Last Days of ACL Recap, and That Silly Thom Yorke Forgets to Put Me on the Guest List

From my hotel I had a certain view of the wet clouds which continued to threaten the city Sunday morning; even if the same kind of rain wasn't on its way, the flooding on the roads and in Zilker Park was enough to justify shutting down early. Sometimes the show just does not go on, but to say the cancellation was a bummer is an understatement.

I spent the next few hours in my room, unsure what to do so instinctively re-living both Depeche Mode and The Cure's headlining sets via webcast as I finished my recap of Saturday. Overwhelmed by the righteousness of the last two days, and with each passing minute a little more depressed about the abrupt change in schedule, I finally went out to a nearby sports bar to commune in a different way with the people of (and not of) Austin. I needed a little escapism through football. A lot of good that would do me.

New Orleans' stupid last-second loss to stupid Tom Brady behind me, I left the bar and headed into the heart of downtown where I suspected I would find the interesting goings-on. It was then that I saw an hour-old tweet that Atoms For Peace would indeed be playing a make-up show at the Moody Theater (where they tape Austin City Limits Live) later that night. I just love how it was only when I unglued my eyes from Twitter that the announcement came. Siiiigh. 

I knew chances of actually getting in were shit when I got in the line that snaked around four big city blocks, but because of the light rain that had started again, I halfway imagined most people would peace out, traumatized by the previous night's shitstorm. Clearly not enough people went that route, and no one knew wtf was going on anyway, as by the time we reached the box office, my hopeful comrades and I were told we'd been standing for ages in the wrong line; this was Guest Listers only, and anyway, tickets were long since sold out. 

I felt super disappointed about once again missing AFP, about missing the ACL Live experience, and also that there was no opportunity for current ACL wristband holders to get first dibs on this or any of the replacement shows which popped up around town (okay, also bummed Thom Yorke didn't tweet me back). Not that they could have accommodated anywhere near the many thousands of inconvenienced festivalgoers, but it still seemed like a halfway plausible and groovy thing to attempt. I was slightly irked when--for example--I'd just learned all my efforts and intentions were for nil and two pretty little girls (who I strongly suspect did not kick it at the festival) sashayed on up to the Guest List window to claim their nice shiny tickets. I won't begrudge them a good time for whatever connections they have in the business, as I plan on doing some Guest List-window-sashaying of my own, but--ya know--goddamn bitches all the same.

So there I was, dancing on the street, cuz what else would I do in that situation? I wouldn't let that ruin my last night in town, so I figured I'd take the path of least resistance by aiming for little more than a dance floor. I got to talking to a couple residents who assured me we could find something a thousand times more legit than anything downtown, so they brought me to a local bar with a loud brass band, cheap drinks, a friendly crowd and a bomb ass taco truck serving the back courtyard. The night had made something of itself after all, and I felt sort of at home...with way hotter hot sauce.   

The next morning, my head throbbing, I had a little time to relax before the inevitably sad pack-up routine. I would be hanging out at the airport for a few hours before my flight, but I was looking forward to it because I quite like airports when I'm not running through them. 

At the check-in counter my stomach flipped when one of the airline employees mentioned The Cure had checked in a short time earlier (at another airline no doubt; as if they would fly US Airways). Then when I went through security I learned Flea had just come through. After an intimate TSA pat-down, yes of course I scoured all the accessible gates for the legendary bassist, but my too-little-too-late detective work told me he would have gotten on a flight to LA that had just boarded. Lame.

I parked myself at a small bar with a little stage of its own, a young duo playing an acoustic set in the corner. I got to talking to a couple of guys also on their way home from ACL (the statistics were highly in favor of this eventuality), and I learned I had yet again missed out on a band sighting. French fivesome Phoenix (whom I was also looking forward to seeing on Sunday) had been sitting at a nearby table for the last hour or so, one which I'd overlooked two or three times when I was busy scoping Flea. Okay, Universe, very funny. So clever of you.

