Photo By Michael Dewees

Jeremy Springer of The Sundresses rocks the South by Southwest crowd during a performance at Austin's Blender Balcony at The Ritz.

For current purposes, we'll forego the shock and awe of losing my Austin/South by Southwest cherry on this trip to the Lone Star State. That discussion would degenerate into lathered and semi-coherent babbling about the city's intensely generous spirit and obsessive/compulsive thoroughness in planning and executing a festival of this size and scope for so long. Maybe after I've notched a few of these on my holster, I'll be as jaded as the guy I overheard during Sunday breakfast at the Magnolia Cafe who bailed at 10:30 p.m. on the festival's final night. He missed The Lilys. Idiot. You can sleep anytime.

So we fast-forward past the gushing wonder of my first Austin experience to the primary reason for my SXSW 2004 attendance: to witness the Cincinnati bands among the hordes of musical invaders to occupy downtown Austin for four brilliant days and nights. We can also skip beyond the issue of traveling 1,700 miles to see bands I could drive 20 minutes to see at home. Note to Alanis Morrisette: That's ironic.

This was an important SXSW for this year's Cincinnati contingent, coming quickly on the heels of Esquire magazine's coronation of Cincinnati as one of the "Top 10 Cities That Rock." I stopped reading Esquire years ago and never picked it up for its music coverage, so forgive me if I was slightly skeptical of the accolade. It seemed like being honored for advancement in physics by Better Homes and Gardens. Still, we're one of only 10, and they spelled our name right, so we accept the honor.

I got my first inkling of how we're perceived by the rest of the country (in the musical sense -- I'm sure there are still art snobs who dismiss us as Mapplethorpe-burning mouth breathers) on Thursday night at the Vibe just prior to Thee Shams' incendiary set. Wilco bassist John Stirratt and his moonlight project, The Autumn Defense, had just packed the place, but by its conclusion the crowd had thinned.

I was scoping good photo spots when a woman from Kansas City in front of the stage said, "Where did everybody go?" I smiled and said, "The next show, I suppose." It's tough to prioritize here (this from a grizzled veteran). She said, "Well, I think they're gonna miss a great show." I agreed. Then she saw my badge and information.

"Oh my God! You're from Cincinnati! I love Cincinnati!" she shrieked. Suddenly she's peppering me with questions like a French peasant hungry for news of the revolution in Paris.

"Do you know these guys? What's the scene like? What other kinds of music are there?" As I fielded her rapid-fire interrogation, I noted that the club's courtyard was beginning to refill, not to capacity but with a healthy throng that were definitely not just curious but there specifically to see Thee Shams. The band got a great reception, and they in turn provided a stellar set of howling, acid-fried Blues laced with tracks from You Want It, their impending Fat Possum release. After the show, guitarists/brothers Zach and Andy Gabbard seemed tired but extremely happy as they glad-handed with a number of fans who queued up to express their appreciation.

Friday night was big. First up was a set at the Red Eyed Fly from The Greenhornes, local Garage legends in the making, and the band that gave The Strokes a run for their hyped up money at the Southgate House in late 2001. Playing as a trio for SXSW, the band was subdued, but they finished strong, and the fairly packed crowd roared their approval. Guitarist Craig Fox said this was only The Greenhornes' second SXSW appearance, and judging from the fevered reception they received, it won't be their last.

The next two shows were lightly attended but were perhaps among the best of the evening by any band, Cincinnati-based or otherwise. The Sundresses, playing just their ninth out-of-town show, riveted the tiny audience at the delightfully squalid Blender Balcony at the Ritz. "We're the goddamned Sundresses from fucking putrid Cincinnati, Ohio," bellowed guitarist/drummer Brad Schnittger to the 50 or so patrons as he and bassist/trombonist Makenzie Place and drummer/guitarist Jeremy Springer launched into a blistering set of mayhem that resembled the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion as envisioned by either Pere Ubu or Wall of Voodoo (depending on whether Brad or Jeremy was at the front).

Right in the middle of The Sundresses' thunderous performance, a local transvestite waltzed onto the microscopic dance floor in a red bustier, leopard skin thong and high heels. As he smiled at the Balcony's assemblage, I was struck by his resemblance to Robert Duvall (in an ugly brother sort of way), which instantly inspired any number of dialogue motifs ("I love the smell of napalm in the morning. It smells like ... mascara."). He suddenly reached into his pouch and retrieved a small plastic penis.

