By Patrick Beach
Austin American-Statesman
Sept. 22, 2003
There was so much there it was easy to miss what wasn't there.
No all-seeing blimp overhead in homage to almighty Bud. No depressingly common food like
you can get at any strip mall in America. And, most surprisingly, few if any strenuously
ostentatious displays about how we're keeping Austin weird, man.
The sophomore edition of the Austin City Limits Music Festival was alarmingly chill,
polite if not genteel. From Friday through Sunday, an estimated 65,000 people behaved
much, much better than they typically do during afternoon crawl on Interstate 35.
"I think the concert reflects the best of Austin," Austin Park Police Sgt. Mike
Hargett said Sunday night. "It's amazing how peaceful everybody has been."
Hargett reported one arrest Sunday for a traffic-related offense on the periphery
of Zilker Park. Two people were reported arrested Friday, suspected of attempting to pass
counterfeit tickets and a $20 bill. Hargett said local fixture Leslie Cochran was not
arrested Saturday, as had been previously reported, but voluntarily accepted the offer of
a ride away from the festival.
Hargett estimated the crowd at 45,000 to 55,000 daily; organizers said 60,000 people
attended Sunday.
Music fans came from Iowa, New York and Japan to see 130 acts and eat foods
offered by nearly four dozen vendors. Beatle Bob, the Zelig of pop music, validated the
worth of the event with his presence. Johnny Cash, that icon of American music, was
mourned on the stage of what was to have been his daughter's set.
We walked and walked and walked. And stood and stood and stood. Got just a little wet in a
light drizzle now and then on the latter two days. Bought a cowboy hat we looked stupid
wearing but didn't care. Danced when we felt like it. Ate the jalapeño sausage with
grilled onions; went back for another one. Celebrated ACL Fest II for what it wasn't,
therefore tacitly validating our own taste and bottomless reservoir of cool, knowing that
this was something that would have come together quite differently in any place other than
here.
Mostly what ACL Fest isn't is South By Southwest. SXSW is a capitulation. We greet those
industry folks all Texas-friendly-like and tell them how to get to Las Manitas, but deep
down we're as pleased as Parisians watching German soldiers marching down the
Champs-Elysées. Then there's the aggressive scenemaking, the keeping of score by watching
who's getting invited to what private parties.
Instead, ACL Fest is where we happy inhabitants of the Greatest City Ever (trademark
pending) go hang with our fellow Whovillians to listen to music we collectively agree is
good.
This year, there was more and better everything: shuttle buses, although there was a wait,
in fact an unpleasantly long one Friday night. Bands. Days. A substantial and most welcome
upgrade in food quality. (You try asking for roasted squash at Ozzfest.) Los
Lonely Boys nearly taking the roof off the gospel shed. Tift Merritt ruling Saturday
afternoon, including making the inspired choice of Rosanne Cash's "Seven Year
Ache" at the Johnny Cash tribute minutes after finishing her own set. The singer for
the Dandy Warhols telling the crowd he was desperate to replace his ropers and the crowd
yelling, "What size? What size?" Lucinda Williams throwing a fit, because
something would have been missing if she hadn't. Al Green screaming, "Tex-as." A
lot. The Gourds closing with the Stones' "Miss You." A set by Robert Randolph
and the Family Band that will be talked about for years. G. Love & Special Sauce
closing with a song titled a word we can't use that way in the paper. And the band that
basically broke alt-rock into the mainstream as a closer. Absolutely everything, not just
the choir robes, about The Polyphonic Spree. A sand pit turned into a beach for kids to
dig around, with face painting, balloon animals and the chance to make Arthur glasses
nearby. A visit from Clifford the Big Red Dog, and no, that's not the beer talking.
Glitches remained. Organizers agreed the roughly 20 different kinds of security passes for
staff, media and talent are confusing and out of hand. Some people had as many as six or
seven passes on their lanyards and had to keep showing the guards the passes until they
found one that worked. It was like back when you had to try your Diners Club card because
the place didn't take Visa.
And we needed still more portable bathrooms.
Here's what passed for ugly at this relaxed gathering, an exchange Saturday between
American-Statesman writer Brad Buchholz and a 50-ish guy wearing earplugs:
Earplug guy to Brad: "Who is that playing guitar up there?"
Brad: "That's Jeff 'Skunk' Baxter from Steely Dan." (And also the Doobie
Brothers, he might have added.)
Guy: "What?"
Brad: "That's Jeff 'Skunk' Baxter from Steely Dan!"
Guy: "WHAT?"
And so on. After the set:
Guy: "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you. Who did you say that was playing guitar up
there?"
Brad: "I don't know. Couldn't tell you."
But the prevailing sentiment was that of Mark Edwards, who got laid off from his Dell job,
now works as an artist in Cedar Park and was selling his wares. He gave one of his
hand-painted Texas flag cowboy hats to man-about-town Cochran on Sunday afternoon,
wondered if that was the kind of advertising he might come to regret and then, speaking of
both business and the scene, summed it up.
"I'm really happy," he said. "And it's not over yet."