Pitchfork

Phosphorescent [Mohawk indoor stage; 3:45 p.m.]

In between flying, arriving, checking in, registering, getting the lay of the land, bumping into J. Mascis and a giant chicken-man on the same block, marveling at the sheer amount of paper people waste on flyers at these things, and dealing with the looming feeling that the next big thing is two clubs over, the first few hours at South by Southwest can leave you a bit restless. But opting for Phosphorescent's brief, mostly hushed set at the Austinist/Gothamist party at Mohawk proved a good balm for the looming chaos, as a crowd of maybe 75 stood in the dimly-lit back room to catch Matthew Houck and company ramshackle their way through some of their ramshackle country-inflected drone-folk.

Bogged down a bit by a weird mix, Houck nevertheless managed to throw that sweet old voice of his all over a half-dozen or so tunes-- including an off-the-cuff sounding cover of Dire Straits' "So Far Away"-- in a relaxed manner that seemed about as far removed from the roving packs of publicists and industry types trudging past the window behind them as could be. "A Picture of Our Torn Up Praise", lovely as can be on last year's underappreciated Pride, grew even lovelier when Houck's vocals are allowed a little more room to breathe, and the thunderous drums of "At Death, A Proclamation" took on a bit of a punk edge in the live setting. Or, as my showgoing companion Dave Maher said, "that dude really looks like Zeus." He sure does.

Earlimart [Austin Convention Center Bat Bar; 7 p.m.]

Upon hitting the back of a surprisingly long line to the Austin Convention Center's Exhibit Hall 4/Bat Bar, I was approached by a very nice lady in a DirecTV polo shirt who inquired about my television service back in Chicago. We chatted innocuously enough about the advantages of satellite and how in the world I can live without a DVR, but when the line started to move and another very nice lady posted at the door told the camera around my neck "no pictures!", I realized I was walking into a trap.

I didn't go to SXSW last year, but I did sit on my couch and fiddle with the remote a bit, and I recall seeing a few very slick productions of mostly middling bands "live from South by Southwest" on one of those channels way up in the hundreds. This, it became quite clear upon almost getting smacked in the face by a camera crane, was that. I must've stood for about 15 minutes snapping photos (which were, it turns out, no problem before the broadcast began) watching Earlimart frontman Aaron Espinoza crack wise with the crowd and exchange incredulous looks with cohort Ariana Murray. That they shared my sense of the ridiculousness of this thing was the set's main saving grace.

We were told to clap on cue as the set began and the band rolled through their pleasantly gooey but largely forgettable pop tunes, including a pretty mess from their forthcoming Hymn and Her LP. They're not a bad band, really, there's just not a whole lot that they do that one can latch onto: Their first few records had moments, but their most recent stuff is so pleasant as to be unpleasant, if that makes sense. People tuning in at home: The Bat Bar isn't so much a bar as a stage and an elaborate series of neon signs, with a little enclave to the side where beer is served. And, in a town with a ton of real bars hosting a ton of rock bands, the facade of this thing was a bit hard to shake, even, I suspect, for Earlimart. Still, that's a lotta channels for $54.99 a month.

These New Puritans [Antone's; 9 p.m.]

"We're These New Puritans," frontman Jack Barnett mumbled in the middle of the band's way too short set, "and we'll play our songs now." So they did. These New Puritans deal in reserve, not blunt force. But damn if I wasn't pummeled anyway by their almost scarily powerful set at the Domino showcase at Antone's. These kids wielded that wiry post-punk energy like a weapon, giving the songs plenty of room to fly around inflicting their art-damage. Jack Barnett exuded an eery confidence with his mumbled/shouted vocals, wearing a menacing gold-feathered vest. The rest of the band alternated between tumult and near-lethargy, creating a perfect medium for their detached yet debilitating tunes. Yeah, with their chanting vocals and nervy hooks, they sound a lot like Liars in their dance-punk days, but Liars never had a pop tune as good as "Elvis", and "Elvis" is a pretty friggin' menacing pop tune. It's a little scary how much These New Puritans get out of so little, and I left wishing I could see them again right off.



Times New Viking [La Zona Rosa; 10:30 p.m.]



I've often wondered why no one can get a convincingly raucous photo out of the convincingly raucous Times New Viking, but then again, I'd never attempted it myself 'til tonight. Sure, their set was the same glorious shit-pop muck they've learned to cultivate and we've grown to love, but they do it with such ease, it's as spooky as Jack Barnett's collected menace. Beth Murphy stands in place at the organ, occasionally bending a bit at the knee. Guitarist Jared Phillips holds the axe like a rifle and fires with the confidence of a master marksman, rarely letting the blowback lift his wrist. Adam Elliott gets a little wild behind the trapset, but as often as their music threatens to spin out of control and become unbearable noise, these kids are in total control.

The set was typically great, with Present the Paisley Reich's "Imagine Dead John Lennon" serving as the highlight amidst a lot of fine ones, mostly from Rip It Off. "This goes out to anyone born in the early 80s, or Paul McCartney," Elliott chimed in before tearing into another one, giving me further ammo for my claim that Times New Viking are the Beatles of noise rock. Cut some of the murk (and the live show does remove their fourth instrument, the tape hiss) and they're writing some of the catchiest songs going, and, hey, those Beatles had nifty little numbers about drugs and teenage lust, too. Though perhaps Mariah, not Ringo, ought to be the one watching the fuck out for this lot: John Norris from MTV News was in the wings, looking on appreciatively.



Bun B [Fuze; 1:15 a.m.]



I met Joel, a SXSW volunteer from Austin taking a break from his duties at a club across downtown, outside the Bun B show at Fuze. Despite the badges around our necks and the "Badges Only" sign on the door, neither of us were allowed in, though no one was manning the door and not a single official from SXSW showed in the half hour or so we were waiting in a formless line outside the club. Miffed, we went and grabbed a late-night Shiner together, and Joel explained to me that, after the recent death of Bun's UGK partner Pimp C, he'd all but given up on listening to rap music.

Bun was the dude I wanted to see more than any other at SXSW, and I guess that means I should've stood in the line I saw forming outside the club around 7:45. Those folks probably saw Bun B last night, but Joel and I weren't among them. And, though a glance into the side door lead me to believe it was a capacity issue, no one could say for sure. The scene outside was electric with confusion, and the pair of bicycle cops who showed up just as we left only added to the static.

It was a nice night, all told, but it's not the kind of night you're supposed to have at SXSW. You're supposed to see Bun B if you want to. As Dave Maher, who caught UGK's showcase last year kept telling me, rap shows at South by Southwest are a little different. Now, why is that?