George Pfromm II
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Music conferences can be useful: Participants see and hear new music, make important connections, and reconfirm their career choice. They also drink too much, stay up too late, and spend a fortune on cab-fare—and sometimes less licit purchases.
What follows is a glimpse at three different music festivals and their various pitfalls, pluses, and temptations. In the first tale, Richard A. Martin embarks on an impossible mission—writing a music festival program—and gets crazy from the heat. In the second, Kerry Murphy reports from a conference that's avoided the long arm of the industry. And in the final piece, Tricia Romano lets it all hang out on the dance floor. Should you decide to undergo a little indulgence of your own, check out the list of music festivals on page 30.
Austin, powerless
The Date: July 1998
The assignment: Fly from Portland, Oregon, to Austin, Texas, to write about as many of the 300 bands scheduled to appear at the North by Northwest music festival as possible in a one-week period.
The goal: To get a head start on the NXNW official program guide, which will eventually contain 100-word blurbs about each of the performers; said performers have sent CDs or demo cassettes, which are on file in Austin.
The personnel: The South by Southwest staff, which oversees, books, and manages NXNW; cockroaches the size of Chihuahuas.
The variables: Full-on heat wave temperatures, 100 degrees or higher; the SXSW temporary office, a beat-up trailer with a wall-unit air conditioner and wood paneling.
Housing: A friend, who will be out of town, will lend you his shed-like one-bedroom home; the bedroom's air conditioner is nonfunctional; it's advised to sleep on the ratty futon under the wobbly ceiling fan in the living room.
Transportation: A generic rent-a-Buick, with CD player (thank God) and first-rate air-conditioner (praise Jesus!).
Writer's Log:
2pm Sunday I arrive at the quaint Austin airport, gleefully noting the "Live Music Capital of the World" greeting on the wall. As expected, I walk outside and a blast of torrid air smacks me in the face. The Buick's climate-control system takes a while to kick in, and I arrive at my temporary home to find that the inside environment would be suitable for a lizard.
4pm Sunday Anxious to get started, I arrange to meet one of the festival bookers, Charlie, at the trailer/office, about a half-mile away from my hovel. Charlie lets me in, sets me up with a rickety boom box and some headphones, then walks me through the main room into a side office that doubles as the "library." Here, the performers' CDs and demo tapes are filed by a number that corresponds to their registration folders, which occasionally provide helpful info such as press clips or bios. Charlie bids me good luck, then splits.
8pm Sunday Stepping outside the trailer for a smoke, I marvel that the heat hasn't let up by more than a degree. I've now listened to about five CDs, written 500 words on my laptop, and set a goal to have finished at least 100 blurbs by week's end.
9am Monday I arrive at the trailer, which I now have to share with five Texans who are feverishly working to put together a cohesive schedule with the ostensible goal that it will also be dazzling. Calls to big-shot managers fail to convince well-known bands such as Cracker and the Foo Fighters to sign on, despite my Austinite friends' best efforts. I'm having some doubts about reaching my goal.
5pm Wednesday I'm getting punchy. Every rock critic clich頩n the book has been reused, recycled, and even translated into rusty French. Forty-five blurbs done and a daunting schedule ahead.
7pm Friday Tomorrow morning I leave this swampy hellhole of a city, which under normal conditions I love so much I consider it a home-away-from-home. I've listened to and written about 112 rock, punk, ska, folk, electronica, and reggae acts—and one really bad New Age blues guitarist from Finland. I sympathize with the organizers of this crazy festival. I also hate them, for they are conduits for the often-unlistenable music that filters into my ears. My job is only one-third done. Now, I must return to the cooler environs of Portland, where the festival guide must be completed. Music— my love, my hobby, my career—has become my foe.
RICHARD A. MARTIN
Positive noise
There are few industries more indulgent than the music business. Period. It takes a certain type of person with a certain masochistic streak to work in a business that requires a professional office presence half the time and late-night, smoky-club attendance the other half.
The truest rite of passage for anyone seeking a career in music is to go to a convention, the be-all and end-all of indulgences. Most music conventions are professional grand-standing endeavors, full of label showcases and repetitive panels. I've attended my fair share of conventions, and they all call up blurry memories of lubrication by schmoozy chatter and endless expensed drinks and meals and vain attempts to catch countless bands at countless different venues every night. The week after a big convention is the true test of one's music business mettle, as the troops return home exhausted and are expected at the office the next day. Conventions can be fun, but really, if you've been to one, you've been to 'em all.
