Given his penchant for hooded robes and druidic, trance-inducing stage performances, I admit I was somewhat surprised when Southern Lord Records honcho Greg Anderson turned to me with a wry smile and asked if I knew where he could get a beer.
Not saying I expected the drone-doom pioneer to request a flagon of red wine or even a chalice of fresh goat's blood, but his hearing his gravelly, hick-inflected drawl ask for something as ubiquitous and run-of-the-mill as a cold beer put Anderson in a different, and much more relatable, light.
As it happened, I did know where he could get a beer.
It was Friday night, the third night of South By Southwest, and Southern Lord was hosting a showcase that night at Emo's annex.
The beer was easy enough to get.
Getting to it, though, took a bit of effort.
To get someone like Anderson – already a giant of nearly six and a half feet tall without boots – through a crowd of savvy, well-informed metal junkies is nearly impossible.
First we run into Scott "Wino" Weinrich, doom metal's godfather and a headlining performer later that evening. Wino wants to make sure Anderson will be up for going to a late-night Lamar Street bridge show with Annihilation Time and Trash Talk after the showcase ends.
Anderson good-naturedley claps Wino on the shoulder and assures him that if he's still up, he'll be there. They toast but Wino looks non-plussed.
A small group of fans want Anderson's attention next. The three metal nerds are equally attired: black t-shirts, long, stringy hair, combat boots. Anderson is funny and gracious and drinks some beer with them; the fans are cowed.
It's fun to watch.
Members of a critically-acclaimed sludge-metal band step into Anderson's path. They're playing a different showcase a few hours later at a club around the corner. He recognizes them immediately. Hugs, smiles and shots all around.
The artist who designed the limited edition lithograph commemorating the showcase grabs Anderson's elbow. They confer for a moment, laugh and then crush beer cans together.
As it happens, drinks just mysteriously materialize for record label owners.
Go figure.
We finally make our way to the back of the annex tent, stake our claim next to the bar and watch the evening's first band, Southern Lord PR man Eddie Solis' It's Casual. The crustcore duo are actually signed to Neurot but were given the chance to demo some new material to an enthusiastic audience. Earnest, ball-breaking groove-core. Very promising.
Without missing a beat, Baton Rouge sludge upstarts Thou follow and pummel an already receptive audience into total submission. Easily the nicest group of guys at South By Southwest, Thou turn the stage into a swamp-gas purgatory complete with tortured screams, ten-ton guitars and tar-pit bass. The closest thing you'll see to Burning Witch or Eyehategod these days.
Another two duos, peyote-punks Eagle Twin (featuring Gentry Densley of Iceburn and Ascend) and the absolutley crushing Black Cobra, followed.
Where Eagle Twin are pleasantly perma-baked, Black Cobra bristle with a tom-heavy, drop-tuned garage-punk sneer. Throw in an EP recently reissued on seven-inch vinyl and a full-length release scheduled for the Lord this summer and Black Cobra are making their bid for the big leagues quite clearly.
A few moments pass as the amps and drums are taken off stage.
Anderson asks about another drink.
An atypically thin crowd greets the next performer, legendary doom-metal forebarer Robert Scott "Wino" Weinrich (St. Vitus, The Obsessed, Hidden Hand.) Like a favorite black-sheep uncle at a family reuinion, the gray-haired doom warrior pulled a battered acoustic guitar onstage, plucked a few chords and absolutely slayed.
It was just Wino – his guitar and his whiskey-weathered voice, backed by decades of gut-shaking emotion.
It was a humbling experience. More people should have been there and everybody should pick up his new release, Punctuated Equilibrium (out now on Southern Lord, duh.)
As excited as I was about seeing Cascadian eco-drone black metal warriors Wolves in the Throne Room, Savannah crust behemoths Kylesa were playing at Red 7 around the corner and the Rule of Seen Shows dictated my choice: I'd seen Wolves in the Throne Room last October; this would be my first Kylesa show.
With two drummers(!) and coordinated vocal attacks from guitarists Phillip Cope and Laura Pleasants, Kylesa bring a calculated eye for art and experimentation where many crusty, sludgey, Southern metal bands have trod. The result is fresh yet familiar. A stand-out.
I did catch the tail end of Wolves – epic, symphonic, emotional, blackened-drone metal. They were great, as expected.
Wolves off, Pelican on.
Until this year, Pelican has been closely associated with Aaron Turner's post-everything label, Hydra Head. Turner (ISIS, Old Man Gloom) helped the Chicago foursome cultivate a dynamic, purely instrumental approach to post-rock and metal during the mid-2000s that garnered them much critical acclaim. The show met all the requisites for a "post"-show: it was intense, epic, emotionally wrenching but ultimately affirming.
Drummer Larry Herwig said the band's new EP for Southern Lord will expand on the instru-metal quartet's signature sound by including influential drone-metal pioneer Dylan Carlson on guitar.
[Ed. note: metal nerds everywhere are salivating at the prospect.]
I did get to catch blackened-thrash bashers Skeletonwitch at Red 7 before Pelican called it quits. Just imagine a whole bunch of bullet-belted, beer-gutted beardos grinning and headbanging like lunatics. To be honest, it was hard to tell who was in the band and who was in the audience.
Awesome. Just awesome.
So back to the Annex for Pelican's finale: a gorgeous guitar-driven mountain climb, all peaks and valleys and summits and mesas.
It was past 2 a.m.
We had run out of beer.
A group of musicians and stage crew congregated backstage. Could we make it to the Lamar bridge in time to see Trash Talk?
Could anyone drive?
Should anyone drive?
Moments later, Anderson bounds up to the haggard, shell-shocked group. After soundly clapping everyone on the shoulder and pronouncing the night an unqualified success, he was carried off by another group of dedicated metal geeks in search of the more metal and more beer.
Robes be damned, that man knows how to party.
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