11:00am: I wake up already tired, faced with a choice between seeing Fleet Foxes for the fifth time in almost as many months, or drinking coffee and watching the presidential debates that I DVRed last night. As confident as I am that Fleet Foxes will put on another solid show, as with everything in my life, I put patriotism first.
2:00pm: Standing around waiting for Sharon Jones means listening to The Fratellis' chewed-and-regurgitated pub rock over at the Blue Room stage. I try vainly to remember the iPod song that made them briefly famous before realizing that I wouldn't recognize it even if they played it, because the part of my brain that remembers iPod commercials is currently occupied with that irksome Chairlift song about handstands.
2:30pm: True to their name, The Dap-Kings take the stage in dapper wool suits and ties. All you indie-rock groups with your jeans and your deep vee-neck tees could learn a thing or two from these guys. And while we're on the subject, more of you should have nicknames like "Shug" and "Rick The Pick." Also, you should all live together in a single room apartment where you sleep head-to-toe on a Murphy bed and then wake up bickering about whose turn it is to make breakfast. And in between gigs you should solve crimes.
Oh yeah… The Dap-Kings. So they're here to warm it up nice and toasty for Sharon Jones, but first they need us to give them "all the power that ACL commands." Unfortunately, thanks to our totally wussy mayor's belief in that insidious global warming conspiracy, our city has made every effort to "go green," which means installing giant solar panels to power everything–and since we all know that solar power doesn't provide nearly as much energy as good old American fossil fuels (drill baby drill!), The Dap-Kings just might be out of luck. Nice one, Mayor Tree-Hugger. While you're at it why not just power everything with "groovy vibes"?
Oh yeah… The Dap-Kings. In a way I suppose they're making up for Amy Winehouse's last-minute cancellation in 2007, which I believe had something to do with her charity work in Darfur. But no time to dwell on the past: The guitarist tells us that it's "that very special time," the time when they bring on the "super soul sister with that authentic je ne sais quoi." (Duffy?)
2:35pm: Sharon Jones backs her considerable je ne sais quoi up onto the stage and unleashes a blistering set of songs primarily split between cuts from Naturally and 100 Days, 100 Nights. Jones' passion is contagious and her band is tight, stretching things out when called for and nailing every hit. If Jones runs her group like James Brown did his, The Dap-Kings won't be docked a red cent today.
2:50pm: Before "How Do I Let A Good Man Down?" Jones says she needs somebody to dance with her, then asks the security at the side of the stage to let a man down–which I guess answers that question. A big, burly, bearded guy comes bounding in from the wings and proceeds to get the-white-man's-equivalent-of-funky while Jones grinds on his thigh. It's actually a pretty good day to be an awkward white dude: A few songs later, Jones picks another one out in the crowd and demands that he get up there. Her new friend "Rudy" immediately starts arrhythmically humping the air–kind of like our family dog used to whenever we'd interrupt him making love to the couch pillows. Jones tells Rudy to "slow it down," then gives him a few lessons on how to "Be Easy." When the song is through she tells him, "I bet some girl's gonna grab your arm as soon as you get out there." Everybody laughs. Poor Rudy. (But you gotta love his hustle!)
3:27pm: Jones is clearly having so much fun playing to an appreciative audience this size that she's not quite ready to give it up, even though CSS is already taking the stage nearby. She ends things with a cover of James Brown's "It's A Man's Man's Man's World" that's pitch-perfect. Finally someone puts those dames in their place.
3:45pm: Speaking of James Brown, I've heard his name invoked a couple of times about Eli "Paperboy" Reed and I've been meaning to check him out, but gazing across this field I just don't have the energy to struggle over to the WaMu Stage right now. [Insert joke about the stage collapsing/hastily changing its name to JPMorgan.] Part of my reluctance is due to the dust that's swirling everywhere, a fun potpourri of various allergens that's been slowly settling in my lungs since yesterday morning. In fact, the air is so bad out here that a lot of my fellow concertgoers are walking around with their faces partially obscured by bandanas, giving the impression that any second we're about to bear witness to a riot. Or a train heist. Still others are wearing those industrial dust masks that scream "zombie virus." I'm not quite there yet–I just have a case of what my friend Ben so charmingly refers to as "Fest AIDS"–but I will probably be coughing up chunks of ACL for the next few weeks.
