Texas Boasts More Than the Alamo Austin's South by Southwest Festival Simply a Paradise By Matt Rhodes

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Last year, the Ides of March and spring upon us, two friends and I made a potentially dangerous decision. As the rich kids jetted for Jamaica and Cancun, and the cheesy kids loudly skidded toward Daytona and Panama City, my pals and I piled spring dreams into the heavenly green Subaru station wagon and made a mad dash for Austin, Texas. We were afraid, very afraid.

But we had faith in our sources. People had revealed to us that the week to come was to be an Armageddon of Ecstasy, noticeably marked by severe and unabashed good times. Fate had smiled upon us; the South by Southwest music festival, which features nearly 600 bands of all brands in four days of melodious mayhem, had nestled itself within the confines of our time off. If we could only avoid cowboy boot prints on our pretty young faces, we figured to have a fabulous time.

We stopped only once on our blast through the flattened contour of middle America at a little watering hole in Oklahoma. A local toothless yokel behind the counter confirmed our fears: "Y'all's headin' ta Awstin? I'm prayin' fer you boys already."

We had visions of being fed moldy armadillos by cannibalistic Texans who would tattoo "Don't mess with Texas" on our petite, educated asses and ship us back home to Chicago in a mangled heap. We had to keep faith in the music.

We descended upon Austin early Thursday morning to find a mere ghost of a college town. The streets were empty, littered only with tumbleweeds and a few scant cans of Lone Star beer. We hadn't been beaten up yet, so we followed the distended directions all the way up to the third floor of a sleepy apartment complex and knocked on a tattered green door. A disheveled zombie, which we soon came to recognize as our friend Andy, answered the door against a backdrop of booze, tunes and a copious amount of smiling blondes.

"Where the hell have y'all been?" He slurred. "The music starts in three hours!"

It was 9:00am We sighed, acknowledging that everything was going to be all right.

Austin revealed itself to us as a simple and unadulterated paradise. The first day was rather hazy, marked by intermittent and sometimes heavy flurries of Lone Stars and bongloads. We stumbled about the wondrous University of Texas campus in a Dionysian whirlwind and poked our heads into a number of record stores for free afternoon concerts. For fifty bucks we picked up a wristband that entitled us free admission to dozens of venues, allowing us to sift through hundreds of bands from blues to bluegrass, from alternative to zydeco.

By early evening we had somehow situated ourselves in a bar that played both types of music -- country and western. Oh no, I thought. Now we're really in Texas. We were catching bearded scowls from all sides. The band began to play, the two-stepping ensued and a mob of denim jackets approached behind us. We were frozen with fear.

"We need five Budweisers, in cans," growled a scraggly monster. His yellow eyes descended upon us, "and a round for these here out-of-town boys." We counted our blessings, pounded our Buds and headed to the apartment, all grins about our newfound respect for Texans.

Friday abruptly reared its ugly head upon us. I arose wearily and grabbed some breakfast: a Marlboro, a Lone Star and a handful of Tums. I was feeling like a Texan already. Friday was the day that some of the bigger-name bands that we came to see were playing, and we all needed to catch our second winds. My buddies headed off to a local swimming pond, but I didn't feel so hot after breakfast. I headed back to bed.

I awoke to a commotion in the room. My friends were hastily gathering up to head out for a surprise free show by Medeski, Martin and Wood, a fusion jazz band that we all immensely dig. We hit Waterloo Records, the site of the show, and were stunned at what we found inside. Beautiful women everywhere, the band at center stage and a keg of a local microbrew right in front of us. Free music and beer at a record store at 3:00pm in Austin, Texas -- I immediately made plans to transfer to UT.

That night we wandered into the crowd for the outdoor shows, which were free for even non-wristband wearers. God Street Wine took the stage as the opening act for Joan Osborne, and the crowd erupted in appreciation. Afterwards, my partners went to eat and I checked out the Indianapolis jam outfit, the Why Store. We met up later to groove on some reggae with some rastadudes who were smoking some cigarettes that didn't quite taste or smell like tobacco to me. The evening was capped off with 40 ounces of Mickey's at the famed Black Cat, where we were wowed by the lead singer of an up and coming Austin-style alternative band. Life couldn't possibly have gotten any better -- until the next day, that is.

Saturday was the day that everyone was waiting for. We took it fairly easy during the day, meandering from bar to bar on 6th Street, seeing what was going on and hanging with the locals. That night several thousand people crammed into the Austin Music Hall to dance to Parliament, the event's headlining act. As always they put on a dazzling show and left everyone completely funked out. Only one more day to go.

Sunday was by far the most mellow day of the festival, which was fine since we needed some time to relax. We watched some blues bands, checked out some jazz and called it a night. The South by Southwest music festival had taken its toll.

Inevitably, all of these grand adventures come to an end. So we drove back to Chicago, quite positive that we'd found the perfect place to spend some time off, as long as you're not rich or cheesy, and you dig great tunes. As we ambled back into our familiar surroundings, we pulled down our pants to make sure that no grizzly cowboys had tattooed "Don't Mess With Texas" on our asses. They hadn't, and we went to sleep dreaming of heaven. I'm fairly sure it's centralized deep in the heart of Texas.