September 21, 2007
I’m on the road to Austin for the Austin City Limits Festival (I mean that very literally, I’m writing as Justin is driving), and this week’s Downtown Diary will be an actual diary, a series of dispatches sent off to Sito and left to him to sort out. I really don’t know how this is all going to work out. Editor's note: Actually, it's a bit of a pain in the ass, Jenni. But you're worth it.
As Austin is the pan into which the cerebal-spinal fluid of our brain drain tends to accumulate, I thought it appropriate to get their opinions on life in the big city, their troubles, concerns, and all that jazz. With some luck, and that truck driver blood running through Justin’s veins, we’ll arrive by midnight and have some time to talk to our friends Angel and Tony, two El Paso ex-pats, who currently DJ at one of the hipper clubs on 6th Street, the Jackelope.
***
We arrived at Justin’s cousin’s house at about 1:45. Ben Chessey is a former El Pasoan, who has been living here since he was a child. He’s been working as a building inspector for a green contractor for the last six years, focusing on environmentally friendly construction.
Ben greeted us with some Lone Stars, a box of instant coffee for the morning and a copy of the Chronicle, with a sub-headline that said this: “The fest is hot, but can you afford to live in Austin’s City Limits?” He handed me the periodical, saying, “You should find this interesting.” And indeed I did. As I skimmed the article [link], Ben told me his own tale of real estate woe. He recently bought a house here at a price that would make the average Austinite’s jaw drop in envy (I’m not going to be rude, but I will say that the price he paid is comparable to the price of a bungalow in Manhattan Heights). Ben told me of a new condo complex slated to be erected, and how he will, more than likely, be forced to sell, and the neighborhood will eventually be bulldozed completely in favor of vertical development. Ordinances have been put in place to help stem this a bit, and to ensure the integrity of historic neighborhoods, but the price of real estate alone is enough to drive you nuts. Homes in East Austin are going for $300,000 and up, and while the average Austinite does make more than the average Paseño, the cost of living is rapidly exceeding the ability to pay for it. Man cannot live on bread and mortgage alone.
***
Native Austinites tend to have mixed feelings about ACL. They get to see great bands all the time, so the idea of spending a day out in the blistering muggy heat to see bands that they could otherwise see at Stubbs, Emo’s or the Hole in the Wall with the comfort of cold beer and air conditioning, seems a little ludicrous. Business owners and service employees love the money, but the constant influx of customers can be a little exhausting. Justin’s cousin was even less sentimental. I quote, “They should pass an ordinance against ACL.” Ben has been in Austin since he was seven, and has seen the dramatic change of the city, and is slightly bitter at seeing his cool little college town turn into another satellite of L.A. Because of this situation, he tends to have a jaundiced eye towards tourists and newcomers. This, of course, extended to the festival.
Every traffic jam, inability to find parking, full coffee shop, packed bar, or inconvenience of any sort was punctuated with a, “Fuckin’ ACL.”
***
Getting to ACL is a gigantic pain in the ass. Driving to Zilker Park and finding parking is out of the question (think of Music Under the Stars times, like 30), hailing a cab is next to impossible, and there are shuttles but the lines are two hours long. With these options, we decided it was best to park Downtown in an all day lot, as we planned on hitting up Sixth Street immediately after the festival, and attempted to hail a cab. If it couldn’t be done, we’d try our luck with the shuttle.
The last festival we went to, Siren 2003 on Coney Island, was much easier to negotiate, thanks to the subway system. We took a cab to the City and hung out there all morning, took a subway to Brighton Beach/Coney Island, and took a cab back to Queens where we were staying next to JFK. Why there were no subway lines to the airport, I’ll never understand, but hey, that’s not my problem.
But this -- this was insane.
We stood in front of the Driskill Hotel (a Trost, by the way) for 45 minutes trying to flag a cab down, and hallelujia, we were one of the lucky ones.
Getting back, well that was quite an adventure. But I’ll get back to that later.
***
If you plan on attending ACL next year, sunscreen and a parasol are paramount. Because of a fire earlier in the afternoon, entering the festival was about an hour wait. There were about 10 lines taking tickets, but there were perhaps another 1,000-2,000 people waiting in line along with us. I am not exaggerating. There was a sea of people entering Zilker Park, but once tickets were taken, the crowds dispersed into a 20-acre open field surrounded by forest. If I were to estimate the size of the entire park, I’d put it at seven times the size of the Chamizal. The soccer fields where the bands and booths were housed were about the size of two entire Chamizals. The size of it all was really staggering. I tried to imagine where something like this could take place here, and the only thing I could think of was if the Chamizal, in its entirety (both the Juarez and El Paso sides) was used as a staging ground. That would be awesome. But again, my little fantasies mean nothing. Ideas like this become a matter of foreign policy.
