9 Bands, 20 Stiches: or The Dangers Of Day Drinking
SXSW is a special time, and “free” is a magic word. The word “free” can get a person to do many things they normally wouldn’t. For example; start drinking at noon, see a band they don’t really like, or take a CD-R from a stranger. These things that I would never pay a dollar for, I will cheerfully cross town to do for free. Why? Because “free” is a magic word.
Determined not to let another Austin event pass by without my attendance I scanned the blogs for weeks in advance, bookmarking every show with either free alcohol or bands I wanted to see. With nary a badge or a wristband I planned to descend on downtown, not for the purpose of watching films by the newest indie-outsiders or sets by blog hyped hipsters, but to lie, sneak, and bullshit my way into every open bar I could find. The start of the week was rough, little went on during the day, and I had to work hard to gain access to events as paltry as Decider’s VIP balcony at the Mohawk. But once Wednesday arrived, it was officially on.
Up, awake, and downtown at 11AM for the sole purpose of gratis breakfast tacos and bloody marys out of a bucket, I was ready to start my first SXSW. Mob mentality blocks out any of the usual warnings signs; I felt fine double fisting tall cans of Lonestar in the early afternoon because the girl next to me was doing three, carefully balancing a backup in the crook of her elbow. I spent the day alternating between well vodka mixed with promotional juice, beer from unknown breweries, and 20 minute sets from guitar shredders like Marnie Stern, Wavves, and King Khan and BBQ Show. As my blood alcohol level rose, the sun began to set, and the lines in which I was cutting got longer, and longer, and longer. I began to feel like a reverse-vampire, incoherent and out of my element against the night-walking badge holders. I retreated.
Thursday afternoon found me in a parking lot behind Urban Outfitters, sipping Pabst with the v-neck crowd. Some corporate promotions seem tenuous and far fetched and I have a hard time believing that Scion sales are going through the roof due to free Juan MacLean concerts. But Urban Outfitters, PBR, and bands with either “crystal” or “girls” in their name united in a Pitchfork wet dream, sticky and hip. Best of all, the volunteer bartenders neglected to open the beer for you. When it came time to head downtown, my messenger bag was full of cold, corporate sponsored cans.
Lines are for losers and disorderly day lines are easily skipped by stepping three quarters of the way towards the front, and then engaging someone in conversation. Where are you from? Who’s next? Is there free booze in there? Soon you’re fast friends on the fast track inside. I used this technique to slip inside the Parrish in time for Dirty Projectors, then relaxed in the dark with my contraband. By the time Blitzen Trappen and the beer were both done, I was already off to the east side to enjoy the other perk of being an Austinite during SXSW, out of town friends.
When your out of town friends are alcoholics, professional photographers, and dirty Dixie country musicians, it gets out of hand pretty quickly. Soon we were catching up on old times by tearing through six packs and taking dirty digital photos. Time blurred and hours later I was on my way downtown again; soaked in beer and green with grass stains.
This is the point where things start to get seriously disjointed. As I entered my eleventh hour of heavy consumption I simultaneously entered Ballet-Austin for the KVRXplosion. The venue’s blank grey walls, twisting corridors, and my own high level of intoxication made me feel like I was trapped in that scene from Spinal Tap where they are lost backstage. I wandered about from room to room, and sipped bottom shelf vodka Red Bulls while trying to avoid stumbling into equipment. Right before my memory cuts off I remember yelling at dreamy LA pop star Jeremy Jay about our mutual friend’s cats…
Through interviews with friends and text message date stamps, I’ve calculated my time loss to a half hour period, somewhere near two in the morning. The moment I regained coherence I was limping out the front door and bleeding profusely from the shin. I sat down next to a guy I vaguely recognized and pointed to my severely lacerated leg, “Check it out! How metal is that shit?” He confirmed that it was, indeed, metal as fuck, but also that it looked really bad and I should probably go to to the hospital. He was right and a few hours later I was having sutures, staples, and 20 something stitches put into my three, deep, vertical gashes.
It has been four days now, and I still don’t know what happened. No one I’ve talked to saw it go down, and even the doctor couldn’t imagine what would make my leg look like it got, in his words, “attacked by Wolverine.” I’d still love to know, just to quench my curiosity, but at this point I’m chalking it up to line-cutting karma and a life lesson in moderation. In the midst of SXSW’s four day blitz of non-stop live music and free alcohol it is easy to lose track of common sense and submit to the bacchanal. But while some leave with shwag, others leave with scars, and next year I hope to catch a few more bands and remember that, even if it’s free, day drinking is never a good idea.