3:55pm: There's a huge line extending to a Waterloo Records booth far off in the distance, so in the interest of investigative reporting, I head down to find out what it's for. Really? This massive line of people is waiting for the chance to meet the Old 97's? Do you get a free Chili's coupon or something?
Speaking of questionable meet-and-greets, I'm told that right outside the main gate Austin's favorite transvestite attention whore Leslie is offering his "services" to anyone who might want a picture with him. Unfortunately he's been one-upped by Austin's other favorite half-breed, sightings of which are far more rare.
4:05-5pm: I've tried to avoid talking up the VIP grotto this year in an effort to ingratiate myself with you by pandering to the everyman, but the truth is that whenever large blocks of time go unaccounted for, it's because I've been making frequent pit stops here, drinking free beer, munching on gourmet snacks, and hobnobbing with idle rich who don't mind dropping $1000 just to have the option of camping out and watching the U.T. game while they graze on their quail and quinoa salad. This whole place is drunk on self-entitlement, so I have to believe that maybe it's either God punishing our vanity or the collective resentment of all those "norms" outside the gate that wills a large branch to snap off one of the trees and come crashing down on the table below, sending plastic plates and privileged few scrambling. Fortunately, nobody was hurt–but perhaps even worse, they were inconvenienced.
5:05pm: While most of the flags I've seen this year have been sorely lacking in creativity, I'm pleasantly surprised to find this guy pledging his allegiance to a symbol every Texan can get behind–although I bet he's spent the whole day getting increasingly annoyed by jokers asking for taquitos.
5:10pm: Honestly, the whole afternoon is a total dead zone, full of bands I've seen and empirically proven I dislike (CSS, Man Man), locals I like but whom I end up seeing once a month anyway (Black Joe Lewis And The Honeybears), and Robert Earl Keen, whom I also skipped last year–a move for which I was called, I believe, "retarded," and so am now skipping out of pure spite. But I've never seen Erykah Badu, and the odds of me being within a mile of one of her shows again are pretty slim, so I decide to check it out. Hey, maybe she'll play "Tyrone"!
5:15pm: Erykah Badu does not play "Tyrone"–at least, not for the 30 minutes I spend watching her. In fact, she barely plays anything considering how much of her set is given over to lengthy, rambling introductions that are longer than the songs themselves. She sets up one from her recent New Amerykah Part One (4th World War)–catchy title, by the way–by asking us to "keep in mind that I'm an artist, and I'm sensitive about this shit." Fair enough. So instead of calling it meandering and flavorless, should I just treat you like a fragile freshman studio arts major and say you made an "interesting aesthetic choice"?
5:25pm: For the first and probably only time this weekend I'm being forced to make a tough decision: Do I watch Spiritualized, a band I already know and love and who released one of my favorite albums of the year? Or, do I exercise my journalistic duty and file a report on most-buzzed-about act MGMT, if only so I can be safe in smugly dismissing them as "overhyped"? I ask myself, "Self, what would the half-dozen people who are going to read this want? A glowing yet predictable write-up? Or the chance to vent their various frustrations about the state of modern music as seen through the prism of a band that went from 'unknown' to 'overrated' nearly overnight?" You see? Maybe I didn't love you quite as often as I could have, but you were always on my mind.
5:35pm: "Holy. Shit." That oft-overheard phrase quite eloquently sums up my reaction to the staggering number of people who have swarmed here just to get a look at MGMT, a dangerously massive throng that's still swelling in size while my paranoid brain keeps chanting, "The Who '79. The Who '79". Looks like I'm not getting any closer than this.
