By Adam Lovinus
By Lilledeshan Bose
By Gabriel San Roman
By Rachel Mattice
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Daniel Kohn
By Nate Jackson
By Mike Seeley
I've heard her called an angel more than I've heard her called by name, but singer Becky Stark—whose grandmother was a spiritualist minister and whose gauzy dress tonight suggests the celestial—and her Lavender Diamonds do actually sing about love and peace with Mahalia Jackson veracity, so naturally people raise their eyes heavenward (up past where the fluorescents shudder) and think about what comes next. They're absolutely one of LA's best. Like for past example: in the big-room ArthurBall show last month, they opened up in a way I'd never seen them do in the usual tiny rooms, where they tend to hold to a certain pianissimo quietness; instead, they found an orchestral dignity inside what was basically an Echo Park basement and a purity of harmony I will search for in every other band from now on. Tonight in Texas, they're repeatedly run over by REM alt.-rock from the other side of the drywall, a bad situation that pinches them where they'd usually spread wings, but this is the only chance I have ever had to write about them so there you go. One of the few things in life I care about; there's still some humanity left in humans.
So good I worry how long they can last: 310/213 Visionaries/Shapeshifters buddies 2MEX and Life Rexall, self-described "new millennium Erick and Parrish" (though sadly probably not making many dollars) gulping breaths in cadence and squeezing the mics so tight you can smell the sizzle on their palms; with Life Rexall's A-bomb beats (drums big enough to live in for a week, hooky horn samples to ride down the freeway), $MARTYR makes a side project that wants to eat everything else they got going. Two furiously charismatic MCs who probably finished each other's sentences before they even came up with an official name—they got funny lines to exhaust the last dwindling potential of the English language (he's not emo, says 2MEX, he's causing a scene like Brian Eno trapped in a casino) and funny shtick to hook the coldest fishest crowd (like cutting a chorus into an otherwise considered love song that says "I'm gonna call you soon as this song is over, baby!" and then they both move phones to mouth to exclamation point the point) and then just when they get so red-faced you wanna find them some warm towels—"I hate those fucking people outside!" yells 2MEX, since outside are the 99.9 percent of SXSW attendees not at the Up Above show, coincidentally comprising the 99.9 percent of SXSW attendees that made music into a slaughterhouse just because they wanted to eat a lot of steak: "They got a lot of money/But they don't got this!/And if they don't got this . . ." (pounding fists to heart; arteries get no quarter from $MARTYR) ". . . then they don't got shit!" Fuck rock & roll/I'd rather read a book/So I can be smarter too.
If he's not LA's favorite underground rapper, beanpole Gino is at least the guy everyone likes to tap on the shoulder: getting stopped on the street by people he's never met is what we in the biz call "it," and he's got so much "it" he's starting to look a little confused. He got records out first as one of GSL's early hip-hop signees—the Locust of hip-hop, label wrangler Sonny Kay said once—and he's got a few songs so post-Blowed that they're practically just a pile of pixels, but today he knocks out a little from his full-length Young Dangerous Heart and drips and slips around this daylit cafť like a line of mercury. Guy hums like wax paper over a pocket comb and emits—really the best word, to indicate the characteristics of radiation—rhymes that vibrate on their own for many days after. He's like Brian Eno trapped in a casino too.
Pixies ("Gigantic") sound, Danzig dead-eye, menthol mouth: while drummer Micah makes the whole band in the background (bass part on one hand, drum set on the other two hands, hashing out php web code with six or seven fingers), Giant Drag singer Annie (our gal from San Juan Cap) suffers long the limp depredations of nerd dudes who rate a girl who plays guitar and curses as the next best date to a 20-years-younger version of their mother, but that's the collateral damage you deal with if you've got the charisma that she has. "If I close my eyes, it's not because I'm, like, really feeling it," she says. "I'm just trying to get a few minutes of sleep." And then she covers that Chris Isaak song "Wicked Game"—"I really truly wrote this song all by myself"—and suddenly extremely righteous and talented rappers from the Rhymesayers show next door are politely angling for ways to get her number for . . . for . . . for future collaborations. Which if they materialized on record would be fantastic: Annie Hardy, the realest Roxanne.
Pos and Mac Letkae
Kansas Rhymesayers crewman Mac Lethal pounds out a clowny/cartoony set: if Rhymesayers made rap a pity party (and they didn't, but watch where we go with this!), then Mac is the guy with the lampshade on (pow!), riling up the crowd to go ring up some post-show DUIs—that's a Redd Foxx bit ("Go on out and GET someone!") but it's still a great one—and leading a screwy sing-along celebrating same. Funny dude doing funny prelude while Shapeshifters and Co. celebrate 2MEX's pre-birthday behind the bar and punk-raised rap-refined P.O.S. leads into a line about making do with what you got in the porta-pot: "Wipe your ass with the president!"