March 19, 2001

Idlewild / Brassy / Blake Babies/ The Cult: Austin, Texas South By Southwest

The reformed Blake Babies prove more palatable than The Cult's new album run-through...

Saturday's festivities begin with a beer and Mexican food bash sponsored by a very famous record company which will go nameless here. Hailing from the outer wilds of Australia's outback, the story of Kasey Chambers' childhood days amongst the wombats, dingos and koalas sometimes overshadows the fact that she's a talented songwriter whose best work lies ahead. Weaned on country classics, Chambers delivers originals like 'The Captain' with a lilt and a waver that recalls Dolly Parton at a similar age. Chambers' version of Lucinda Williams' 'Changed the Locks' simmers with the quiet fury of the scorned, and an update of Woody Guthrie's 'Do-Re-Mi' is highlighted by Chambers giggling at her dad as he nimbly nails his guitar solo.

Across town at Stubbs', the Cult/Creeper Lagoon gig at the Revolver party is the day's hot ticket. Taking a fashion tip from Marilyn Manson, Cult singer Ian Astbury emerges with gobs of red eye shadow racoon-style around his eyes and a command for venue security. "Let them take some fuckin' pictures," Astbury orders the reluctant guards. "We're not the Rolling Stones." Best received when playing the hits, it's sad to see the Cult suffering from This Is A Song From Our New Album disease, an unfortunate malady that strikes the afflicted silent and renders them unable to clap.

Back on Sixth Street, at Momo's a reunited Blake Babies show no dust and Juliana Hatfield and John Strohm's vocals intertwine in the same way they first did over a decade ago. The darlings of the late '80s college rock set, the reincarnation of the group bodes well for those who like their rock without smoke and laser lights and who still cling to the belief that a "good song" doesn't have to have a gimmick.

Crammed into Arch, a kind of converted office with a bar in the middle, the Spin party begins at 1:30 a.m. with Brassy handling the performing duties and a capable bar staff doling out hundreds of plastic cups of beer and whiskey. Brassy's blend of rap and junk rock gets grating in a matter of minutes and were it not for the steady stream of free alcohol and the chance
to rub shoulders with partygoers like former Talking Head David Byrne and up-and-comer Ryan Adams, it's likely Brassy's set would have been given to a newly emptied room.

Instead, partiers wait out Brassy and wander restlessly from one side of the bar to the other, in hopes that the cramped quarters will have somehow expanded during the walk. It's true to say that Idlewild and the Bell Rays follow Brassy and live music continues well on towards dawn. It's also true that after 12 hours or so of live music and libations, certain members of the party began recognizing a reduced ability to generate discerning thoughts on the quality of performance rendered by the same. Until next year
then...

Colin Devenish