All that bullshit aside, I made my way home in a state of almost total satisfaction. I met so many incredible people, became a part of so many exceptional shows, and all this just barely breathing the fumes of a city on fire. While I didn't experience everything I intended to (ahem see above, see below), my power and desire seemed to flow effortlessly from me, and I knew I was in true communion with myself. This was where I belonged. At least for this one weekend, this was exactly where I belonged. I'll be seeing you again, Austin.

Oh and look here: the Atoms For Peace at the Moody Theater webcast is up. Show starts about 41:30. Let's watch it and be happy (and also kinda sad) together.  

ACLFest Weekend Two, Day Two Recap

Robert Smith of The Cure totally owning us, all of ACL--shit, the world

I woke up slightly more bedraggled than yesterday to find that the entire ACL operation has f'real been canceled due to flooding and more flood warnings. The depression of the whole experience getting cut short is now starting to sink in, but I can't deny that my body could probably use the break. My feet ache, my reddened skin throbs, my clothes still hang wet from last night's torrential downpour. Day Two was serious business. 

I got to the park earlier in the afternoon than on Friday, about 2:00 to catch indie dance band Electric Guest. It was really no time to be dancing in the beating sun though; the Texas heat had plans of its own and would be having us know it. Maybe it was for that reason that I found Electric Guest a tad underwhelming, or maybe it was the gigantic sound coming from HAIM at the nearby main stage.

I thought I would get to catch the last 15 minutes of sister rockers HAIM's set, but they for some reason cut their performance short. I caught them just as they finished, with the three of them doing a crazyass ensemble drum-off and then one of the sisters leaping into the crowd for an unsuccessful crowd surf. But she clearly didn't give a shit and went back for a second turn. Win.

Temperatures didn't let up all afternoon, and it was a whimsical game trying to find space under one of the few trees for some shady respite. Strangely enough I found that light, continuous dancing cooled me off more efficiently than standing still. I can't stand still to music anyway, but I felt I had more power to summon breezes if I moved with it.

Life went on like that for the next couple hours, me just sort of wandering through the meadow, smiling drunkenly at everything (except sober; it was so hot I couldn't even fathom a drink until sunset). It was also around this time that the crowd seemed to swell exponentially; I'm gonna say Saturday's attendance was at least double Friday's. Suddenly people were everywhere. 

Grimes (née Claire Boucher) was one of my priorities, the adorable electronic producer from Canada who we've now learned feels strongly about burritos, Pokémon, and earplugs. She began her set with some wicked "weirdo experimental stuff" and then finally got people moving with her more recognizable tracks like "Genesis" and "Be a Body." Most notably, this was in fact the first time I had seen more than two people dancing at a time.

Okay okay okay, now I'm gonna gush about The Cure. In the downtime leading up to their performance, the sun had just set, and after such an oppressively hot day, the cooling atmosphere served to wake everybody up a little. The band came on almost ten minutes early (when does that happen??), and it was immediately obvious that they were going to own the stage, the crowd, and I'm going to go so far as to say the entire festival.

I was unsure how they would be received after seeing so many great bands get super under-appreciated by stiff crowds over the last two days, but The Cure had us all by the balls. This was the most animated I had felt any crowd for any show at ACL; that's some serious kind of magic (is Robert Smith's hair somehow connected to this power he holds? What other reason could he have for keeping it like that?). They plowed over two hours and 27 songs--a mix of ferociously familiar hits and some lesser known tracks from lesser known albums--and no doubt they could and would have kept going if the plug hadn't been pulled on them right at 10:00 (okay, they did it the classy way by fading them out, but still). 

It was at the beginning of "Wrong Number" that the rain came. And holy shit, did it come. This was the start of what would become a foot of rain during the night, the reason for today's cancellation. As disappointed as I am to miss today's lineup (Atoms for Peace, mostly), I can't imagine a more fitting closedown than The Cure.

Now I've got a whole day to get a taste of Austin. I'm going to find some beer, football, and then hopefully Thom Yorke. Wish me luck.