wasted issue - Misprint Magazine

we don’t love to hate. we hate what we love.
Hyperliterate smut for the disaffected.
the
sxs
wasted
issue
volume 01
issue 06 MARCH 2006
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A few words from the Director...
VOL 01 ISSUE 06 MARCH 2006
IT’S MARCH AGAIN, and that can only mean one thing:
it’s time to get started on my tax return. Oh yeah, it
also means it’s time for South By Southwest. Woohoo.
we don’t love to hate. we hate what we love.
VITALS
CONTACT
Kip Hollingsworth
www.misprintmagazine.com
[email protected]
www.myspace.com/misprintmag
Director of Small Capitals & Expert Numerals
Harvey Merrybottom
Director of Co-Conspiritories
Chadwick Pennyrich III
Director of Visual Arts & Languages
Send us your free shit: Misprint Magazine,
PO Box 303157, Austin, Texas 78703
©
2006 Misprint Magazine
On a regular day in Austin you can’t throw a moped
without hitting a good band. But we’ve become jaded.
On any given night, I could give a crap about going
to Emo’s to see some awesome band. If I do go, I
guarantee I’ll be in the courtyard hanging out and
getting wasted rather than attempting to enjoy any
kind of live music.
Kip Hollingsworth
So why is it that once SXSW hits town I freak out
about what shows I’m going to go to, which day shows
I’m going to rock out at and how the hell I’m going
to score some fucking VIP laminates? This explains
our special SXSW issue of Misprint, a futile attempt at
scoring VIP laminates and Canadian ‘tang.
This issue is very close to our hearts. We’ve gone back
to putting the word “shit” in our headlines. Thanks to
advertising, this is the first issue with photography
of attractive women, which seems to be the standard
with cool magazines these days. We also scored a vat
of Pantone 1545 Uncoated and used it to print the fine
words you’re reading now. We hope you enjoy those
words, and we hope you’ve got ample time to sleep off
the massive hangover you’re about to give yourself.
Best regards,
Kip Hollingsworth
Misprint Guide to Beekeeping
Get Your Shit to the Kids
I know your band isn’t really working out. It’s because you have no talent. Plus, you’re kind of ugly.
So how can you prove you’re creative to the rest of your collective? You’re not artistic, so forget
about screenprinting. You can’t even crap out some mixed-media art. And ‘zine writing is a waste
of time. Try taking a stab at the hippest new pursuit for the tattoo and haircut crowd... that’s right,
bitches: beekeeping.
Being in a band has only two goals: to get as many people as possible to like your music and to
make garbage bags full of money. If this isn’t your dream, why the fuck are you even in a band? It
surely isn’t because of your “art.” Playing to a room full of your broke, service industry friends will
not help you get that pedal board the size of a Japanese apartment. It’s time for you to get your
music to the only ones with the cash: the under 16 crowd. So put that rag top down and let the
breeze of success kiss your well-conditioned locks, my friend.
Why Raise Bees?
Get a Song on The O.C.
Everything about beekeeping screams
legit. It’s exclusive and elite, and there’s an
air of danger about it. Like motorcycling
and knifefighting, beekeeping is edgy.
Anyone with the metaphorical testicles
to willingly wrangle 50 pounds of insects
has to be a little dodgy, which equates
to strangely attractive in an inexplicable
way. Like Prince. Set up your hive and the
sexies will be drawn to you, well, like a bee
to honey.
Setting Up Your Hive
There are numerous strategies for hive
placement and design. Most of them
revolve around a stack of boxes loosely
packed with wooden frames. These
frames will serve as a home, nursery,
and storehouse for your new pets and
their honey. The bees will build up a
honeycomb on the frames to store their
food and to place their eggs. Empty out
those old record crates and get cracking.
Getting Your Bees
You can get stoned right now and order
some bees over the internet. Go on, try it;
they sell them by the pound. You could even
arrange to ship them to your enemies. They
arrive in a wooden crate with mesh sides,
with the queen in her own separate cage.
