First off, this isn’t Pitchfork, so don’t expect any elaborate descriptions likening Peter Bjorn and John’s performance last Wednesday in Austin to a Wilhelm Reich essay on modernity. Up until a few moments ago, when I Wikied Reich, I thought he was the periscope operator in “Das Boot.” Not to mention that I originally assumed Peter Bjorn and John was the name of a gay day spa in New York.
However, I will say that I experienced what can only be described as a total sensory overload of music (and comedy) at this year’s South By Southwest festival. I think some 2,000 bands played in the span of four days. And those were just the acts that were “officially” listed.
Wherever I went in Austin, I was immersed in music. I’d sit down at a local Mexican restaurant, and there’d be some cool band playing on the patio. I’d use the bathroom, and there would be some singer-songwriter doing an acoustic set next to the urinal. I’d walk around the block, and there’d be a group of buskers serenading me. One night, a homeless dude even tried to get me to do a “mic check” on his crack pipe. Whatever that meant.
And then there’s the actual music venues: the clubs, the bars, the concert halls, the tents, the fucking McDonald’s. They were all packed at all times with an ever-changing roster of bands. Sometimes two or three different acts would be playing in different rooms of the same place at the same time. Sometimes it seemed like two different bands were playing in different times on the same stage.
Of course, to hear the music, you had to schlep to the music. And that, my friends, was the second biggest activity at the conference. You schlep everywhere. You schlep to the shows, you schlep to the parties, you schlep to meet up with your friends. I met one hipster who had been schlepping for so long, evolution had taken over, and his man-purse actually grew into an appendage.
Speaking of hipsters! Does anybody know how many it takes to see a show at South By Southwest? 100. Ten to watch the band, five to blog about it, and 85 others to stand in line for it. Now multiply that equation by five-fucking-million, and you’ll have some sense of the impromptu population of scenesters, gawkers, shit-talkers and rockers that descended on the Texas capital last week.
And what an ironically homogenous group of non-conformists we were. For the boys: disheveled, skinny, and mustached was the look (as opposed to preppy, fat and clean-shaven?). I swear to God, there was enough lip hair there to form a complete chain of “Ironic Moustaches Across America” coast to coast. Only the annual Hajj pilgrimage in Mecca can boast more facial scruff for your buck.
For the girls—and I’m not even going to pretend to know what the hot-shit fashion of the moment really is—Olsen Twin chic still seems to be holding sway. You’d suspect every cute indie chick was nursing a black eye, judging by all the oversized sunglasses being donned.
But I digress. Overall, South By Southwest was a lovely affair. Despite the long lines, the crowds and the drunkenness, I can’t remember seeing even one person having a bad time. For the most part, the attendees were cheery and polite, and the locals, gracious and inviting.
Lastly, our party was a blast, and if you couldn’t make it, you better axe somebody! Big ups go out to following peeps for making it the best damn two-day comedy/music extravaganza there: David Cross, Aziz Ansari, Eugene Mirman, Brian Posehn, Jon Benjamin, Hard & Phirm, Jonah Ray, Michael Showalter, Zach Galifianakis, Jon Glaser, Leo Allen, Les Savy Fav, The Black Angels, Andrew W.K., Dark Meat, Brother Reade, Spindrift, Danava, Matt & Kim, David Vandervelde, The Apples In Stereo, Ladyhawk, Fatal Flying Guiltoteens, The Carbonas, The Cubical, Dead Meadow, The Walkmen, The Black Lips, The Ponys, Deerhunter, Fucked Up, Sloan, Erase Errata, Sean Blacklist, Adam Hobbs, Henry Owings and Jared and the entire staff at Red 7.
I know I was very thankful to Super Deluxe in my last blog, but things have really changed since we launched. First off, I didn’t realize that people who don’t work for Super Deluxe would be able to see our Web site. What’s the point in that!? Secondly, there’s been an awful lot of talk last week about a launch party that everyone went to last Saturday. I couldn’t believe it because, well… I wasn’t invited.
