



I am writing you half blind and pretty well drunk from the welcome ashes of the Lightsey Sage House. Maximilian is sharing the wonders of his lost tracks over olive pizza and one last glittering Lone Star while BJ is off making her Latin (by way of Mass) magic somewhere just outside of Skylar’s aged bark. Ben’s sleeping as well he should be considering how perfectly our day embodied the majestic caterwauling clusterfuck that is the reason so many hopeful men, women and beings of indeterminate origin come down to Austin for this freak fest flying now well past it’s drinking age. There was punk rock both recent, screaming and well seasoned. There was the soul glow. Then there was Mr. Digweed DJing for a packed house we only eked into on the graces of a noble woman and the strength of Mr. Vick’s moustache. Then LL Cool J. Then a cab and some new friends and adult beverages and cigarettes and goddamn if it isn’t the very best to be here and now and not nearly as young as we used to be but at least we can keep up the knees. But this isn’t about the blathering so much as it is the visages of rock gods and velvet queens taken by us (except, again, for Charles goddamnit) in pits and patties for your aesthetic consideration. So dig, if you will, these pictures. Rockit.
Photos du Ben
The Como Mamas
Charles Bradley
Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings
LL Cool J
Photos du Jillian
Poolside
Airplane Boys
Gemini Club
St. Lucia
Icona Pop
Robert DeLong
Capital Cities
Dead Sara