10:30am, Sean: I gave myself the assignment of attending this year's keynote speech from Lou Reed, but seeing as I went to bed around 4:30 a.m. and the only R.E.M. sleep I got was at last night's show (hardy har), I decide to just blow it off. But here's how I imagine it went: "Whatever your interpretation of my work is, it's wrong. The '60s were an amazing time and full of lots of political turmoil–kind of like now. Ahem: Berlin song cycle, transcendental meditation, my photography. No, I don't want to talk about the Velvet Underground, Andy Warhol, David Bowie, or anything else you might actually be interested in. Thanks, and to my all my fans out there, fuck you sincerely." Hey, this is easy! Maybe I should just cover the whole festival this way.
11:30am, Kyle: Sixth Street before noon is like a downtown on a Sunday. There aren't a lot of people around, and the ones who are here are working. The teeming civilian masses have not yet descended; in less than an hour, the scene will be completely different.
12:01pm, Josh: It's
time for our day party, co-presented with Saddle Creek Records, Arts &
Crafts Records, and Canvas Media. Thanks to everybody who came, even the
anonymous live commenter who walked up to Sean and said, "Pretty boring
lineup." I respectfully disagree. The Most Serene Republic is far better than I ever remember them, with singer
Adrian Jewett flailing like a madman and busting out a trombone. The rest of my
party time is a blur of running around, some Shout Out Louds, and a rush off to see something pretty exciting,
which you'll have to scroll down to read about!
12:25pm, Kyle: At our party, Ladyfinger (NE) kicks things off with intense post-hardcore and shouted vocals. It's a bit early for this kind of angst, but this is right up my alley. I remember being unimpressed by their debut, Heavy Hands, but I'm liking them here. That's another SXSW phenomenon: liking bands you've previously dismissed, and–occasionally–dismissing bands you've previously liked.
12:55pm,
Marc: It's the
Saddle Creek/Onion/A.V.
Club/Arts &
Crafts/Canvas Media party at Emo's, and with all of the Canadian bands here, we
start talking about Canadian rock. Josh is convinced that all of the good ones
are from the East, until we remember that The New Pornographers are from
Vancouver, at which point he gives up his fight. We also can't even figure out
where Rush is from, which suddenly makes the whole conversation seem pointless.
1:30pm, Sean: Most of the bands I've seen so far have frittered away their day show slots on indulgent soundchecks or too much chit-chat. Not the Constantines, who make the most of their set and deliver nearly a solid hour of songs that reach all the way back to old favorites "Young Lions," "Young Offenders," and "Little Instruments" and deliver on the promise of the forthcoming Kensington Heights via tracks like the awesome Sonic Youth-esque rumbler "Shower Of Stones." Whereas most acts save the good stuff for their showcase and offer only a six-song sampler during the day, the group gives their fans everything they could want for free–no wonder they keep getting compared to Fugazi.
1:45pm,
Marc: The Constantines, who are from Ontario, are doing a
good job working the crowd at the outdoor stage, but their noisy indie rock is
a bit too aimless for my taste, which prompts me to move indoors.
1:55pm, Kyle: Later in the afternoon, Eugene Mirman, Mike Birbiglia and Todd Barry will take turns doing stand-up on Emo's inside stage, but for now, Tokyo Police Club drummer Greg Alsop appears on stage before Ra Ra Riot for five minutes of stand-up. Alsop looks terribly nervous as he rapidly cycles through jokes that are mostly greeted with silence. His bit about homeless people thinking they can model was kind of funny, though.
2:00pm,
Marc: The comedy
stylings of Tokyo Police Club's Greg Alsop—who's from Ontario as well—aren't much better,
but this time the rest of audience seems to be in agreement with me. Anywhere
else, he'd be getting booed off the stage, but this indie-rock audience is much
more forgiving. One can only hope that he doesn't give up his day job.