5:40pm: If we were judging ACL acts solely by their draw, MGMT might just be the hit of the festival. As for the band's actual performance, well, it's not unlike listening to Oracular Spectacular: A wash of dull space-rock, proggy noodling, and middling ballads livened up by a couple of synth-driven bright spots–including, of course, single-of-the-year contender "Time To Pretend." The suddenly ubiquitous song that's popped up in everything from the movie 21 to Gossip Girl (I myself heard it in a commercial for the Sundance Channel this morning) is a lot like Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy": It's instantly recognizable, endlessly catchy, and destined to become one of those hits nobody listens to after a while because they've heard it so many times it barely registers as a song anymore. But hey, that's at least a year from now, and until then they still have the digital-age Bee Gees strut of "Electric Feel" to pad things out. But in the meantime, MGMT should definitely get working on another batch of club bangers; whenever one of those songs isn't playing in favor of some spaced-out jam, you can feel this fickle audience falling out of love.
5:45pm: Although I've already bitched about people's tendencies to overpack, I've never seen anything quite like the lesbian couple (the angrier-looking one wears a shirt that reads, "I'm With The Missus!") who brought along a John Deere cart stuffed with clothes, blankets, bottles, and what appears to be some PVC pipe–I guess just in case they come across a burst water main.
6:05pm: MGMT kicks out final crowd-pleaser "Kids." A guy near me exclaims, "Dude, I love snowboarding to this song!" Maybe it's time I should be going.
6:15pm: Spiritualized's Jason Pierce doesn't look like a man who almost died recently–or maybe it's just that he always has. By the time I finally get to the Dell Stage he's tearing into "Come Together" with the help of a small gospel chorus and more bristling feedback than the CNN.com comments boards. (Although this feedback doesn't make me want to curl up and die.) I'm truly sorry now that I've missed most of his set–and even more sorry when I later hear that he also played "Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space." Why oh why did I choose the flavor of the month?
7:15pm: I have sort of a love/hate relationship with Creedence Clearwater Revival, but even though odds are even I might have to endure "Lookin' Out My Back Door," I figure it's worth the risk if John Fogerty does "Fortunate Son." (Which he does.) I'm also thrilled to hear the opening riff of "Run Through The Jungle"–until I realize that it's actually "The Old Man Down The Road." Gee, wonder why he got sued?
7:50pm: I'm a piss-poor Austinite. First of all, I've never seen Roky Erickson live. (Though to be fair, the guy only recently got out from that whole "Martians invaded my body!" phase.) And like most, I respect the hell out of his work with the 13th Floor Elevators. But unlike most of my fellow music journalists, I'm incapable of pretending to like what he does now. In my completely humble (and slightly shameful) opinion, if you took away the Roky Erickson name and the built-in cult appeal, you'd just have the same generic blues-rock being played by every halfway decent bar band in every town in America. So there. I finally said it. I'll start packing tomorrow.
8:30pm: That familiar slide guitar, the hints of Spanglish, and shout-outs to "beefcake pantyhose" can only mean one thing: Beck is preparing to process his engrams with thetan-clearing suppressive person anthem "Loser." (And thus my store of Scientology-related riffs is exhausted.) You know, I'd heard rumors that Beck was slowly burning out on touring and maybe even packing it in for good after this one is over, but I think it's probably premature to assume that based on some offhand comments he made. I will say that he's definitely sucked a lot of the fun out of his current tour by stripping his band down to the bare necessities and ditching the choreographed dances, videos, puppets, and all the other gimmicks that made his last go-round one of the most talked about concerts of the year. Which is too bad, because such things would go a long way toward reaching us here at the back of the audience, where it's hard to tell if he's just being deadpan or if he really is bored. Newer songs like "Timebomb" and "Que Onda Guero" still have plenty of bounce, but the run-throughs of "Devil's Haircut" and "Nicotine And Gravy" come off as slightly perfunctory. Solid yes, but hardly the electrifying end I was hoping for. When the wife starts making overtures about "beating the rush" at the taxi line, I don't put up much of a fight.