unat '04--Day Three

Andrew Zilker Park, Austin, TX
Today's Mileage: negligible Total Mileage: 445 mi.
TT: 1 hr. TTT: 9 hrs.
QOD: "Is it humping me?" –M.L. Stephens
NON: "The 'Baby Girl' Look Hot in Japan"— Wall Street Journal

Today, in attempt to appear hip, I'll be wearing my "Vote for Pedro" shirt. I already saw one yesterday and will have anyone wearing one or commenting on the shirt sign it with Magic Marker.

We arrive at Zilker after improvising a parking space (as the Austin Contact's car remains there from the previous day, natch) and getting play-by-play of the Tech/TCU game from Jefe's transistor radio. The crowd arriving at the venue is already exponentially bigger than yesterday's (we'll learn later that this is the first sellout day for ACL, 17,000 strong). Dex and I break from the group (which now includes Kebig, Allison and other members of "Camp I Belong") to the SBC tent, where we watch much of the game on a television that sits next to another showing The Soundtrack of Our Lives performing live. Thus, the following notes:

On The Soundtrack of Our Lives—They would like to be U2, if U2 ate herring.

On Watching a Concert From a Tent About a Hundred Yards Away From the Actual Concert—It seems like cheating somehow, yet since I'm already hot, I don't really care.

On Clever T-Shirts— Having a proper amount of ironic disdain for the need to display an "individuating" message on your chest is, I'll admit, healthy (I am very fond of Kebig's shirt that simply reads "someone famous"). Nevertheless, as the bearer of one such message, I spend the day reading as many of these signs as possible. Maybe it's the amateur anthropologist in me. Maybe I'm just a dork. Nevertheless, there are many interesting messages. One that catches my eye: a cartoon of E.T. telling the late Elliott Smith that he's his "favorite Elliott." I find myself a little puzzled at the communist chic found on so many young people. Red stars, images of Mao and Che, etc. had a particular note when I was twenty-two and the war at hand was still cold. What could it possibly mean to them now? There is an overwhelming number of couture assaults on the Bush Administration (which, I suppose is to be expected in this "Most Important Election of Our Lives"). In fact, I believe largest number of people that express interest in my "Vote for Pedro" number aren't looking for a pop-culture reference, but instead have Nader and Kerry shirts on themselves. Many of them are closer to my own age, and I imagine them musing on where this mysterious 'Pedro' might stand on Capital Gains Taxes or handling the Iraqi Shiite insurgency. By the end of the day, I have twenty signatures on the shirt (some of which my excessive sweating has begun to fade) and spot nine other people stumping for Napoleon Dynamite's diminutive friend. One woman frets angrily to her husband (as she signs the shirt) that the idea wasn't an original one (I'm glad that I can help teach her this valuable McLuhanian notion).

Additional NON: "What's that sound, Daddy? It makes me sad." "That's Mr. Met, honey. He's crying for us all."—The New York Times sports column

On "Camp I Belong"—As with many large groups at festival concert settings, Kebig and company have elected to create a standard from which the group can find their location in an enormous crowd. Usually, the standard consists of a colorful flag or effigy by which sweat-soaked drug-addled nippies may locate their cache of bottled water and ecstasy. Here too, is a flag: a white banner labeled "FLAG," which flies over a series of mylar balloons (one of a horse, another urging the viewer to "Get Well Soon" and the lead character of the upcoming Pixar film, "The Incredibles," a lower case "i" stenciled on his chest. Throughout the day, I seem to find the location whereby the hot wind will blow the balloons and flag into my line of sight (or the back of my head). In a moment of frustration, I grab Mr. Incredible and decide to assault him with the Pedro Marker. After considering what to write on his chest below the "i," I decide on the self-effacing word "BELONG." Thus, the moniker (solely ascribed to the site by me) "Camp I Belong." By the way, the QOD was a direct result of the windblown horse. And it was humping me.

On the Old 97's—Still one of the best live bands from Texas and consistently getting better. Rhett Miller is also, for my money, one of the best songwriters in music, much less alt-country today.

On The Gourds—Still true to their mission statement. Still fun. Still VERY sweaty. Still no "Gin and Juice."

On Modest Mouse—My first time to see them live. I wish they'd play more of the old stuff I've heard on my brother's CD player, but they still meet your needs. Perhaps I spent too much time during their show needing to pee.

On Abra Moore—Still think she's the best thing to come out of Poi Dog.

On Dashboard Confessional—Still 'Emo. Still making me ask, "what's the point?"

To G Love—Where the f@%! were you? Shelby and Sherman were very disappointed. At least The Wailers showed up.

On The Pixies—There is no denying the old saw that sometimes the best thing a band can do for its legacy is to break up (although doing it by fax may be pushing it a bit far). Regardless, they were magnificent. Businesslike, the antithesis of intimate (I am skeptical at what level of intimacy I expected in a group of 17,000), but magnificent. This year's "Game-within-the-game" is a pool attempting to anticipate their opening song (no one wins). This is a much less cynical version of the game than last year's—an over and under on the number of times REM's Michael Stipe would rub his head (Jefe won).
Black Francis (or 'Tubby,' or whatever you want to call him) has made no bones in the press about the commercial necessity of this tour, but somehow I think that the crowd assembled couldn't give a shit. They're deserving of praise and worthy of the influence on music ascribed them. End of discussion.

Exhausted, we make our way back to the North Austin Motel. One more day in Park to go.