SXSW: Diary entry #3

I’m not stable enough to write a fluid piece this morning.  Instead, here are some quick snap shots of shit I’ve seen down here in no particular order:

A lot of people in Austin actually sleep in booths at their friends’ bars at the end of the night.  I’m a wastoid degenerate and all, but I still find that to be the lowest thing since child molester vans with that ladder in the back.  Where do those ladders go anyway?

The prize for worst slogan ever – and I mean ever – goes to Weekender Records, whose motto is: “Home is where the Record Player is.”  I’m pretty sure that “record player” doesn’t rhyme with “heart” guys.

The Jackalope, which has become my bloody mary bar of choice in Texas, is home to “Austin’s Best Medium-Fast Burger,” whatever the fuck that is.

I saw a group called Drop Sonic from LA yesterday, and they sound what I imagine U2 would sound like if Bono wore Oakleys.  In fact, I’ll be adding them to the short list of bands I like, so hopefully they don’t mind being in the company of AC/DC, Sick of it All and the Bloodhound Gang.  

Just walk around down here and you’re bound to run into a free taco.  And if you don’t there are a lot of prostitutes around as well.

Percee P – who I told you yesterday slung CDs on New York streets for twenty years before finally getting a record deal – is still selling merchandise everywhere he goes.  I swear this dude would push discs at a funeral.

DJ Statik Selektah is a beast on the decks.  Homeboy kicked one of the flyest golden age medleys that I’ve ever heard at the “Urban Meet and Greet” yesterday.  “Urban,” by the way, means “black.” I’ll never get tired of hearing Wu-Tang’s “Triumph,” and neither should you. I’ve completely lost my voice.  It’s gone.

Eli “Paperboy” Reed is no joke.  He’s the dopest whitest soul singer to ever break out of Brookline, and I saw him get famous last night.  Just watch how much hype follows him out of Texas.   
Pinky ring worth about fifty bling-bling.

It was a long walk to the Scoot Inn, but Texas rap crooner Devin the Dude tore it up and down.  That dude – or “The Dude,” if you will – makes bitches wet and men hard.  El-P – while not the cum-spiration that Devin is – also got heads jumping.  Check the pics.

This is the sound of what you don’t know killing you.  “We don’t have any happy music tonight,” said El-P.

I saw Bushwick Bill – the self-proclaimed “King Kong with the ding dong” – and man is that dude short.  He’s also not too friendly.   

Dubb Sicks – this maniacal whiteboy MC who last year I saw kick over a Porta Potty with someone in it – is back on the scene.  I’m not going home until I get this kid a deal, so I might be down here for a while.

Peace to 7L, Beyonder, Esoteric, Karma and all the Boston cats who ripped the showcase at the Light Bar last night.  Someone had to show these Texas fools how to put it down.

Chris Faraone builds his rock-star bona fides at Boston's Weekly Dig. Dig him some more at

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