2:01pm, Kyle: The smallish stage inside Emo's Jr. is a tight fit for the six-piece Ra Ra Riot. Among their ranks is a cellist and violinist, who lend an air of class to their already charming indie pop. All of them look really young, but guitarist Milo Bonacci seriously looks like he's 15.
2:14pm,
Marc: The guys and
gals in Ra Ra Riot
aren't Canadian, but they're really good, and they've got a violinist, which is
presumably why they've been compared to Dexy's Midnight Runners. Seems like a
weird band to get compared to, no matter what kind of music you play, but it's
hard to imagine these spirited indie-rockers being bothered by
much—they're the ones who quickly regrouped following the freak death of
their drummer last year.
2:48pm,
Marc: The Shout
Out Louds are getting
jangly on the outside stage, and the whole band sounds great behind Robert
Smith-sounding singer Adam Olenius. Like he did last night with Peter Morén,
Olenius digs out a cover—albeit briefly—this time in the form of
The Clash's "Train In Vain."
3:05pm, Sean: Josh and I are having a pleasant debate about whose musical taste is more insincere and of-the-moment, when some guy puts his hand on my shoulder and shouts, "Really boring lineup!" before disappearing back into the crowd. "That was like a web comment come to life," I say.
3:25pm, Sean: While setting up Eugene Mirman, our own Kyle Ryan introduces himself as "one of the many hipster douchebags who work for The A.V. Club." Mirman says, "Aww, you're not a hipster."
3:35pm, Kyle: An offhand comment about Aerosmith draws comedian Eugene Mirman into a minutes-long debate with an audience member about the finer points of Aerosmith. Well, "finer points" meaning "do they suck or not." Mirman argues for early Aerosmith, and the audience member agrees, but not before Mirman jokes about the group's more recent material: "You're telling me you've never masturbated to 'Dude Looks Like A Lady'?"
3:35pm, Sean: It seems like every time I see Eugene Mirman he has a brand new set of material–maybe because he draws so much inspiration from MySpace, an obviously renewable fount of bullshit and an easy target for ridicule that's catnip to his mostly twentysomething audience. His surrealist jokes on banner ads and bogus e-mail scams are killers, but the best bits come from an awkward debate with an audience member over whether Aerosmith sucks. (Conclusion: We can all agree that the earlier stuff is good, but the later stuff is suspect. Glad we finally got that settled.)
3:38pm,
Marc: It's comedy
again on the inside stage, but thankfully it's being handled by professionals
this time. Eugene Mirman and Mike Birbiglia are as funny as promised, tackling everything from
Aerosmith to Notre Dame to Googling your own name, but Todd Barry is the best, even when his set gets
disturbed by an Emo's staffer dealing with the drums onstage. It's obvious that
Barry is pissed, but then again, it always seems like he's kind of pissed off.
3:50pm, Kyle: I just did an interview with Todd Barry where he mentioned that every comedian he knows has a Google alert setup for their name so they can torture themselves. Among them: Mike Birbiglia, who received an alert after someone posted online that he was "pudgy" and "awkward." But at least it led to a funny bit!
3:55pm, Sean: Unfortunately, Mike Birbiglia is far too low-key and subtle for the middle of the day at a rock club, and his sleepy-stoner musings are drowned out by a cluster of loud talkers who are waiting for Los Campesinos to take the stage. It doesn't help that he sticks to fairly safe topics like getting older and putting on weight, or the hyperbole of local TV news promos–stuff that might totally knock 'em dead at the corporate picnic, but doesn't do much here. Maybe he should say "fuck" more. It usually works for me.
4:05pm, Kyle: Speaking of Todd Barry, his set is nearly derailed when an Emo's staff member hops on stage to retrieve some gear at the behest of Neva Dinova drummer Roger Lewis. He doesn't just run up, grab it, and jump off, but stand on stage for a couple of minutes picking up gear and asking Lewis if he had the right thing. Barry seems so shocked that he doesn't get pissed right away, but it doesn't take long. Lewis stands up front, stage right, and Barry asks, "Hey, when's your band playing again so I can do to you what you're doing to me?" (Just to say it again, Todd: We're sorry.)
