Truesday: It Is a Truly Magical Time to Behold

There’s this little festival coming our way in a month and some change. Not sure if you’ve heard of it. But all of Australia has, and they’re probably boarding up that entire continent in preparation for their yearly migration to Austin. They’ll probably breeze through Los Angeles on their way here, doubling the size of their posse with the ranks of neo-hairband kids and their won’t-fit-in-the-overhead-compartment longboards. “Industries” of various repute and sort will descend upon Austin in such massive numbers that even the Denny’s near Oltorf and I35 will have a two-hour wait.

The city streets will run amber with that atrocious Monster drink, a liquid which may very well be the water drained from spent car batteries. I don't know. I'm just speculating here.

Myspace will likely have a fleet of armored vehicles, brightly painted with scenes of morose looking teenaged boy bands who need to spend more time in the garage and less time in front of a mirror. Armored vehicles that will shoot enough demo CDs into the streets of downtown Austin that it may actually require the city to purchase a goddamn snowplow for remediation. Perhaps they will be loaded into S.C.U.D. casings, aimed to detonate directly over the 6th and Red River intersection, launched from the home city of many of the bandz/street-teamz: San Friggin’ Marcos. Awesome.

I will collect these CDs from the floors of various dirt-bars that I would normally rather not venture into, but am forced to because the frenetic pace of this festival will be so crazed that I will lose all sense of acceptable propriety. And hygiene.

I might even wander into Coyote Ugly by some disastrous mistake, though I will likely deny it afterward. I might even deny that I’m there during the visit itself. It’s reverse vanity, or something like that.

There is a good chance that I will pick some of these demos up off the floors of well-wetted pot stalls. I will be intrigued by the cover art. Something with a catchy theme, and stirring visuals. Like the now-cliched image: blatantly pornographic close-up Polaroid of a non-manscaped Shar-Pei-like penis that has a line of cocaine running down it (for the kids, of course) with a catchy tag like “sweet and sour pork” or something equally witty/food-n-junk related. Or perhaps a really simple black and white drawing of a personified piece of furniture, like a coffee table with boots on the legs, and two big eyeballs on the top surface, centered. Like a chintzy Pee-wee’s Playhouse character sketch.

I will not fully understand why I am so attracted to these bits of half-assed cover art. It will appeal to me on some subconscious level. I wager that it is the same place in my mind where I secretly sing Huey Lewis and The News songs to myself. Nostalgia? Probably. Illicit drug use and furniture with some Texan style? Oh, definitely. Am I just a sad sucker for the saxophone? That's a given, apparently. What the fuck?

I might even listen to some of these demos. But more likely than not, I will only like the Vice Magazine demo. This is not because Vice has any markets cornered in music, for they surely don’t, but because every other CD that will be stuffed into my face will probably be fresh out of the basement of some Milwaukee kid’s parents’ house.

And the quality of the recording will reflect that environment.

On the subject of Vice, there will be day parties. Oh dear lord will there be day parties. But not just for those who manage to get up before the crack of happy hour. There will be others. Many others. Club parties. House parties. Magazine parties. Software parties. Mix-tape launch parties. Lemonade stand re-opening parties. “We finally got the electricity turned back on!” parties.

Some start at noon, and cut off when it gets dark. Others are more impromptu, or you need some secret decoder ring/hand-job skills to find out where they are. Beyond even that, there are the super-mega-magazine-beer-club-five-band-a-thon parties where in previous years, people were reported to ski on bunny slopes of fine-combed China White and only superstar DJs in Blu-Blockers from non-coalition-of-the-willing countries could be seen drinking Red Stripe while the younger brother of some 80’s sitcom star would be on the decks spinning electro-douche-garage-trip-disco-cock-pop.

I’ve been to those parties (no brag, just falling-down drunk), and while there’s highly probable availability at such events, there’s never a Columbian Avalanche falling from the ceiling tiles. But many of them do have free booze, the DJs (however strange their context) are fantastic, and the dance floor can keep well into morning.

And it is at these parties that the real messes of the whole festival are made. No billion-dollar badges, just emailed rsvp-s and a willingness to drink champagne from a can to help ignore a four-day hang over that will surely extend to six. Not that I want to promote the bender-style of consumption specifically, but, well, I guess I do promote it. For better or worse, I can't lie.

Festival benders* are the most entertaining of the species.

I’m not so sure I’ll be able to pull off anything of real note at this year’s festival. But I can guarantee you that someone, somewhere, will be making the most of the situation. Badge or no badge, parking or no parking, lines or no lines. Please tell me it will be you.

*THIS + THIS + THIS + THIS + THIS = Festival Bender (that last day is always messy). The survival rate is much higher than one might assume.