My friends and I went to every SXSW Music Conference from 2002 through 2009 or so.
The festival happens in the middle of March every year, in Austin, Texas.
A week or so before that 2002 festival, a group of us went to see The New Pornographers—a musical collective widely known as “Canada’s indie rock supergroup”—at a club called Radio Radio in Indianapolis. Amongst other Great White North musical luminaries in the band, The New Pornographers featured A.C. Newman, Neko Case, and Dan Bejar, the latter from a band I’d not paid any attention to: Destroyer.
Those of us who attended the concert came from Fort Wayne, Bloomington and Indianapolis, and met up at the club; we were all still catching up at the bar as the opening act—an Irish band none of us had ever heard of, either—started their set.
“We’re from Dublin, and yea, we’re so damn happy to be here.
We’re a band called The Frames.”
Well, it was just one of those moments, on one of those nights—the kind where you catch what you’re chasing.
The Frames simply blazed the stage.
From the downbeat, it was one of the most cathartic and unexpected and thrill-inducing and positive sets of music we’d ever seen, ever, anywhere, any time.
They dropped our jaws; we dropped our drinks.
It was like the ineffable light, the unwavering resilience, the transcendent passion, the raging tempest of the human heart—in musical form.
The band erupted from whisper quiet to a tempestuous squall and back again, without a single dip in their electric tension, living on the cusp of feedback.
“Star, star,
teach me how to shine, shine,
teach me so I know what’s going on in your mind.”
and
“I want my life to make more sense
I want my life to make amends
I want my life to make more sense
to me!”
Honestly, the only thing I remember about The New Pornographers’ performance that night was that Neko Case was wearing a comfy pajama set.
I don’t remember A.C. Newman.
I couldn’t tell you a thing about Dan Bejar.
I don’t know what songs they played or what album they were promoting.
And in fact I haven’t listened to the band since.
But then, why would I?
They’d already given us the ultimate gift, you see.
They’d introduced us to The Frames.
We touched down in Austin about a week later.
We’d been invited to SXSW (South by Southwest) by some Fort Wayne expats—expats who I didn’t know when they were locals, but who had become penpals after they’d moved.
We’d send each other music recommendations, rave and rave and rave about this band and that one, and marvel that we somehow hadn’t hung out in Fort Wayne.
I was ostensibly at SXSW for work.
The festival offers up its own version of March madness—over four days there are, honestly, 1,000+ bands from around the globe, performing at a hundred or so venues, from day parties to evening showcases to late-night afterparties, in a relentless, wonderful and challenging celebration of the sweat and sorcery, the joy and jubilance of live music, of those who create it, and of those who love it.
Chad and Hannah picked me up at the Austin airport in the early afternoon.
As was our way, they asked what I’d been listening to, and I was ready—in fact had been rehearsing my answer for two flights—and I raved and raved and raved about that concert at Radio Radio.
Together, conspiratorially, we all shared how we’re each chasing that rare and special, unique and amazing feeling—the one when you’re blindsided, seeing a band live for the first time, and that band somehow shifts the way gravity works, that band somehow alters the shape of your shadow, that band somehow changes the way tides rise, all as it also somehow also freezes time, even if just for a moment.
Directly from the airport, we were heading toward the South Congress neighborhood; the homespun art gallery Yard Dog was having its annual backyard bash, and bands were playing all afternoon in the alley behind their small shop.
We navigated our way through the gallery and to the backyard; it was hot and sweaty, crowded with maybe 200 people.
One band was breaking down their gear, another setting up.
There were free tacos and freer brews, served up by happy-to-be-there rock ’n’ roll volunteers.
I stood in a fast-moving line and got an ice-cold bottle of Lone Star.
And then a couple more.
All around: sunglasses and dogs, tanktops and straw hats, cigarettes and conversation.
The sound team was in triage mode, but like the bartenders, happy to be there. You see, this wasn’t a club—this was a field unit.
There was no soundcheck per se; more just the plugging in and tuning of instruments, the basic “check-check-checking” of microphones, a round of drum fills, all happening in real-time and for all to hear, and finally the sound guy’s voice to the musicians, over the PA, “You guys ready? We’ll just keep fixing it as we go.”
I worked my way to where I could see the band.
The singer turned to face the crowd, and started to speak.
The singer, with his curly, reddish-blonde hair.
The singer, with an Irish accent and a beaming smile.
I gasped.
“We’re from Dublin, and yea, we’re so fuckin’ happy to be here.
We’re a band called The Frames.”
And in the sweltering Texas sun, under a makeshift tent with a pop-up sound system, the band played like the ineffable light, the unwavering resilience, the transcendent passion, the raging tempest of the human heart, in musical form—as they somehow shifted the way gravity works, somehow altered the shape of your shadow, somehow changed the way tides rise, all as they also somehow also froze time, even if just for a moment.
I grabbed Chad by the arms, the ears, and just blathered.
“THIS is THAT BAND. {gasp}
The one from the New Pornographers show. {gasp}
The one I was telling you…How?
Here?
Now?”
I shook my head.
Chad grinned coyly.
And as it turned out,
as I soon found out,
this was just the first domino—
the first realization that things like this would happen to us at SXSW over and over and over again, two dozen or more times a day, for four days straight, year after year after year, band after band after band, domino after domino after domino.
In 2007, The Frames’ singer Glen Hansard starred in a film called Once, and ended up winning an Academy Award.
He formed another band, The Swell Season, with his costar, Markéta Irglová.
And he began a flourishing solo career that persists to this day.
Over the years, I suppose I’ve listened to his music a little less and less; it happens.