And they arrive pissed. Spray your bees
with some sugar water, and pour your bees
into the lower portion of the hive. Try not
to get stung too much. Once your girls are
in the hive, crack a Lonely Star. Trust me,
you’ll need it.
Reaping The Benefits
From here on out, it’s smooth sailing.
Bees are largely self-sufficient, provided
there is ample vegetation, clean water,
and they’re protected from predators. Try
to keep your friends from pissing on the
hive during your parties. Provided you
don’t smother yourself in delicious icing
too often, you should have no problems.
Once they fly 15 feet from the hive, the
bees should be well overhead. Come fall,
once you’ve had your fill of coke binges
and ménages a trois, its time to harvest.
The bees need about 30 pounds of honey
to survive the winter, the rest is pure
profit. Scrape out the combs and drain the
honey over low heat. Put it on some toast
and serve breakfast in bed.
Moving Out
One day your lease is going to run out. Or
perhaps you’re just tired of beekeeping.
What do you do with your hive? No
worries, its only 50,000 stinging insects
and 100 pounds of wax and honey. I’m
sure you’ll figure it out, you can’t expect
us to think of everything. Remember,
there’s no problem a couple gallons of
gasoline and a book of matches can’t solve.
Landing one catchy, jangly off-kilter pop
song on the O.C. is the difference between
selling out The Parish and selling out
Austin Music Hall. Word to the wise:
even the panty-dehumidifying music of
The Arm could sell out The Parish. You’re
going to have to try harder than that to
become makeout music for forlorn teens.
Play a basketball halftime show
It’s a no-brainer. Your music and underage,
pyramid-stacked cheerleaders is a match
made in rich band’s heaven. If Nirvana can
do it, so can you. And every one of your
t-shirts will sell if your drummer can make
a half-court basket during his drum solo.
Be a MySpace pick of the Week
Who cares if you’ve only recorded 5
songs ever? Get Tom on your dong and
your friend count has just exponentially
increased like a case of hysteria during
your first sold-out show in Trenton, NJ.
Make a Cameo on a WB Show
This should come naturally, since dudes
in bands are meant to exist in the world
of television, rather than in the world of
reality. Pop in on whatever the new Peach
Pit is or even make a guest appearance
as yourself. Either way, it’s all gravy. TV
gravy that is, which is twice as awesome as
regular gravy.
Forget About Vinyl
I recently went to a CD release show that
in fact turned out not to release a CD, but
seven inches of dancey, yet unsellable, pop.
Understand that the youth of today don’t
know how to work a record player.
Hire a Stylist
Let’s face it, high school kids nowadays
dress way better than you ever did or will.
You’re already busy trying to keep up with
the latest in whammy bar technology or
if The Fall is hot or not; let someone else
worry about miner’s caps, shiny shirts and
whether or not blazers are still cool.
Land a Photo Shoot in Teen Vogue
Odds are that at least one member of your
band doesn’t look like he just survived
a meth lab explosion. Odds are that he
is your rhythm guitarist. Put him in the
front and have a caption about him liking
puppies or some shit.
De-Loused in the Inbox
Mars Volta Lyrics or Spam?
Lately, the Misprint inbox has been out of control. Imagine my surprise to discover that the arcane
secrets of modern spam technology are actually held by Cedric Bixter-Fibonacci-“Lazy Eye”-Zavala,
enigmatic frontman of the Mars Volta (and that shitty dub band DeFacto). It turns out he is misusing
his random superpowers to aid in the propagation of fist-clentchingly annoying unsolicited bulk email. See if you can tell the platinum rock lyrics from the ads for penis enlargement creams.
