I survived the Austin City Limits Music Festival. It did not quite match the rollicking time I had last year, I must admit. First of all, it was too damn hot. It’s been a relatively mild Austin summer, but the sun was a-blazin’ all weekend long, and by Sunday it had really sucked the life out of me.

Another problem: the sound ranged from adequate to atrocious. One stage in particular was a sludgy mudhole of sound all weekend. The first act we saw Friday was the Blind Boys of Alabama, and it seemed as if they’d brought the Deaf Sound Engineer with them. (Please credit that joke to my fellow ACL-er, Andrew Osborne). That’s no knock on their performance, which was rock-solid (although they never quite “popped the clutch,” as the fella standing near us put it).

The Rebirth Brass Band definitely popped the clutch. There’s just not enough tuba in the music of today, I must say. Friday night wrapped up with Sheryl Crow, which was a big shrug for us. We checked out four or five highly processed radio hits, which she didn’t actually seem to be singing, then got away while the getting was good.

Saturday began with the Gourds and plenty of direct sunlight. The kind of heat that dries out your contact lenses. A long lull followed. This is what separates last year from this year. When there’s one can’t-miss act after another, you don’t have time to notice the sweat running into your eyes and the crick in your back. Or maybe it’s just that I’m a year older. Anyway, at a certain point we realized we had an hour to kill before meeting our friend Gen for the Pixies, so we decided to take an off-site break at Baby Acapulco’s and drink some frosty margaritas and pina coladas. Oh, this was a very, very good idea. Almost the highlight of the weekend, really.

But musically, the Pixies were my highlight. For the first couple of songs, we were way back by the beer tent, and the volume was way too low. I decided to take my life into my hands and plow ahead to the front. It became easier as folks began passing out drunk and I could simply step over their limp forms before they were carried out by security. I got almost, but not quite as close as I’d gotten to REM last year – just about close enough to see the sweat fly off Frank Black’s big bald head. The whole set was good, but bliss set in for the final four or five songs showcasing Kim Deal. Their performance of “In Heaven,” the love theme from Eraserhead, made the whole weekend for me.

By Sunday, I was ready to be done with ACL Fest. Two short and sweet sets were enough – Elvis Costello and Spoon. Part of me wanted to stay for Wilco, but not enough of me.



Also this weekend, The Sopranos won some Emmys. Gandolfini and Falco got shafted, but the show did finally win Best Drama, Michael Imperioli and Drea de Matteo won well-deserved acting honors, and Terence Winter’s script for “Long-Term Parking” also took an award. But really, the Emmys stink. A terrible production all around, particularly at the end, bum-rushing David Chase and co. in their moment of triumph. Feh.



And then there was the other big event this weekend, the Red Sox/Yankees series in New York, but the less said about that, the better. I taped the Friday night game, but a long rain delay meant that my tape cut off before the end, which was by all accounts a stunner (in a good way). I voluntarily missed the endings of the other two games, which were miserable in every conceivable way. Ah well, that’s why the good lord invented the Wild Card.