Ed. Note: El Jefe asked me today if I was missing the madness of SXSW and I said “Yes, goddamnit. Real life is a pain in the ass and the grand delusion of rock and roll boiling over one town like a quantum foam where all the boom light goes to be reborn as a perpetual state of exhilaration and intoxication on which we build our concept of cultural brand (and consequent defiance) sounds like a new dream of heaven compared to any one of my everydays” (okay, maybe just the first part) and my jealousy is only getting bolstered by Ms. Maggie’s evidence from Day 2. Sure, she reports that Boogie’s lyrical prowess relied heavily on the trenchant misogyny of yore but she also reiterated the Palma Violets and T.V. on the Radio were ridiculously solid and Courtney Barnett, man…YEAH! and would you just take a look at Stromae. 8th Grade dream crush, full raging. Anyway, tomorrow, I’m sure I won’t be minding the fact that my liver’s not bleeding and my archers still arc and that my ears can still hear a dog howl in the same room but for now, I’m a grump and you don’t deserve to hear that anymore. So please dig, if you will, these pictures.
T.V. on the Radio