Torn-tangled praised claycovered alchemist/
a Proceeding hills benevolently wrought offers/
Matters situation squeaky their coals/
Armrests to stratagem triumvir curtain pledge
His orifice icicles hemorrhaged/
By combing her torso to a pile/
b
Perspired the trophy shelves made room for his collapse/
She was a mink handjob in sarcophagus heels
answers
a. spam
b. Mars Volta lyrics
c. hot placeholder text
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer /
c Morbi tellus. Phasellus rutrum. Nullam ac purus at elit/
euismod venenatis. Sed in justo non nibh convallis/
congue vitae quam sit amet justo nonummy pharetra
XX
WELCOME TO THE BIGGEST SHITSTORM OF SELF-PROMOTION, FRENZIED
SCENE GOSSIP AND RECORD INDUSTRY DOUCHEBAGGOTRY THIS SIDE
OF CMJ. AND YOU THOUGHT YOU LEFT THAT SHIT BACK IN BROOKLYN.
SOME VACATION THIS IS GOING TO BE...
STYLING FOR BANDS, MUSIC VIDEOS, MAGAZINES, BOUTIQUES AND MORE... SOFTACTIONSTYLE.COM
contact leyla: [email protected] | photograph by courtney chavanell
SXSPadre
Maybe Next Year, Sucka!
Every year, while we all rock out at SXSW, thousands of college kids are living it up in spring
break havens like Daytona Beach, Panama City or South Padre Island. Honestly, that shit is
lame. I’m way too mature and flabby to be wasting my time on the beach doing the silly crap
they do down there.
So that cold and impersonal rejection e-mail from SXSW has confirmed what your friends, family,
drug dealers and drum techs have been telling you for months: your band sucks. Hard. Even
though you’re resourceful and have somehow managed to sneak in a few day show performances,
the question will still come up: “So, are you in a showcase?” Well, your band can’t improvise, so
why should you? Have your answers ready and waiting.
Binge Drinking
Statistics Are Against You
Your Labelmates Ruined it for You
As an audiophile and artist, it is my code
and convention to deny myself the hedonist
pleasures of getting completely fucked up on
cheap beer and illicit narcotics for five days in a
row. You can’t truly appreciate the musicianship
of talented individuals like Chamillionaire
if you’re too busy nursing a hangover with
mimosas and Excedrin.
If MySpace is any judge of how many active
bands are out there today, there’s something
like 250,000. SXSW only takes 1,400. So really
there’s only a 2% chance you’d get accepted
anyway.
Shit Biscuit, some band that signed on to your
label after you, is a huge pain in the ass. You
hate touring with them because they get drunk,
throw shit around and keep trying to get a
quarter of your t-shirt sales. On top of that, they
seriously pissed off some industry biz by being
the spoiled, namby brats that they are. As soon
as SXSW saw you were on the same label as
them, forget about it.
Making Out With Strangers
In college, when the fraternity/sorority types
were busy date raping each other, the SXSW
crowd was in the trenches reading late-period
Yeats and learning it is what’s on the inside
that counts. Sex with random strangers only
leaves you with a dark hole of emptiness inside.
There is no amount of live rock music that can
fill that hole, and the fine people who attend
sxsw know that.
Group-think
In a spring break Mecca such as South Padre,
the concept of individuality gives way to a
group mentality, resulting in a collection of
knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers who dress,
talk and behave in one uniform manner. That’s
why I love sxsw. Here, diversity is embraced. I
am free to silkscreen whichever design I please
onto my blazer. No one will judge the colorway
of my Vans slip-ons. Whether I choose
Maybeline or Revlon eyeliner, I can rest assured
that my choice will be respected as my own.
Man, Fuck South-by
Trashing Hotels
Yes, rock musicians pioneered the art of
destroying suites at the Hilton, but that type
of behavior has been co-opted by people who
know nothing about the true meaning of rock
and roll. Being in the music industry is all
business. Being flown out to Texas courtesy
of Matador is no excuse to call every escort
service in the back of The Chronicle until you
find one that will fuck, score massive amounts
of mid-grade coke and see how many PB&J
sandwiches you can get to stick to the ceiling.
