I.

“I can’t wait for some tits and ass tonight,” said the guy in the Greek-lettered sweatshirt in front of me.

Tits and Ass? In Austin, “tits and ass” are spouted everywhere. In ten minutes, I’ve heard the phrase at least fifteen times. And jailbait, big haired and big-breasted lolitas are flying by me on 10-speeds. I was expecting South by Southwest to have a couple of tents, maybe some PBR, and the energy level of a This American Life performance. Not Spring Break Cancun.

Texans say Austin is close to Texas, but not quite Texas – the lone liberal city within the large state’s borders. All I know is it ain’t Brooklyn, where oily-haired boys court waifish girls with Belle and Sebastian, instead of frat guys trying to tap flying titfits.

But, staring at the mobs pouring out of venues on 6th and Red River, I feel like I’ve left my inner-Miller Lite girl at home. I last saw her in college: my Midwestern past cultivated my chugging flirty avatar, but the hyper-critical Brooklyn life has silenced her.

II.

I retreat into the convention center, a sobering escape from the fields of partiers. Ikea welcomes me at the door with plush couches and ottomans and Dell offers me a computer station. I think I’m going to like it here.

As I ride the multi-story Texas-style escalator to acquire my music festival wrist band, I watch the massive ant-like network of booths, bands and volunteers scramble below. Quickly ushered through lines, stamps and procedures, my wrist is suited up and I’m ready to go.

“Excuse me?” asks a woman doused in glitter. “Are you a musician?”

“Oh me? No no no. I’m a writer.”

The woman dressed like a vampy 1980s Cher gives me a sideways grins and says, “Oh, nevermind,” and walks off.

I watch Cindy, as her nametag says, approach dozens of others, many of whom pass the qualifying question: Yes, they are musicians. Like Price is Right, it seems they’ve won a new car, and glitter-girl is very excited. She nearly jumps for joy before she is met with man in a suit carrying a portfolio. The smiles on the winners’ faces flounder as they realize they’ve been cornered for a sale. Looking down the rows of hallway, I see now that corporates have staked out their territory, with free swag in hand, rigging the floor for a sale.

Though the convention center offers free clean bathroom use, the easier battle is the Gomorrah-fest outside.

III.

At Mohawk, I finally find my Greenpoint, Brooklyn peers: Blender photographers, members of the band Giraffes, and PR divas swatting their Prada handbags Though some of these people are neighbors of mine, I’m quite intimidated by them.

Like many social gatherings, South by Southwest has its own pecking order: badges, wristbands, and walk-ups. I’m privileged to have a most-music events wristband, but the cool kids with cameras have all-event all-access badges hanging from their necks. Ana, my photographer friend without a camera badge, sneaks in shots of the bands as I stand against the back wall, like in junior high.

Though I’m stationed to watch the band and the tightly-dressed vintage crowd from afar, the ethereal sounds of the Dodos draw me in. Led by the rolling harmonies, I edge towards the stage. In the short time the Dodos have played, the crowd’s dynamic has changed; kids in khakis and men in spikes have mixed with hipsters.

The show ends and I watch Mr. Khakis walk up and speak to lead singer Meric Long. In New York, such an encounter would be impossible. True, SXSW is not a festival for headliners – it’s a place where corporates tout the next up-and-coming and boutique bands vie for coveted big leagues spots – but any well-regarded indie band I’ve known has held regal hipster airs and snubs non-denim.

When I exit the venue, the battling phrases of discordant music – country twang beating against heavy metal – stream from venues, and the shows’ crowds intermingle on the street. The dyed-blonde heroin chic leathered-out punk stands next to the short skirt Japanese anime wannabe. The fire-red double Mohawk goth chic waits for kebab next to the plaid-covered Brooklynite in Ray Bans. And every alt-culture subgroup morphs into one. Almost indistinguishable from the crowd, “suits,” seasoned veterans of the music industry, wear bland clothes – cargo shorts and polo shirts – and carry business cards in hand.