4:05pm, Sean: Todd Barry also gets some of his best material from riffing on hecklers: When somebody lets out a catcall as they're exiting, Barry says, "Oh look, it's a dumb indie cunt," which draws plenty of deliciously self-loathing laughter. Later he does a joke about the useless shit they give you with your SXSW badge–like a "free copy of French Horn Songwriter Magazine"–that half the room really enjoys and draws blank stares from the rest. There's that subtle SXSW class war again.
4:12pm, Sean: I arrive at the Mohawk too late to hear anything but the last few minutes of sturm-und-drang jangle from Scottish group Sons And Daughters. These guys and gals might just be the palest creatures on earth; I hope their tour manager introduced them to sunscreen.
4:30pm, Josh: There
are few acceptable excuses for leaving your own party early, but here's one:
You scored a ticket to see R.E.M.
tape a performance for Austin City Limits. If you'd offered me
that opportunity around the time of their last album, Around The Sun, I might have turned you down, but the band's
upcoming Accelerate, due April 1,
is in fact the return to form it's being touted as.
Anyway, we waited in line for about 30 minutes before being
ushered into a small-ish TV studio on the sixth floor of a University Of Texas
building. Capacity: 350—if there's a better way to see a huge band, I
don't know it. Perfect sound and sightlines—we were about 20 feet from the
band, and a super-cheery Michael Stipe made for a pleasant afternoon. From
reports I'd read of the night before, it seemed like they played pretty much
the same songs, concentrating heavily on the new album and throwing in a few
chestnuts. (Stipe said things like, "Here's another song from 10,000 years
ago.") But they were tight, playful, and genuinely terrific, a pleasant
surprise. Here's a setlist for you geeks, hopefully accurate (I took notes!):
Living Well Is The Best Revenge, Man-Sized Wreath, Drive, So. Central Rain,
Accelerate, Fall On Me, Hollow Man, Electrolite, Houston, Supernatural
Superserious, Bad Day, Final Straw, Losing My Religion, I'm Gonna DJ, Horse To
Water, Walk Unafraid, Imitation Of Life, Supernatural Superserious (a second
take, because apparently Stipe didn't like the first), Until The Day Is Done,
Man On The Moon.
Photo: Scott Newton
So yeah, some weird choices there ("Bad Day") but overall an
excellent time. Stipe invited two young kids on stage for a minute and asked
them if this was there first R.E.M. concert. It was. Then Stipe said, "How's it
going?" and one of the kids answered, "You're awesome!" Also: a bit of chat
about the current administration and a funny dig at Hillary Clinton. And then
we were off into the sunshine.
4:30pm, Kyle: The Alternative Press party has a reputation for good swag. Last year included Guitar Hero II (controller + game!), a nice iPod speaker dock, and a bunch of other stuff. This year isn't quite as good, but it's not bad:
— a skateboard deck
— Numark headphones
— and a bunch of stuff for something called Skelanimals
4:50pm, Sean: After a long delay–abetted somewhat by their DJ spinning Mobb Deep and Biggie records in between–Clipse finally takes the tiny Mohawk stage to a packed and ravenous audience. "If we seem a little unorganized up here, that's because we are," Pusha T says. "We got in late and we fucked up." But there's really no mea culpa necessary with a set like this. Honestly, I haven't been feeling so great today; I'm tired and cranky and more than little disappointed in most of what I've seen so far. But seeing Clipse–as well as the rest of The Re-Up Gang, who are brought out one by one to run through tracks from all three volumes of We Got It 4 Cheap–rock the shit out of a full 45 minutes is like a shot of B12 (or perhaps something more illicit), giving me a boost of adrenaline that makes me just want to take a bite out of the whole damn city. Or give everyone a hug. Or start selling crack. The goofy, middle-aged A&R; guy next to me exclaims to no one in particular, "These guys are number one on the rap planet!" Well yeah, but don't say it like that…
4:58pm, Kyle: Last summer, Los Campesinos! played their first U.S. show on a Lollapalooza side stage. Here, the stage is smaller–a tight squeeze for the seven-piece–but the crowd is rapturous.