There’s a day-show to wake up for at noon and
the band is supposed to be hot.
Wet T-Shirt Contests
Actually, I have to admit that nothing stirs the
senses quite like a nice wet t-shirt contest.
That’s probably the only thing sxsw is doing
wrong. I mean, every red-blooded man likes
to look at some titties now and then. Am I
right, fellas? Am I right? Give me a high-five,
motherfucker. Let’s rock.
This thing’s 20 years old and the biggest
corporate music mind-fuck in the western
hemisphere. Plus, it’s been around as long
as Microsoft, The Gap and all the other big
capitalist companies you despise. Your band
isn’t about turning any kind of a profit. You have
more cred than that.
They’re Harder on Austin Bands
Everyone knows that Austin bands are secretly
judged by a different set of rules. It is an
international festival after all, and think of how
offended your peers in Greenland would be if
there was even a hint of a double standard?
(Just don’t mention that the South Austin Jug
Band got in, because, c’mon... the South Austin
fucking Jug Band got in.)
Your Bass Player is an Idiot
Your bassist, not exactly the shiniest pomade in
the make-up kit, makes an ideal scapegoat. Say
your bass player promised he was in charge
of the paperwork and the demos. He told you
several times it was all good. Then, exactly one
hour after the deadline, you ask him if he sent
it in. “Dude,” your bassist says, “I totally ate
some gnarly shit and I was out of commission
for a few days. Sorry, bro.”
It Just Wasn’t Meant To Be
This is a two-for-one. Not only do you have a
rock-solid excuse, you also come across as all
philosophical and deep. And that might get you
laid tonight, champ.
As hip as: Getting your band on a metal lunchbox.
Comments: The Arctic Monkeys are to Franz Ferdinand
what the actual Monkees were to the Beatles. This
means some hack record exec got hip to the “cool”
sound, turned the hype machine to 11 and unleashed
more manufactured, disposable shite on the kids. But
trust me; these assholes won’t even have the kitsch
value of the Partridge Family.
As hip as: Unintentionally cutting extraneous holes in
your t-shirt.
As hip as: Two-stepping to Paul Wall at
Midnight Rodeo.
As hip as: Calling your drug problem “creative
differences.”
Comments: If Misprint were a band, it would be Art
Brut: ironic, stylish, hugely popular and wealthy. And if
Art Brut were a magazine, it would be Misprint: poor,
single and with no access to good drugs.
Comments: I have an awesome idea for a band.
Let’s take some indie rock vocals and add some
synths. Then let’s get a drum machine. Make it
two. Now if only we were British we could be huge.
Whoever the fuck decided that rock and roll could be
saved by bringing back disco needs a swift kick in the
Test Icicles.
Comments: The buzz on this band is just out of control.
The future could not be brighter for these British posthardcore rock surgeons. I predict packed showcases,
world tours with Art Brut, platinum record sales and
a place in the pantheon of rock and roll legend. I
can’t wait to see what happens next for rock music’s
brightest rising stars.
Rating:
Rating:
Rating:
Rating:
THE HYPE HAS LANDED:
As hip as: Exposed duct-work in your loft-like dwelling.
As hip as: Getting your hair cut by A Flock of Seagulls.
Comments: Not that I can tell the difference between
authentic and counterfeit, but I have a sneaking
suspicion that Spank Rock is doing to Baltimore club
music what I am doing to East Austin: gentrifying the
fuck out of it. At least we’re both on the giving end of
the transaction.
Comments: Honestly dudes, Interpol was cool, but that
was a few years ago. I saw The Stills once and thought
they were really boring. Echo et al, on the other hand,
apparently decided to rip them off.
BANDS YOU NEED TO SEE
As hip as: Replacing your MC with a bass
clarinet player.
Comments: I like Polyphonic Spree and all, but I’ll
take Th’ Corn Gangg over this shit every day of the
week and twice on Sundays.
