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.  

WHO DAT SAY DEY GONNA STEAL DIS PHRASE?

It's been the most glorious week for New Orleans fans everywhere. Even Mike, who's trapped in the frigid-don't-know-nuttin-bout-no-spice-north, can't stop watching videos of secondlines on Bourbon St. and wishing he were back in his hometown to celebrate this inaugural moment in history: the Saints are headed to the Superbowl. Of course everyone knows that by now, but no one knows it better than New Orleanians. Since 1967 Saints fans have loved and honored their football team--for rich or for richer, through injuries and in health, through wins and through losses (many, many losses), as long as they all shall live. But this year the Saints and their fans are joyously experiencing something they've never experienced before: a seemingly divine and unstoppable success.

And the mantric chant that has accompanied both that success and preceding failures has been preciously linked to the New Orleans Saints and their fans since...forever, it seems: "WHO DAT SAY DEY GONNA BEAT DEM SAINTS? WHO DAT? WHO DAT?!" Though history may have some absolute reality on when the phrase originated and when the Saints took it on, it is now inextricably integrated into New Orleans culture. But in the last few days the corporate cyborg that is the NFL has had something to say about that, resulting in a tense custody battle.

The NFL recently claims to have "patented" the rights to 'Who Dat' and have subsequently countered local New Orleans novelty shops for selling clothing and other merchandise which displays the legendary phrase or even the iconic fleur-de-lys symbol. They've begun issuing cease and desist orders to small business owners all over the city. However, the acquisition of these rights have not really gone through yet, especially since the Saints do already own two fleur-de-lys design registrations, and it's not just the NFL that's trying to claim rights to the phrase. Indeed there already is a WhoDat?, Inc., founded by Sal and Steve Monistere, who recorded the famous chant in 1983 and have been marketing it, quietly, ever since. Personally, I do not believe the fleur-de-lys itself can be bought by anyone, since it has ancient origins and is utilized all over the world.

What pisses me off, and obviously New Orleanians as well, is that this has been theirs for so long. The Saints have been theirs, even when they were the 'Aints' for so long. And now that the team is a renowned success, everybody wants a part of them. Everyone wants to jump on the Superbowl bandwagon and make a quick buck (like commercial whore Peyton Manning who does Oreo ads--you are so going down next weekend!). But New Orleans does not care about that. The city just vibrates an enormous sense of pride, no matter what happens. Saints fans don't run for the hills because of a terrible season, they run back faster the next year! They don't go to sleep during a game and "find out the score in the morning" (ahem, *cough* Patriots fans)! Local shops have always sold Who Dat merchandise because Saints fans buy them, wear them proudly, and deserve them. And for a city that's just getting back on its feet, the economic advantages of producing and buying locally are obvious. I like to think that even if the Saints weren't associated with the NFL, whatever hinky backyard football team out there with New Orleans jerseys would be embraced and passionately supported by the city. But the big truck/Bud beer/badass military-sponsored NFL has not hesitated in trying to exploit New Orleans for all it's worth. For a corporation whose annual profits exceed $300 billion, that's just plain shitty to try to take something so precious from a city that's already lost so much. But let's be reminded it is a corporation, not a person. Despite what the Supreme Court just ruled, corporations are not people and do not serve humane interests.

I say, for now, that New Orleans shop owners do not legally need to adhere to the corporate bullying that has already begun. There has been an impressive uproar in the Who Dat Nation in opposition to this ludicrous development, and Sal and Steve Monistere have been speaking up for their trademark as well. New Orleans does not keep quiet and does not bow down to Expensive Suits just because they come in with their White-Man-Conquering-You-Now attitude. The simple truth is that 'Who Dat' is not the NFL's to authorize one way or another, and if the city of New Orleans has anything to say about it, which it does, it never, EVER will be.

Wasted Effort

(Okay, this blog was written on Saturday, so let's pretend it's still Saturday.)

It's 12:30 on this blustery, blizzardy Saturday, and where am I on this fateful night? The fate of the night being that after thirteen sometimes flawless sometimes miraculous victories, the New Orleans Saints have just lost their first game of the season. So, ahem, where am I, you ask? Not crying into a cold beer like I'd like (well, like Mike and Allison would like--I'm pregnant and agonizingly sober). And why are these young patriots being robbed of their birthright to do anything they want anytime they want? Because the suburbs of Boston apparently do not sell any alcohol past 11pm on Saturdays, much less any day of the week! No Bud, no Beast! And it calls itself an Irish community!

The three of us spent a difficult three hours retching and writhing in front of the big screen upstairs, at first carefree and happy to finally catch a Saints game on a TV screen in this part of the country (thanks for your pretty pictures, NFL Network), but the cares quickly crept up as the Dallas Cowboys charged down the field, over and over and over again, plowing over the defense, offense, poor wittle Drew Brees, and the indefatigable New Orleanian spirit over and over and over again. It was painful--but in the 4th quarter, the Saints at an unlikely but not unconquerable point disadvantage, they started to come back. Things were looking up in an almost religiously miraculous way, as they always had this season, and then, with 12 seconds on the clock, they fumble, turn over the ball, and choke and lose it and die. Goodbye, perfect season.

Meanwhile Mike and Allison are throwing back the martinis nervously, oblivious to the absentminded sipping. For some reason I am designated the--wouldn't ya know it--"Designated Bartender," and every time I return from the kitchen with another round, Allison is in a more profound state of droopiness. It's funny until the commercial break ends and another butterfingers on the Saints side drops the ball. Anywho, once the reality kicks in that the game is over, that the hopes of a perfect season are dashed, all anyone wants is a cold one. These two are getting vodka sloppy and I pray for a less concentrated nightcap.

When I finish sobbing violently into Mike's shoulder, they convince me we must go out and get beer. Who cares that the blizzard is moving through and I for one haven't seen snow in over two years and really just want to sit rigidly by myself and cry and wonder why I am really so bothered by this emotional letdown? No, we must get beer! Okay. I'm not gonna stand around in my scarf and boots forever. Let's go.

And it is quite the bitch outside! There's already over an inch of snow, albeit fluffy, wet, and not yet icy. We maneuver through the blankets of falling snow like three grandmas in an Oldsmobile, just up to the gas station two blocks away. And can you believe it, they don't sell beer! We continue on grudgingly, finally fishtailing into the Stop n Shop parking lot which contains a liquor store. And it's closed! Just past midnight! Foiled again! We try once more, doe-and-bleary-eyed. And that shit is locked up like a warehouse during the off-season in Bogota.

So these two, not to mention my tired and bloated ass, are peeved that this so-called modern city is antagonistic toward the responsible sale and consumption of alcohol well before bar-closing time. What, if we want to drink alcohol we should go to a bar? You want we should drink and drive and get in a brawl? What if after a heartbreaking Saturday night special presentation of Thursday Night Football I want to drown my sorrows (or watch my loved ones do as such) in the privacy and comfort and safety of my own home? You don't want to see any of us right now, I tell you that! Well, maybe Allison, she's a card and isn't emotionally attached to tonight's turn of events. But she is pretty loud. It's a give and take.

So really, WHAT is up, Weymouth? Or, as Mike says, "Way out of the Wey-mouth!" Way out of the way of making any sort of sense! Now I have to endure these kids playing grab ass with the liquor cabinet while debating the legitimacy of the destruction of the Death Star at an annoyingly aggressive tone while I wallow in the Saints' loss and the reality of three sets of taper candles I hand-dipped earlier that look like uncircumcised penises! Harmph!