As they say on the Intertext, “WTF!?”
I mean, isn’t it bad enough that I didn’t get invited to any Christmas parties? Isn’t it bad enough that no one seems to care that my half-birthday is next week? Isn’t it bad enough that nobody ever told me I don’t have to pay for the bagels on Friday? Isn’t it bad enough that I share an office with someone who eats black beans just to spite me? And, isn’t it bad enough that that son of a bitch Henderson is trying to kill me?
See, everyone showed up on Monday with big bags under their eyes and hickeys. A couple people were limping, most of the design department looked like they had spent a day in jail, that son of a bitch Henderson was still wearing a lampshade—and one lady kept throwing up all morning and telling this one programmer that “it was probably a mistake” and that they should just act normally.
So, I started asking around, trying to figure out what had happened and why everyone was smiling but avoiding bright light. Most everyone scoffed or denied that anything had happened, and one guy from editorial even snapped his fingers and said, “You got served!” I don’t even know what that means.
I went on to Super Deluxe and read the blogs posted by someone calling himself “El Douche A.” At first I thought we had been hacked because I looked on our extension list, and we don’t even have anyone by that name working here. Then, I looked at the list again and realized my title on it read: “Raging Pantload.” Since there were links and references to photographs in the blogs, I followed them and found dozens of photographs of my coworkers drinking, laughing, necking, frolicking, and doing something that I’m told is called “tea-bagging.”
I was really quite offended and upset. What have I done to deserve such treatment? My boss keeps telling Human Resources to “fix the glitch,” and someone keeps putting mayonnaise on my keyboard. Most of my coworkers won’t even make eye contact with me—and that son of a bitch Henderson has tried to push me down the stairs more than once. Is it too much to ask to be invited to company parties or, at the very least, to some meetings? I mean, I’m a pretty awesome dude (as far as acquired tastes go). I have interesting opinions, I shower often, I use action figures as bookends, and I’ve been thinking outside of the box for about six weeks now.
Damn it, I’m tired of being the only one in the building who doesn’t stagger into work at noon, all bruised and knocked-up and reeking of Boones Farm and Bengay. So, please, Super Deluxe, recognize the three or four positive qualities I possess and invite to me future company functions.
P.S. Bastards.
In some odd way, I feel like I gave birth last week (minus the Epidural and screaming baby). Well, maybe there was some screaming involved. It’s one thing to come into an existing institution, it’s quite another when you get to create something wholly new. And Super Deluxe is just that—a brand-spanking new network that defies most conventions. We’re proud of the fact that we don’t restrict our artists and let them go off to do all the wacky things they love doing best. Just wait ’til Friday. Our premiere feature that day will blow all of your minds (just don’t say we didn’t warn you—and don’t click on if you’re prone to seizures). We’re also exceedingly proud of SD’s design, mélange of humor intended for both high- and low-brow consumption, and our ever-present hunger to collect the best videos regular folks (well, maybe not SO regular) can upload.
But even with all this pride and feeling of accomplishment, it’s impossible to kick back and relax. There’s too much comedy out there: we need to find it, capture it in binary code and exploit it to the fullest. So c’mon, folks, show us what you got (as Hova would say), upload your videos or have your manager/agent hit us up. We’re ready for you. We’re also looking forward to meeting and greeting y’all at several events like SxSW, Aspen’s Comedy Arts Festival—even Edinburgh’s Fringe Fest isn’t safe from our grubby reach. I can’t wait.
If it’s one thing that my tenure in hip-hop taught me, it’s that shout-outs go at the end. So to close this note, I’d like to thank all the wonderful people who logged on to Super Deluxe this past week (especially everyone in the Netherlands—who could’ve known?), the bloggers who used some of their bandwidth to promote and write about us and some fine people I forgot to thank the last time… Gerard and Andrea, this one’s for you.