Rating:
Rating:
Rating:
YOU NEED TO
CHECK OUT
THIS RATING
SCALE.
As hip as: Severe Head Trauma from a Vespa crash.
Comments: Sometimes a band is so hot that they can
electrify a whole city. Sometimes a band is so infectious
it inundates every fiber of your being. Once, there was
Beatlemania, now there is Cephalic Carnage. People just
can’t stop talking about them. Even my mom called me
to ask about their last show with Brujeria. It’s refreshing
to see the burgeoning genre of pants-shitting ultragrindcore finally getting the recognition it deserves
Rating:
LAME <----------------------------------------------------------> AWESOME
John Stossel
George Michael
Grover Cleveland
Rating Scale
As hip as: Taking a look at your life and realizing you are a lot like you are.
Comments: Neil may be a 127-year old Canadian but he still owns your ass.
While the music press was jacking off every talentless wankjob from across
the pond, homeboy has been busy hanging out with Bob Dylan, putting coca
farmers out of business and producing the authentic rock at an alarming rate.
I dare you to look me in the eye and say that “Rocking in the Free World” is
not the straight-up jam.
Cap’n Crunch Rollie Fingers
Rating:
The absolutely essential inside scoop
on Austin’s hottest hot spots the other
51 weeks of the year.
Beerland
711½ Red River
One word: ambiance. Seeing this
place by daylight is just a reminder
of how much of a prison sxsw
really is.
Beauty Bar
Antone’s
213 W 5th
This legendary blues club gave
Stevie Ray Vaughn his start and
put the Austin rock scene on the
map. It was also gave Antone the
opportunity to launder the proceeds
from his sale of 9400 pounds of
marijuana. The terms of his parole
forbid him from entering live music
venues for 5 years, including his
own, which is really kind of a
blessing for him and us.
The Back Room 2115 E Riverside
It’s a little known secret at the
Back Room that if you walk in and
yell “Alright, which one of you
pussies thinks he’s the toughest
motherfucker in here?” you get all
your drinks for free.
BD Riley’s
204 E 6th
There are two types of people in the
world: Those who think Mad Max
knew that he was risking his life as
a decoy to lure the raiders away
from the settlers’ oil and those who
think the settlers suckered him
into driving that tanker full of sand.
Whatever type you are, this bar
licks balls.
Somewhere on 7th
As of press time, this bar hasn’t
even opened. But I can tell you
now it sucks all kinds of ass.
That’s because it takes something
sacred, like coked-up love sessions
with forlorn chicks and makes it
franchisable.
Bourbon Rocks
508 E 6th
This place is tha mutha’fuckin
jam. A haven for displaced New
Orleans cover bands, it boasts the
wireless mics, brand new monitors
and Jager shots in test tubes. Plus
classic rock is classic for a reason...
because it instantly moistens the
panties of 35-year-old biker chicks.
Buffalo Billiards
201 E 6th
The old-ass furniture in the lower
bar area makes my hay fever go
crazy. That’s okay, I suck at pool
anyway.
Cedar Street Courtyard
208 W 4th
Don’t let the word “courtyard”
deceive you. It’s more of an outdoor
playpen for boomers; a place where
10 p.m. is a late night and Coldplay
is actually a double-entendre.
Central Presbyterian Church
200 E 8th
If you want to know who the next
big thing is going to be, ask Jesus.
That dude is up on his shit. He even
got a screener of the Beastie Boys
documentary. He told me it “sucks
a big fat one.”
Club deVille
900 Red River
This bar is very deceiving. In a slow
zombie attack, deVille would seem
like an ideal place to stage your last
stand. Unfortunately, zombies have
no problem scaling that rock wall
and they don’t mind paying $6.50
for a rum and Coke.
Continental Club
1315 S Congress
Made famous by the “anti-artist”
scene in Slacker. Fortunately, the
shitty punk band playing in the
movie has been replaced by a
bunch of troll-looking guys who
reign on the Telecaster.