[pagebreak]
5:20pm, Sean: My wife texts me from the ridiculously overcrowded Alternative Press party, saying she can't stand waiting for me anymore and is getting the fuck out of there, like now. Luckily she manages to grab a swag bag for both of us, always the best "stuff we all get" of the whole festival. This year's haul includes a really nice pair of headphones and an assortment of garish Hot Topic clothing. (Does anybody out there want to buy a Skelanimals skateboard deck?)
5:28pm, Kyle: A healthy percentage of the music-industry invaders that sweep into Austin for SXSW are publicists. It's a tough gig trying to stand out in a sea of people competing for attention, so Amanda Charney from Plan A Media takes her artist Elizabeth Wills around with her. Wills, a Texan, is playing her first SXSW, but doesn't seem fazed by the punishing anonymity of the whole process. And it is punishing!
5:30pm,
Marc: There's a Lou
Reed
tribute—which, weirdly enough, is starring Lou Reed—taking place in
a couple of hours at the Levi's/Fader tent, so I've decided to skip out on the
rest of our party at Emo's and insert myself into what is going to be a
madhouse. Sure enough, the line is down the block, but luckily I know someone
who works for Levi's, and pretty soon I'm inside watching Saul Williams do his mini-tribute to Bono via a
cover of "Sunday Bloody Sunday." I've been to this tent in the past, and it's
fine and all, but I can't help but think that if I had created the blueprint
for what half of the bands at SXSW are doing, I'd want my tribute somewhere a
little classier.
6:15pm, Kyle: Our party ends following strong closing sets by Georgie James and Tapes 'N Tapes, and the staff at Emo's now politely asks everyone get the hell out. On cue, a powerfully intense garbage smell sweeps through the outside, which helps push everyone out. Is this some kind of Brave New World smell technology for crowd control? Seriously, that's pretty genius if so.
6:36pm, Josh: So I
kept threatening my girlfriend that I was going to come home with a "Keep
Austin Weird" tattoo, never thinking that the slogan really fit in the first
place (and never actually considering it, of course). But an amazing cab ride
made me reconsider the notion that Austin isn't that weird: Within 30 seconds
of meeting our driver, Onion president Sean Mills and I were
asked if we were "zio-cons" or "zio-bots," which was followed by a
semi-comprehensible explanation. Conspiracy theories then flowed like muddy
water—a jumble of mind-control experiments, 9-11, and Bolsheviks. Sean
stoked the fires by asking the driver if he knew about "438-8" or some other
nonsense. The driver was highly intrigued, then asked, "Are you government?"
8:15pm,
Marc: After a bunch
of bands with names I either don't recognize or aren't said loud enough for me
to hear are done paying their respects to Reed—who can be seen at the
side of the stage with a look of what appears to be genuine
contentment—the big guns are finally brought out: Yo La Tengo, Mark Kozelek (who, surprisingly, wasn't
distracted by the crowd noise, and, not surprisingly, was my favorite), My
Morning Jacket, Thurston
Moore (who jumped
into audience and literally landed at my feet), and closer Moby, whose rock band helped Reed
himself get through what turned out to be an excellent version of "Walk On The
Wild Side." Despite what it might have looked like on paper—not to
mention it taking place at a free party in the early evening—the tribute
turned out to be as enjoyable and respectful as organizers had presumably hoped
for. Apparently N.E.R.D. is on next, but I assume the set has nothing to do with Reed or the
Velvets.