But whenever I queue it up—anywhere, any time—that music never does anything less than multiply the heaviness of my heart, that music never does anything less than cleanse me in its undertow.
I haven’t ever stopped chasing that same feeling from music.
To find something new, or to hear something that’s been around awhile that I’ve just missed for one reason or another.
I listen and learn, compile and collect. From friends, from my kids, from a few trusted media sources. From musicians themselves.
That chase isn’t all that easy, and sometimes it doesn’t happen all that often, but when it hits—there’s nothing else much like it.
In 2017, a band I was becoming obsessed with—Hiss Golden Messenger—was releasing its new album, Heart Like a Levee.
I pre-ordered the record direct from Hiss’s label, Merge Records. When it arrived, the Merge team had thrown in some extra swag, including their Fall 2017 Sampler CD.
I’ve always welcomed a mix or playlist that might open my eyes and ears to something new. (Go ahead, send me one.) The Merge sampler became a frequent spin—yeah, my 2008 Jeep has a CD player—and it was just excellent, becoming the first place I heard songs like Waxahatchee’s staggering “Recite Remorse,” Lambchop’s deeply grooving “The Hustle Unlimited,” The Shout Out Louds’ breezy “Jumbo Jet,” Coco Hames’ I-wish-the-Trainhoppers-wrote-this “Tennessee Hollow,” and so many more.
Most importantly, the sampler opened with Destroyer—Dan Bejar’s band when he wasn’t moonlighting in The New Pornographers, a band I’d not paid any attention to—and their song “Sky’s Grey.”
15 years after Radio Radio, I finally heard-heard Bejar:
In a lot of ways, “Sky’s Grey” was unlike any song I’d ever heard before.
Delighting, and disarming.
Comforting, and confounding.
Magical, and mysterious.
It was immediate and clear to me that “Sky’s Grey” was one of the best songs of the last decade.
A few weeks later, early on a Friday evening, I found myself where I often find myself, after a rigorous week of work: wandering the aisles of my local (Wooden Nickel Records, North Anthony Boulevard location), waiting for something to catch my eyes and ears, eager to treat myself to a new record.
And there, between Indigo De Souza and Dinosaur Jr, it was: Destroyer’s latest, ken.
While it was no surprise to me how the Hiss record would shine its light around the chambers of my soul—its first song included the lyrics…:
“Hey, Biloxi, it’s tough all over,
ah, Houston, you scared me sober.
It’s hard, Lord, Lord, it’s hard…
it’s hard, Lord, Lord it’s hard.”
…Destroyer’s ken was more obtuse, opening with “Sky’s Grey” and its lyrics:
“Come one, come all,
dear young revolutionary capitalists!
The groom’s in the gutter,
and the bride just pissed herself!
I’ve been working on the new ‘Oliver Twist’
I’ve been working on the new ‘Oliver Twist’
I’ve been working on the new ‘Oliver Twist’
I’ve been working on the new ‘Oliver Twist’
I’ve been working on the new ‘Oliver Twist’
I’ve been working on the new ‘Oliver Twist’
I’ve been working on the new ‘Oliver Twist’…”
I loved ken.
By the time of January 2020’s follow-up, Have We Met, I was full-on bewitched by Destroyer.
Beyond eager to see the band live, I feverishly sought out tickets for a tour that was—like ’em all—dashed by the pandemic.
Destroyer returned in March 2022 with a new record—LABYRINTHITIS—by my estimation, their best album yet.
Here’s “Eat the Wine, Drink the Bread”:
And I’ll tell you what.
In a couple days, I’m heading down to Indianapolis’s Fountain Square neighborhood to meet some friends at a club called Hi-Fi.
Hi-Fi, a club located just a half-block down the street from Radio Radio.
There, I finally get to see Destroyer.
Destroyer, led by Dan Bejar.
Dan Bejar, who used to play in The New Pornographers.
In a couple days,
in a different venue,
a few doors down,
21 years since we were last in the same room as Dan Bejar,
the same friends
still chasing that rare and special, unique and amazing feeling—
the one when you’re blindsided, seeing a band live for the first time,
and that band somehow shifts the way gravity works,
that band somehow alters the shape of your shadow,
that band somehow changes the way tides rise,
all as it also somehow also freezes time,
even if just for a moment.
Support The Frames, Glen Hansard and Destroyer by buying their music from their websites, Bandcamp and their record labels.
LABYRINTHITIS is my favorite Destroyer record, but the smoothest on-ramp is probably Kaputt. (Start there.)
The Frames’ songs quoted in this essay are “Star Star” and “Pavement Tune,” performed live in 2002 on the Set List album—right around the time we first saw the band perform live.
Listen below, and play ’em loud.
You just nail that feeling of discovery, that electricity that drives one in the endless pursuit of new, exciting music. It is a process made much easier since I bought that Moby Grape album on a hunch back in the mid-60s but the feeling, the shivers that travel up the vertebrae when that new never-before music hits the ear, is still the same. I'm in search mode every day. When that stops, I stop. Thanks to you & Spotify, Destroyer and The Frames are on my Sunday playlist.
And maybe, just maybe, someday, I'll get to experience SXSW, perhaps the ultimate in LIVE discovery...
You go after the things you love, Matt. That can certainly be said for you on this journey. I've not been to many music festivals, but with Newport, I was intrigued by who goes to which stages. I was a fan of the second smallest stage and didn't care much for the main stage. Probably speaks more to me than the stage, or the acts. But seeing Brett Dennen on a relatively small stage was a highlight. River Whyless was great. Though there's two bands I've not listened to again since that visit. I'll have to tell you.
As always, thanks for sharing with us.