Dirty Dog Bar
505 E 6th
Are you extreme? Me neither.
Someone should tell these
people that the “action sports”
demographic is not old enough to
come and enjoy the giant X-Games
dedicated televisions.
The Drink
512 Trinity
Venerable typographer/Misprint
hero Jan Tschichold rolls in his
fucking grave every time a fratboy
downs a Jager Bomb at the Drink,
home of the worst designed
signage in Austin. Oh wait, that’s
Spill. Ah, fuckit.
Elephant Room
315 Congress
Austin’s lone jazz bar boasts nonstop, um, jazz. You know, that stuff
where you clap for each musician
during the “piece.” And they’re not
called “bands,” but “combos” or
“quintets.” Why aren’t there more
places like this? Oh yeah, ‘cause
they’re boring and full of dudes.
Elysium
705 Red River
Like every rose has its thorn, every
city has a goth bar. When will goth
dudes realize that goth chicks just
want a stupid meathead jock boy
who will tell them what to do and
take them to barbecues?
Emo’s
603 Red River
Has anyone ever paid to enter this
club? My dad said he was in The
National and the doorman let him
in for free and bought him a Pabst.
And my dad’s bald, yo.
Eternal Nightclub
418 E 6th
If you were ever into going to
raves, you might want to pay a
visit to Eternal so you can remind
yourself why rave culture is dead.
Here’s a clue: it’s because it’s
stupid.
Exodus
304 E 6th
MOVEMENT OF THA PEOPLE!
MOVEMENT OF THA PEOPLE,
and dollar wells and ladies get in
free, yo.
Flamingo Cantina
515 E 6th
Nothing better than enjoying some
of Austin’s best new music in
front of a giant pastel undersea
mural and a crap-ton of stolen
lawn ornaments. Except 90% of
the time this place is still jamming
with a bunch of dready stoners
who love Eek-A-Mouse.
Fox and Hound
401 Guadalupe
Bambi was waaaaay better.
Friends
208 E 6th
“Helping Ugly People Get Laid
Since 1998” is their official slogan.
I hear Bogusky came up with that
shit or something, because it’s
GOLD.
Habana Calle 6
709 E 6th
Maybe, if we’re lucky, this place
will close when Castro dies.
The Hideout
617 Congress
If you want to hear some live
avant-harpsicord noodling while
brooding over a cup of coffee, look
no further. They also usually have
some “art” hanging on the walls,
too, which is sweet ‘cuz UT artists
have low self esteem.
Hilton 406
500 E 4th
On any given night, some 30something marketing professional/
wife is at the Hilton bar being
tempted with apple-martinis into a
mediocre yawn-filled bonk upstairs
in the company suite. Think
“Lost in Translation” only Scarlett
Johansson isn’t there.
The Jackalope
404 E 6th
I like this place so much I drove
down to Laredo, scored some
velvet paintings of naked ladies,
got a tattoo of flaming dice on my
neck and grew a sleazy mustache.
God, I’m an asshole.
Karma Lounge
119 W 8th
Is this place still even open?
Long smoke-free before Lance
Armstrong threatened to “put
out your cigarette in (sic) your
goddamn forehead” and the
smoking ban passed, Karma offers
the most empty VIP rooms in
town just waiting to inundate you
with the latest house music from
Uruguay.
a trace of irony. I ordered a Pearl in
an attempt to class up the place, but
the bouncers threw me out.
Momo’s
618 W 6th
This is where band frontmen go to
perform their weak-ass singersongwriter material. Cringe as you
realize exactly how trite the lyrics
actually are.
Redrum 401 Sabine St
Stubb’s
This is pretty much an Emo’s
training ground for high school
kids and dudes with goatees. Now
imagine a band not good enough
to play Emo’s. Isn’t pretty, is it?