"Dear God, where is that going?" thought every horrified mind in attendance. He raised the little pecker to his lips, produced a cigarette, flipped the head back and lit the smoke. A lighter. Thank you, Jesus.

The last area band of the evening might have had the best Cincinnati audience of the evening. Nearly every band that played previously showed up at Maggie Mae's for Pearlene's frenzied rural Blues-drenched performance. Although there were intermittent sound problems, they were more apparent to the band than the audience as they gestured to the soundman and continued to storm through a high-octane series of selections from their two astonishing albums. Toward the end of the band's crushing performance, guitarist Rueben Glaser grabbed Anonymous Bosch drummer/CityBeat freelancer Ezra Waller's beer from the stage railing, using it as an impromptu slide and then as a crude Super Soaker, dousing bassist Jesse Ebaugh then the audience with sweet Shiner Bock. (Note to Ezra: I owe you a beer ... you couldn't have gotten more than three tips out of that one before Rueben bathed us.) A memorable end to a memorable evening.

Saturday night found the aforementioned Anonymous Bosch taking their place on a Sixth Street stage, but not as a part of SXSW. An alternative event christened The Heart of Texas Quadruple Bypass Festival was organized five years ago as an annual counterpoint to the much larger and increasingly more corporatized SXSW. Given that HOTQB was billing itself as a primarily local alternative to SXSW, it was odd that organizers chose to present the festival at Spill, an upscale yuppie martini bar with a waterfall behind glass as a backdrop for the bartenders. AB completely overwhelmed their slick surroundings with an incredibly textured and muscular set of gritty Pop. Guitarist Chris Haines and keyboardist Amy Constantine harmonized like Indie Pop angels while drummer Waller and bassist Capt. Wiggs provided a slippery and powerful foundation to the proceedings. They were an appropriately loud relief for the histrionic singer/songwriter/margaritavillian who opened.

So Cincinnati made a good showing for itself at SXSW as did the rest of the state. Among others, Dayton's Shesus tore things up, art-damage style, at the Jackelope, Columbus' Tim Easton offered up rootsy Americana with a twist at Opal Divine's and Akron's Black Keys did their guitar/drums swamp stomp Blues at Antone's.

In other SXSW news, the industry panels were, as I heard from seasoned attendees, a fair balance of useful and engaging discussion and unrelenting cures for insomnia. Panels included ways for bands to navigate the treacherous waters of label dealings, music publishing, royalties, merchandising and management. Little Richard was the keynote speaker, whose advice to new and emerging artists was, "Wooooo! Count your money and handle it yourself!" Wise counsel for nearly everyone.

The appearance of a competing festival as a concurrent event raises the inevitable question: Has SXSW become too commercial as it has grown from its inception 20 years ago as a means of bringing unsigned bands to the attention of labels? One might conclude that SXSW has indeed moved away from that lofty goal with the appearance of so many major and indie signed bands at each successive year's events.

But one might also conclude that SXSW has successfully been doing its job by focusing the spotlight on unsigned bands for so long that the unsigned band is a rarer breed than it once was, fulfilling the original SXSW manifesto. Besides, anything this large ultimately has to accept some measure of commercialization or it will fail. And you have to admire the entrepreneurial spirit that drives Austin to host this thing every year; the morning after members of Punk thrashers Ozomatli were arrested for violating the local noise ordinance (a legal aberration according to locals, who say the police are generally as cool as the city's inhabitants), people were seen sporting "Free the Ozo 3" T-shirts. Nice ones, too.

In the end, whether you consider SXSW a brilliant combination of music tradeshow, street festival and high profile concert showcase or a great idea huckstered into a Rock & Roll carnival complete with clowns, freaks and dog-and-pony shows, one has to heed the words of Art Alexakis at SXSW. The Everclear frontman played a powerful solo acoustic set after Thee Shams' show, recounting between songs how a label weasel told him that he "didn't hear a single" on the band's then-new album.

Alexakis smiled and said, "But that shit isn't the music industry. It's you guys. It's what's going on right here tonight."

Amen, Art. May it ever be thus. And may Austin always be involved.