. Boring. But there's drinks. Head to Friends. Mumfords = Sweet English trio, looking tired and harried, begging forgiveness as they were stuck at La Guardia (cesspool) Airport for 10 hours today. Somehow, their keyboardist, Ben, did not make the cut. Is he still at La Guardia? Was he deported? Is he in a holding cell? Who knows. But they're sweet little British bluegrassy folksy sweetie pies and though I wanted to deck the girl in front of me who kept drunkenly falling backwards onto me, I had a tender Mumford moment. Even sans Ben.
Mo is plotting Thurs. I'm plotting sleep. Did I mention the been up since 4:15am L.A. time thing? Yeah. I did.