801 Red River
Rather than ponying-up the $24
for entry, try pitching a camping
chair on Waller Creek, grabbing a
40 and listening from there. That’s
what I’m doing for the Spin show
nobody seems to want to put me
on the list for.
The Ritz
612 W 4th
If only every venue could be a big
echoey box. Bartenders train here
before moving up to concession
sales at Astros Games.
700 W 6th
I love imagining the British staff
(who are secretly Australian)
trying to erect a tent in the parking
lot while drunk off stolen Glensomething single-malt Scotch.
320 E 6th
Rumor has it that the Ritz has
come under new management and
they’re trying to kick out the tattoo
and bike messenger crowd by
firing half the staff. If I was going
to rid my self of the undesirable
crowd, I would try maybe taking
a mop to the place or picking up
the cigarette butts left over from
before they were banned.
Latitude 30°
Oslo
512 San Jacinto
Enjoy the spacious and wellequipped restrooms at the
Latitude 30, another newish
off-sixth bar, remarkable only for
being one of Austin’s best places
to take a shit.
301 W 6th
This place looks like the Milk Bar
from A Clockwork Orange, except
instead of droogs it’s a bunch of
cheesedicks looking for the old
“in-out, in-out.” Oh, how I wish
someone would bring some ultraviolence to this place.
Room 710
La Zona Rosa
The Longbranch Inn
1133 E 11th
There are many things to love
about the Longbranch: nice décor,
only slightly pretentious crowd and
a hot jukebox. So why do I feel
like some poor bastard’s property
taxes are rising every time I order
a Lone Star?
Maggie Mae’s
Opal Divine’s Freehouse
The Parish
214 E 6th
Apparently, this place used to be
something cool, but then they
decided to change the name and
charge a million dollars for some out
of town indie roadshow that can’t
get more than five bucks cover in
their hometown.
323 E 6th
I’m surprised they don’t just issue
you a beer bong, a polo shirt and
some ugly-ass leather sandals at
the door.
Pecan St. Ale House
Molotov Lounge
Red Eyed Fly 715 Red River
719 W 6th
When I hit up the Molotov roof
deck to pregame for some outsider
art opening, I was non-plussed to
see dudes wearing suits without
I would never set foot in this place
because I don’t look scary enough.
But I can tell you this place is loud
as fuck. Judging by the bands that
play here, this is a bad thing.
310 E 6th
This place is near Friends. I therefore
hold it guilty by association and
deem it to suck ass.
710 Red River
Everyone in Austin gave this place
a month before it closed because
of the smoking ban. But room 710
has yet again proven us wrong,
just like it proved us wrong that
there is indeed an audience for
Pong and Cat Scientist.
Tambaleo 302 Bowie
The only thing funnier than
watching software engineers
try to dance to “Push It” is
watching them try to sing it during
Krunkeoke.
The Velvet Spade
912 Red River
Do you love loud drum and bass
and want the world to know it?
Then make sure you’re seen on
the Velvet Spade patio. Austinites
remember this place as The
Caucus Club where you could get
shots named after articles of the
Constitution.
Whiskey Bar
217 E 6th
Why is this place called Soho
when it’s so obviously a newmoney Texan’s futile attempt to
emulate what they imagine bars
look like in Los Angeles?
303 W 5th
Go here on Thursday nights
for dollar cocktails and it looks
like SXSW (read: stupid hats and
mustaches). Come here on any
other night and it looks like a Dell
happy hour, if Dell were in the
ghetto.
Spiro’s
Zero Degrees
615 Red River
If you don’t know the definition of
the word “trill” don’t even come
near this bar outside of sxsw
time. I’ll give you a hint as to
what it means: shooting you and
stealing your VW Beetle would be
considered trill.
405 E 7th
I saw Deth Set at the Flamingo.
The only good part was when they
played a sample that went, “Tear
the club up/ Tear the fucking club
up,” over and over again. For some
reason, it made me think of Zero
Degrees.