***
We saw, in order, the last two songs from Blonde Redhead, Crowded House, LCD Sound System, MIA, Spoon, and Bjork. What was disappointing was the lack of foresight in scheduling the bands. Bands of similar genre were pitted against one another (e.g. Peter, Bjorn, and John playing at the same time as Blonde Redhead, Spoon playing at the same time as Queens of the Stone Age, etc.) and at opposite ends of the park, so that if you wanted to see both bands, you had to run the length of the festival grounds to catch the last few minutes of the other band’s set. The frontman of LCD Soundsystem made mention of this, noting that he was disappointed that he had to play against MIA, whose music he respected and enjoyed.
One of the best moments of the festival had to be the spontaneous dance party on stage, where a hundred or so dancers joined MIA in an impromptu daytime rave. That was fantastic.
I am not a music critic, so don’t expect a detailed discussion about performances. I enjoyed all of the bands I saw. I found it amusing that fashion and music styles have rapidly progressed from bands that copied the MC5, to a rebirth of prog rock, to Nü New Wave, to groups like MIA, who have resurrected the mid-to-late 80s rave style all in the span of four years.
I realize that most of the attendees at the festival never knew who the Phuture, the Utah Saints or the Happy Mondays were, and weren’t alive during the Reagan era (or the first President Bush for that matter), but the day that Power Suits, Joan Crawford shoulder pads, and peacock bangs come back, I’m packing it in. Yeah, nostalgia is fun, but these girls never had to crimp their hair and apply a coat of Aquanet brand shellac before school in the morning. Or remember those Oglvie home perms? The stench of low tide that would linger in the house all week? Yeah, that was fun. Fun like Reaganomics, Apartheid, and the Iran Contra Scandal. Fun like Grenada.
I know, I’m always so negative. But just so you know, Bjork’s performance was beyond sublime, the staging and theatre of it was wonderful, and it made the whole adventure of getting there worthwhile.
***
Getting back, well, I said I’d get to that, right? We left during Bjork’s last song thinking that the line at the taxi stall might not be THAT bad if we left 10 minutes early. Oh, how wrong we were. A two to three hour line crept around the grounds, and as we watched people gather their bikes from the hundreds of bike racks, we realized what complete chumps we were, and determined that it would be far better just to walk back Downtown than endure being corralled for however long it took to get a cab. We followed a few people down a dirt trail, and that’s where a whole different adventure began. We found ourselves in the heart of Zilker Park at night on a trail that followed Town Lake. Nobody except for a guy named Gabe whose car was parked on the other side of the trail knew where we were going. Not expecting to have to do any real hiking, I was wearing a pair of flimsy chanclas, suitable for grass, but not stony pathways. Though the terrain was rough, the company was great, and we chatted with a group of gay men, friends of Gabe, who were on their way to a party.
It’s funny how Austinites, whenever confronted with the name “El Paso,” automatically say, “Oooh, I’m sorry.” I of course did my best to defend my beloved hometown. I’m not sure if its ex-pats who give the city such a bad reputation, or the news and media portrayal of El Paso, but I found it pretty sad. We finally found streetlights after an hour of hiking, and one girl twisting her ankle on the stone. We found ourselves magically transported to Barton Creek. The guys invited us to the party they were on their way to, and we politely declined as a car and a cousin were awaiting us in the City. As we waited for Ben on the stoop of a C-store, we struck up conversation with a homeless musician who goes by the name of Flag, and his girlfriend Teresa.
Justin’s first few months in Austin, during the early 90s, were spent living in Eastwoods Park while he worked full-time at a Mediterranean Restaurant on West Campus called Armen’s. The stories from that time of his life are rich, vibrant and chock-full of characters who he lived with and met on a daily basis. He has since, of course, become an upstanding citizen who lives comfortably, but he has a special kinship with the homeless -- a deep empathy as well as an instinct for spotting bullshit -- because he lived amongst them.
As they serenaded us with song and story, I saw a glint in Justin’s eye that told me he missed the old Austin, the wingnuts and wierdos. Ben pulled up just then, and as we got in the car, he said something to the effect of, “It never fails, Justin. Every time I find you, it’s with a homeless guy.”
Keep Austin weird, and El Paso too.
You may reach me at printersanonymous@yahoo.com