9:21pm, Kyle: "I don't give a fuck if it's a rock 'n' roll cliché, get your hands up in the air, motherfuckers!" demands Evan Foster, singer-guitarist of The Boss Martians. "Let's give it up for rock 'n' roll clichés!" Hot damn, it's good to be at the Swami Records showcase. (That's the label started by John Reis of Rocket From The Crypt fame.) Some blazing garage punk is just laxative needed to flush out the pretension that's thick in the Austin air. Reis' new band, The Night Marchers, headlines tonight's gig.
9:45pm, Sean: The Secretly Canadian/Jagjaguwar/Dead Oceans showcase over at the Mohawk is filling up fast. I only manage to catch the last song from Bodies Of Water, whom one of our commenters has been so insistent we see. This particular tune is heavy on manic Go! Team-style chirruping and trebly synthesizers, which I'm not crazy about–although I'm not going to pull a Maxim and pretend to review a band I only saw 60 seconds of. Sorry Ghost Tits, wherever you are.
10:02pm, Kyle: Another interminable wait between bands, and this time it's especially weird because all the bands are sharing a drum kit. One of the guitarists from CPC Gangbang says to the crowd, "I hope everybody remembers us when you're passing out ballots for the longest turnover between sets." CPC Gangbang has two modes: on and off. When they're playing, it's all guns blazing, with noisy, feedback prone guitars and garage punk played fast and loose.
10:05pm, Sean: I'm not sure even Oklahoma's Evangelicals know what they really sound like. And I'm not just talking about genre–some songs have a distinctly early-'80s vibe, like the pinched, yearning synth-pop of The Blue Orchids, while others are drowned in psychedelic swirls and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah twitches, but it all hangs together fairly well–but there's just way too much reverb on everything, making it impossible to distinguish any vocals or, at times, individual notes. What is it with these modern indie bands who try to make their music sound as muddy as possible? Dudes, sometimes the echo pedal is your worst enemy.
10:25pm, Josh: Luke
Temple, a gentle singer-songwriter from
New York that's—wait for it—been compared to Jeff Buckley a lot,
was a perfect fit for the Central Presbyterian Church. That's not a hip name
for an Austin rock club—it's a big ol' church. He ends with an amazing
song called "People Do," all gentle, quiet, and church-y.
10:25pm, Sean: My friend Dave from locals Brothers And Sisters tries to entice me into watching The Explorers Club on the inside: "They're like the Beach Boys, but they dress in silly costumes and they're way over-the-top." You've just named three things I hate; thanks for the warning, Dave. Later he comes back out and he's changed his mind. Now they sound like an "America cover band." (Pot, kettle, etc.)
10:39pm, Kyle: Holy shit is Dan Sartain skinny. On stage it's just him and a drummer, and he peppers his set with new material. Sartain hasn't done much for me in the past, and precedent prevails here.
11:05pm, Sean: Not only is Bon Iver difficult to hear over the swells of chatter and breaking glass in this packed house, they're impossible to see. All three members are seated on tiny drum stools well below our sight line, prompting my friend Jennifer to ask if they're a "band of little people." I really enjoy the band's sparse indie-folk and lovely reedy harmonies, but this is definitely the wrong venue to see them in. I'm sorry to see them semi-screwed again. Some bands just aren't meant for festivals like this.
11:27pm, Kyle: Add The Marked Men to the list of bands whose recorded output doesn't do their performances justice. Sure, their poppy garage punk sounds the same after awhile, but at least it's a good sound to replicate. The band hails from Austin and Fort Worth, so Emo's Jr. is packed with fans, including a guy standing in front of me in a "DRINK TILL SHE'S CUTE" mesh hat, who pumps his fists like it's the greatest thing he's ever heard.
