So You Want to Visit Austin?

Living in Austin has always been about doing nothing. In the late 70s, while the rest of Texas was hard at work farming or manufacturing or some other bullshit, Austinites were in their own little countercultural world—wacked out on psilocybin, wandering the local streets and creeks in a blissful haze. People were ecstatic. There were no jobs to be had and nothing that needed to be done. Coffeehouse philosophers, off-kilter musicians, and wannabe filmmakers were the town’s heart and soul—as memorialized in Slacker, Richard Linklater’s loving paean to the aimlessness of the city. God bless the old days.

Before MTV’s achingly dull glow homogenized every shred of youth culture, Austin’s underground scene was a mismatched band of like-minded malcontents. The city’s punky demeanor first manifested itself in groups like the Skunks and the Huns—musical jive-talkers emboldened by cheap housing and steady sunshine—and the idea of starting a music festival was sort of a no-brainer, probably spawned at Twin Falls from minds hard-charging on LSD. The hard truth is that no town can touch Austin’s history as a music refuge (read Get in the Van or Our Band Could Be Your Life or The Answer Is Never if you’re curious).  So in 1987, when the first SXSW was organized, local support networks were already long in existence. The stage was set. Frat boys left town for spring break, and Austin’s cadres of country outlaws, bluesmen, and punks eagerly embraced the onrush of kindred spirits filling the blessed Greek void. Trading Biff and Muffy for Kurt and Exene was thrilling, and SXSW was a hit from day one. What more could a little hippie college town hope for than a successful festival to subsidize and lend legitimacy to its slacker lifestyle? Soon, however, came the hoards: Bands, writers, and from some mysterious El Dorado, an endless supply of go-go dancers. Who could blame them? Steve Earle recognized the draw: “Austin’s too close to the border, the girls are too pretty, the dope’s too cheap, and the weather’s too good. You can’t get nothin’ done!” Exactly! Today the city is gridlocked with snobby shits more concerned about their golf scores than SXSW—or the clean swimming holes and cheap drugs that previously enthralled Austinites. One person is to blame for this swarm of nine-to-five worker bees, and his name is not Roland, but Michael. When Michael Dell and his silicon-chip bandwagon rolled into town, the spell was cast. Every Dale-Carnegie wannabe in America moved to Austin, chasing the popular business-school myth that not only would the city make them rich but somehow its coolness would rub off on them. But rather than the city bringing the boring people up, the MBAs brought Austin down. Cookies crumble.  VICE Kills Texas, but Michael Dell killed Austin, and the changes are evident everywhere. From Stella beer signs to burnt orange Hummers, the place has gone a bit Beverly Hills since those heady days of innocence. Thankfully, Roland Swenson’s little music festival has stayed essentially the same for 20 years. The steadfast gang at SXSW has miraculously frozen a bit of the old days, which they unleash on an otherwise unwitting public the third week of March every year. SXSW is still the place to bring your band if you don’t give a shit about being signed or discovered, and are willing to accept getting laid as a consolation prize. Each year there are more badge-wearing posers and stuffy industry hacks than before, but you can still get away with fucking around and running wild in the streets. It’s just that now it’s in the city’s economic interest to let you. So go forth and do nothing, at least on that fourth night.