South by SouthWHAT?

Because there’s no such thing as an Emerald City

March 19, 2013

2:53 PM

I didn't think that this drama would unfold the way it did. I just wanted to get out of the city. I knew it was SXSW, and I knew I had a place to stay. Beyond that, I pretty much knew nothing.

Folks, this festival has gotten totally out of hand.

Have you ever had a secret so great that you didn't want anyone else to find out about it? This is what I refer to as the “Carshon's Phenomena.” If the good people at FWTX don't allow me to use the name, let's just say it's a certain deli off of 8th and Berry that makes the best sandwiches in the city. But there's a backstory…

While at TCU, a certain fraternity brother was eating a sandwich. A sandwich that can only be described as legendary. The Zooey Deschanel of sandwiches. Wait, that came out wrong. I meant to say the Cadillac/Zenith/acme/pinnacle of sandwiches. I hate to be so P.C., but with all the cannibals these days, you can never be too careful.

Anyway, after much heated conversation and persistent cajoling, we discovered that the reason that our friend had kept the source of this sandwich under wraps (no pun intended) is because he didn't want other people frequenting this locale, thus taking up space in the queue and wasting valuable time. Valuable. Delicious. Time.

Although I considered it selfish, my friend was definitely on to something. Some things are best kept secret, lest every Tom, Harry and Dick find out about it.

This is what has happened to SXSW. Everybody knows about it, and it's gotten a little too commercial. Everybody's queuing up and nobody's ordering. This is what I consider to be the problem with Austin as a whole. And if The Simpsons has taught me anything, Austin is what we would classically define as “Post Modern” or “weird-for-the-sake-of-weird.” Yet while the technical definition represents a humorous, albeit inaccurate representation of the word (“predictably avant-garde” would be more fitting), there is wisdom to be found in the absurdity of being absurd.

Don't get me wrong, I love enormous beards, vintage T-shirts and body odor as much as the next person, but when they all start getting sanctimonious and dismissive at the same time…well that's where I draw the line, dammit!

But the thing that really makes my blood boil is you have to pay $600/$1,000/$1,600 to get in anywhere. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Flaming Lips, Tribe Called Quest, Bootsie Collins? I was there from the start! Okay, maybe not Bootsie, but I've been dancing to James Brown since papa had a brand new bag…and you're going to charge ME to listen to music?

This does not bode well.

Fort Worth a.k.a. “Funky Town,” take note. Don't ever get too big for your britches and forget who you are. When we get our indie-film theatre, when the Von Erics/Burning Hotels/future/local bands get the credit they deserve and when the diverse cultural landscape that we so surreptitiously possess is finally brought to light, let's all try to behave like adults, shall we?

I've said it before and I'll say it again; there is no perfect utopia and you can't move away from your problems. Yet after being in traffic for the better part of six hours, I would humbly suggest, HEY FT. WORTH, bring on the noise, bring on the funk!!

That, or find me a beautiful, single woman who writes for Rolling Stone.

As long as she has VIP passes.