In Austin, Texas, A band called Fuck is Shaking asbestos from the ceiling of the Red Eyed Fly. Down Sixth Street , the Urinals are playing to a crush of standing room only at the Buffalo Club. Just around the corner at the Empire , a collective of chain smoking German hip-hoppers are torching vinyl like digital never happened.
This is day three of South by Southwest, rock and roll's answer to Camp Hiawatha. Here in the left ventricle of the big, burly heart of Texas, ratty gypsy caravans representing every musical subgenre imaginable have arrived for the annual festival, each one trying to hammer the hook that'll make the world spin a little faster-or at least earn them enough money for a flight back to whatever piss puddle they crawled out of.
But the musty metalheads and sunburned frat boys snaking out of Stubb's BBQ down Red River Drive and around the corner to East Ninth aren't interested in new blood. In the land of the beer, koozie and dripping barbecue, folks love a sure thing-even when it's not necessarily the coolest thing- and the Black Crowes do not disappoint: Their greasy soul and playful cock rock go down like the icy bourbon on a South Plains Summer day.
Chris Robinson, fresh off a riotous sound check, surveys the social muslce. "It reminds me of the festivals we'd have in Little Five Points," the singer says "Bands playing everywhere, everybody drunk by 10am. By the time it got dark, the skinheads started kicking people's asse's." He laughs. "That was back when Atlanta was fun." Six hours before showtime, there are no skinheads in sight.
Oh, the interview, it was going so well/until my brother walked in the room/ He sat down/ He was angry....." Chris Robinson has temporarily hijacked the tape recorder to sing "Rich Robinson's lament"-an impromptu ditty about his guitar playing brother, a man known for loathing anything not directly related to his stratocaster or his wife and two kids.
"Hey Rich," Chris cackles at his brother. "Why don't you ever smile?" "My face is paralyzed on the left side,"Rich deadpans. "Whats wrong with the other side?" Chris fires back, His baby brother just rumples his brow. For a second, all the bloody knucles and tyranical screaming matches that made the Robinsons Atlanta's answer to the Kinks seem like they're just an insult away in Stubb's dimly lit back room. But then Rich flashes that rare smile at his smartass brother. "AW, fuck off," he demurs.