11:28pm, Josh:
Though they have some lyrics about God and the word "choir" is right there in
the name, Retribution Gospel Choir doesn't
exactly make sense in a serene church. Or maybe they make perfect sense, because
they're fucking awesome every time I see them. Led by Alan Sparhawk of Low, but
with his wife's gentle drums replaced by a pounding madman named Eric Pollard,
the band operates as Low's evil twin—giving in to blues-y rock's darkest
impulses. It's powerful in a diametrically opposed way. I'm gonna go see 'em in
Chicago next week, too, dammit. Their new record is out March 18 on Mark
Kozelek's label, and he was tonight's
headliner. I'll let Marc tell you about that, though, because he's a huge
fanboy. The following video is not from last night, but it features Kozelek
sitting in with RGC.
11:33pm, Kyle: Bumper sticker on an island behind the bar: ANALRINGTOSS.COM EXTREME BACHELOR PARTIES. (Uh, NSFW). Who would put that on their car?
11:42pm, Kyle: Legit encores are practically unheard of these days, but the crowd demands The Marked Men return, even though two bands remain on the bill. The band stops breaking down their equipment to blast through one last song.
11:45pm,
Marc: After
dropping off my free jeans at the hotel, I'm back at the church where I started
my SXSW the night before, and Alan Sparhawk is testifying to his love of loud
rock with his Retribution Gospel Choir. The Low leader's voice is just creepy enough to
give him an Eli Sunday feel, which makes the high-volume set that much better.
12:05am, Sean: The Mohawk is absolutely teeming; it's impossible to stand still for even 30 seconds before being shoved by somebody trying to make their way through the crowd. Every year it seems like I spend my entire SXSW week swimming through people, squeezing past their sweaty flesh and trying desperately to find a patch of clear ground where I can stand still for more than a minute. And despite how much I enjoy his albums in the comfort of my own home, being constantly jostled makes it hard to really get into the syrupy strains of Jens Lekman, whose omnipresent smile mocks my current misery. I do get a kick out of Lekman doing the "air glockenspiel"–there definitely aren't too many performers who could pull that off.
12:05am, Kyle: Looking at and listening to The Spits, you'd swear the band has been playing since 1981, but nope, their new-wave-inflected punk–completely with yelpy vocals and fat synthesizers–is a recent creation.
12:30am, Josh: So I
left church to go to the Playboy "Rock The Rabbit" party, which is the hot ticket of Thursday night.
It's not an official SXSW event, but there are huge lines, a worthy lineup
(Moby, Justice, MGMT), and the promise of fabulous people. It's pretty packed
and sweaty and there's a lot of attempted fabulousness going on, plus the place—and
old paper factory, I'm told—is huge, with various barriers to entry based
on how awesome you are. Playboy bunnies, complete with puffy tails, are
escorted around by burly security guards. I take one for the team and have my
photo taken with two of them. You're welcome, team!
MGMT is pretty
boring, and both Tommie Sunshine
and Justice rave like it's 1992,
which is fine and fun, but not all that exciting. Still: fabulous, and we stay
until 4 a.m. That's saying something. Celebrities spotted: Tom Morello. I think
I see the guy who plays Doakes on Dexter, but maybe not.
Supposedly Elijah Wood is around. Time for bed!
12:35am, Kyle: John Reis gets his gear on stage for The Night Marchers. He's looking dapper as always–black slacks, button-up shirt, and jacket–and a lot trimmer than the last time I saw him. He's still a master of stage banter and working the crowd. "You will hear 45 to 50 minutes of music you've never heard before, and it will seem like an eternity." He's wrong, especially with the opening song "The Bad Bloods," which boasts a particularly kickass chorus. The sound is familiar to fans of Reis' other projects–The Sultans, The Hot Snakes, RFTC, etc.–but it's especially potent in a live setting. The tracks I heard on MySpace didn't do much for me, but live, I'm eating them up.
1am,
Marc: Mark
Kozelek started off
his set by saying "goddammit" and then apologizing and explaining that he'd
been told not to swear on the church's stage, but it's been smooth ever since.