What an awesome week it’s been! One of the best parts of the entire experience so far has been the opportunity to open up a dialogue and receive direct feedback from you about how we’re doing. While words can’t quite capture the thrill of finding something like this post out there in the tubes, the more critical feedback you’ve given us is equally as valuable. We’re listening, taking notes, debating, and designing solutions for the issues you have raised. You’ll see the network evolve over time based on what you’re telling us. Not everything will happen overnight, but we’re committed to making steady progress on improving Super Deluxe based on your commentary.
I want to personally thank all of you that have taken time to e-mail us and post on the SD blog. Some of you we’ve had the pleasure of corresponding with nearly every day. Nothing could be more fun and gratifying for us. Please keep the feedback coming and don’t be shy about telling us what’s wrong! At the end of the day, what we really want to do is to deliver a network that you love, that you can’t wait to watch, that you want to tell your friends about. The best way for us to get there is have a conversation with you.
Have fun watching and know that we’re watching, too. Post your comments here on the blog or contact us.
A few months ago, I was out of work and full of shit. I had just finished an eight-month stint of calling myself a producer at parties and found myself staring into a dark tunnel of occupational uncertainty. My master plan of drinking alone and talking to myself had failed to yield any prospects.
After falling off of a bicycle, I decided to proclaim myself a graphic artist and move to Portland. It only took a few weeks and twice as many drinks before I realized my new goal in life had about as much chance of producing favorable results as being an art major or hitting on a waitress. I decided instead to hyperventilate. After all, I had just turned 32 and the only thing I saw happening down my road was the possible fruition of a Ouija board’s prediction that I would die when I was 32.
Suddenly, my phone rang. Now, I typically don’t answer my phone because I’m a prick. I also don’t like to return calls because that’s exactly what they’d expect me to do. In fact, the only reason I have a phone is on the off chance that it may occasionally lead to sex.
I ignored my mood and answered the phone. It was a friend I’ve known since we met. He wanted to know if I had grown up and officially told my hopes and dreams to fuck off yet. I told him I had and that I had also switched from large shirts to medium. He went on to remind me that I am one of the funniest and most creative people in the universe and that I should think about a job that wouldn’t require me to utilize either of those traits.
He went on to describe a broadband comedy network called Super Deluxe that Turner was going to launch from Atlanta the day after his birthday and that he would really like some new video games. I mentioned that his birthday probably wasn’t a key factor in the site’s launch and that he should stop dropping hints; I wasn’t going to get him anything. The job was called “Content Production Manager Extreme,” which meant that I would be able to determine what most of the drawers in my desk would be used for. He asked me if I was interested.
The thought of returning to my hometown of Atlanta was almost as deflating as the awareness that I would have to move back in with my parents temporarily. I shrugged these thoughts off and decided to focus on the fact that, thankfully, the job wasn’t in Alabama. Mere days later, I flew to Atlanta to wait for the corporate machine to sort through a few other applications. I sat in my parents’ basement and watched as time slowly passed. Finally, by mid-October, the powers that be offered me the job, mentioning strange, new concepts such as “benefits” and “job satisfaction.”
Starting work right away, I promptly kicked someone out of his office and started throwing my weight around. It took three days before the power absolutely corrupted me, and they demoted me, stripping the word extreme from my title. It was another four days before they asked to turn in my keys to the executive stapler. Finally, I settled down and settled in, which I’m told is exactly the sort of thing a 32-year-old man should do.
So, I’ve successfully managed to burrow myself here into Super Deluxe. Contrary to the impression I get, I am sure both my opinions and I are respected and appreciated. Thanks to me, dry-erase boards around the office are up by 67 percent, morale is down, and mandatory sensitivity seminars are up. Not to mention my “Spreadsheet of the Day” is a huge hit. My saving grace is that no one really understands what I do enough to realize I’m not doing it very well.
Still, I have to admit that Super Deluxe would probably have turned out just fine if I hadn’t come along, but if Super Deluxe hadn’t come along, I’d probably be wandering the streets of Portland, drinking rubbing alcohol, and having sex with parking meters, with nothing but the medium-sized shirt on my back.
So, thank you, Super Deluxe.
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