I came to SXSW to get fucked up and watch bands. In that order. So far all I have managed to do is get fucked off. Queue here. Stamp that. Here’s another wrist band now stand over there. Two Beers – thats $20 please sir and thanks for the tip. Yesterday, however, was a completely different story and I finally saw what people salivate and pontificate over all year and keeps them coming back time after time.
Venturing far from the madding crowd (a.k.a. Mardi Gras-Notting Hill Carnival – Spring Break street as I have renamed 6th) we ended up in the far east of the city in a sprawling dishevelled shabby ramshackle town of old houses and hotels and patios and car parks and I loved every second of it. This is what I came for. Drinking from noon watching 15 bands in a day. Getting Sailor Jerry tattoos in a wooden shed whilst a crowd of punks and drunks and musicians mingle in the background setting the world to rights (Yeah Marcus and I got tattooed in a shed).
And two of my favourite things of the whole festival happened: Royal Blood and Coach Whips. Everyone should make this their alarm clock.
I cant say I knew much about them before but now I’m in love. Two-piece bands rock my world especially when they are this loud. One guy on bass and one guy smashing the shit out of a drum kit. NICE.
Then this happened….twice
I would like to say I saw this band twice yesterday but in reality I got nowhere near. Eschewing playing on the stage either time they played in the pit of the crowd surrounding on all sides by a baying mob people climbing and sprawling over any object they could to get as close as possible or to even catch a glimpse. And it was fucking rad.