We remember the Alamo, but South by Southwest is now a blissful blur. By Laura Bond There are something like two bazillion bats in Austin, Texas. On the underside of a bridge that divides north from south, the night-flying creatures shriek, defecate and hang upside down all day long in one of the largest bat colonies in North America. Every March for the past fifteen years, the South by Southwest music festival has invaded the town and seized control of its bars, clubs, hotels and late-night coffee shops. It's a five-day marathon that's sure to tire even the most regular ingestor of shmooze and live music.
Music is simply part of the culture, the way professional and recreational sports are in Denver.
Even before the SXSW circus comes to town, Austin could be the place Jefferson Starship had in mind when it envisioned that city built on rock and roll. So when 50,000 additional musicians, record-label owners, groupies, producers and press types are added to the mix, Austin provides a fleeting glimpse of what might happen should the slacker set ever decide to colonize its own planet. The festival also draws a fair amount of criticism from longtime observers, who argue that it has strayed from its original purpose as a showcase for unknown talent and instead morphed into a hype mechanism for artists already well on their way. Or if nGoMa , the only non-affiliated group in the Loud Records showcase, managed to perk up the ears of whatever label people were in the house. So are Kristin Hersh , Kelly Willis , Matt Johnson and hundreds of other established artists.