Normally, in the cliques of music, one can’t get two members of the same counter-culture club to fraternize, let alone acknowledge another sect. Moldy Peaches hipsters hate Grateful Dead hippies, Sex Pistols rockers hate Limp Bizket frat boys. Somehow, in Austin, everyone gets along.

This Texas town has a socially equalizing force. Individuals with the slightest haircut in common can become the best of drinking buddies – perhaps it’s the temperate climate? or the city’s lack of edge? It’s just hard to imagine any large group of hip people collectively visiting Texas, and having a great time. Yet, at SXSW, people stand in line without judging the shoes of their neighbors, whether it be Keds, Monolos, or All Stars, because that’s not what people do here. Austin makes Brooklynites just kids in expensive glasses. As everyone stands stripped of their cool affront, the seas of counter-culture meld into one.

IV.

I think I’m getting the hang of networking, inspired by the Khakis from last night. While at Kinkos, also known as the impromptu exec-center, where corporate heads race to finish last minute PDFs and PowerPoints, I see Village Voice VIP party fliers printing. Smooth as I am, I ask. “Hey, are you from the Village Voice?!” The executives were having problems printing, and with some helpful advice, I score some VIP passes.

At the VIP party, I sit back and enjoy the free fajita buffet. Next to me sits two 40 year-olds, one with a button-up shirt, the other with a Mullet, chomping down on free treats. I find out the Mullet is in some derivative of music insurance while the button man owns a large advertising firm. Ana, has left me again with a bag of camera equipment, rushing to shoot the Black Keys, but with drink in hand and a crowd full of dichotomies, I’m pleasantly amused.

As I walk to the bar, a middle-aged woman recognizes me. She is tall, blonde and most likely from Sweden.

“Hey!” she says. “It’s YOU!”

“Yeah, um, hi,” I respond, hoping she’ll give me a clue as to who she thinks I am.

She goes on, “Wow, look at you! You look amazing!” I’m wearing a great navy dress fit for Snow White, and though I’m compelled to tell her we don’t know each other, I pause. She’s giving me compliments after all.

“Look at you! You look so great! Yay! It’s just…you’re so observant, you ivory girl you!”
Then she reached in and kissed me on the cheek.

Ivory girl? It’s true I havn’t seen life outside florescent lights in months, but ivory?!

As I recount the story to Ana she laughs, noting the woman’s probably high.

I’d forgotten. I’m at a music festival: drugs are sandwiched between sex and rock ‘n’ roll.

V.

As I gain networking leverage, I roam into the center of music negotiating.

At the Driskill Hotel, the area’s ritziest establishment, artists, martinis in hand, relax in the cocktail lounge. Blackberries and iPhones intermix and everyone acts as if it’s a casual meeting of old friends; but there’s a distinct smell of business in the air.

The artists are not the only performers at the table. In the corporate world, pressure to produce success lies heavily on talent finders.

Sitting in the bar with members of her band, The Airborne Toxic Event’s violinist Ana Bulbrook comments that she, a musician, has more job security than the music corporates surrounding the table. John, a music-exec who preferred to not be identified, concurs, arguing, “A&R’s [those charged with finding the next up-and-coming thing] have an average six-month employment span.” On tour, six months is barely enough time for a band to become recognized, let alone become the next word on the tip of everyone’s tongue.

VI.

As I leave Austin, I wonder how such a strange city can be home to such a fantastic event where the corporate elite walks next to leaders of fringe music.

In LA, in New York, the uniforms of cool are permanent; the walls are higher and the gatekeepers more critical. At New York’s CMJ festival, audience members border the edge of the room, quietly judging the merits of a band. In Austin, people stand up and do a two-step to Shapes Have Fangs, or hum along to The Big Sleep. Perhaps it’s the searing Texas sun dries up the cool in us.