As America's greatest living songwriter (yeah, I said it), it's not hard to be
impressed with whatever he puts on his setlist, which here includes stuff from
his forthcoming Sun Kil Moon record, covers of Modest Mouse and AC/DC, but,
sadly, nothing from his illustrious Red House Painters catalog. When I hear
Kozelek's beautiful voice atop his dreamy acoustic guitar, it makes me wonder
why I bother listening to anything else.
1:06am, Kyle: Caught up in the moment, the bolo-tie-wearing singer-guitarist of CPC Gangbang stage dives–but no one really catches him, and he soon face-plants onto Emo's disgusting floor.
1:17am, Kyle: "Seven hundred dollars for all these bands?" Reis says. "That's a deal! Who would bitch about that? Certainly not some guys from San Diego who live under a bridge and fish for their food." A master.
2am, Kyle: For all the hullabaloo of getting a invite and the crazy media restrictions, the Playboy party is incredibly easy to crash. As Marc and I search for the media check-in, we walk up an alley that takes us to the party's back door. To stay legit, we check in and get our passes. But considering the bodyguards who follow the bunnies around everywhere and the general sense of tightly controlled revelry, we had no problem sabotaging the system. Smash the state! We're immediately offered an interview with a band called The Heavies, but a) we just got there, b) we have no idea who that is, and c) it's 2 in the morning. Question #1: "So, how much have you drunk today?"
2:16am, Kyle: The Playboy party is in a giant stuffy warehouse with slick floors that claim several casualties over the couple of hours we're there. One woman takes a particularly nasty spill while waiting for the bathroom. She seems too drunk to really notice–she never drops the cell phone from her ear–but several people rush over to help. Among them: Matt Walsh of the Upright Citizens Brigade.
2:24am, Kyle: Standing in front of what looks like a Jumbotron stolen from a stadium, Moby performs a DJ set to a raucous crowd. When he closes out his set with a remix of Guns N' Roses' "Paradise City," the crowd goes ballistic.
2:35am,
Marc: Thankfully
the Playboy
party isn't in the sticks again this year, so I walk a few blocks from a holy
house to a den of sin. Actually, everyone is pretty well-behaved (though who
knows what was going on in the VIP area), and besides the bunnies and a few
aspiring centerfolds cruising around, there's nothing especially sexy about
this party. Moby
is in the next room spinning "Born Slippy," which drives home the fact that I
don't really belong here. Yet, for some reason—free whiskey,
perhaps?—it'll be another hour before we leave.
2:35am-3:45am, Sean: Here's a tip for anyone trying to schmooze their way into the media entry gate of the Playboy party: You need to know who you're fake-writing for. You can't just say, "We're with the media" without expecting to get that follow-up question. After so many faux Fletches, the poor girl who's been charged with doling out rejections is grateful to meet someone who actually is on the list, so she practically rolls out the red carpet for me. It's a surreal sight inside: Moby's spinning in the main room, waxy-looking Playmates are strolling around trailed by stonefaced security guards, and I spy various celebrities like Tom Morello, members of the Upright Citizens Brigade, Steve Aoki, and Aziz Ansari. After my second complimentary Jameson and soda–always the perfect nightcap to a full day of downing beer–my eyes start to get a little swimmy. I make sure that Kyle is going to be the diligent one and write all this up before mentally checking out. The rest is a blur of LED lights and LES hipsters and endless waiting in line for the bathroom. French duo Justice wants everyone to "D.A.N.C.E." but I'm way beyond ready to "P.A.S.S.O.U.T."
3:06am, Kyle: Seriously, it's 3 a.m., I'm sober, and we're a long way from the hotel. Must…see…Justice… The French duo takes the stage to a remix of "A Fifth Of Beethoven," the weird crossover hit of the disco era. The crowd is a little sparse, at least at first. Maybe everybody's starting to drag? But within a few minutes, people start flooding the room. Two Bunnies stand in the back, half-dancing, as their bodyguards keep a close eye on everyone in a 15-foot radius.