Soho Lounge
SXSWScavenger Hunt
Austin Rock 101
Buzz wearing off? Getting a little bored in line for the totally sick Cockbeat Records showcase? Are
you so jaded on live music that you never want to see another band again? No problem! Sharpen
your eyes and your pencil, grab your trusty copy of Misprint and try the official 2006 SXSW
Scavenger Hunt. Compete with your friends! Vanquish your enemies! Its wholesome fun for all!
If you read Misprint, you know by now that recorded music is the new live music, going to shows
is a waste of time and every single band we ever review gets rated a steaming pile of shite without
even a trace of legitimate journalism. However, since Austin is on MTV now and you’re just a
demographic, ATX bands are blowing the fuck up. Here’s a few bands that you might want to
namedrop to up your cred back in Shitsburg, Nebraska.
A Misfits tattoo (1 Point)
Any tattoo in Latin (2 Points)
Any tattoo in Esperanto (5 Points)
Anyone playing a recorder (5 Points)
A non-ironic moustache (10 Points)
Neil Young jumping out of a cake wearing only
a Canadian flag (5 Points)
Anton Newcombe trying to sneak in the back
door of Emo’s (1 Point)
British guitar player (1 Point)
British guitar player, sober (10 Points)
British guitar player, sober, sans sport jacket
(20 Points)
A band with more than 11 words in their name
(-1 Point)
Tour van fueled by bio-diesel (5 Points)
Neil Young trying to score blow from an ice
cream man (3 Points)
The ghost of Richard Manuel (5 points)
Misprint stickers at the Vice party (5 Points)
Vice stickers at the Misprint party (1 Point)
L.A. record executive wearing 3 badges and a
tucked-in shirt. (1 Point)
L.A. record executive with bloody nose
(5 Points)
Someone blogging (-1 Point)
Neil Young wrasslin’ a baby steer (1 Points)
The Sword
Lance Armstrong lurking outside Beth Orton’s
tour bus. (1 Point)
Southern-fried metal the way it should be:
bottom-heavy grooves, intricate guitars,
brooding melodic dungeons and dragons
vocals, and of course, beards. Skinny kids with
synthesizers suck. The Sword brings the tall
hookah and a battle-axe.
Out-of-towner referring to Lone Star as “Local
Shit Beer” (2 Points)
Houston rapper, not driving slowly (5 points)
The Cobra Snake and the dude from Last Night’s
Party taking pictures while they make out with
each other (1 Point)
Misprint Magazine press pass (100 Points)
Daniel Francis Doyle
Insane Mary Poppins-style one-man band action.
This guy is the shiva of solo nerd rock, and has
seven arms, five legs and one Bobby Brown
headset boom mic.
Tia Carrera
The Zoms have the best posture and best
banter of any band in town. Also, homeboy
rocks two Devo tatts. This shit must be seen to
be believed.
These dudes smoke more weed than Los Lonely
Boys, but they still slay the 710 longhairs like
Jason’s mom slays the horny teens. Their record’s
liner notes are all in Spanish, but I recognized
the phrase “fumar de la planta en fuego.” This
translates roughly to “Bong rips, brah!”
Sound Team
Single Frame
Zom-Zoms
Bill from Sound Team once sent us a letter.
It was written on torn out pages of National
Geographic and had an attached Polaroid of
some girl holding a stuffed monkey to her
breasts. Sound Team reigns.
The perfect blend of noise, hooks and art school
posturing. You liked Milemarker, but these
dudes are way better. Bonus points for their
compendious knowledge of arcane electronics
and television repair.
Awesome Cool Dudes
The Ugly Beats
Where else can you get Bob Seeger covers,
matching basketball uniforms, toy xylophones,
disco, and LL Cool J rhymes in the same song?
Honestly? Hopefully nowhere. Bring a helmet
for your own safety.
Brothers and Sisters
Rootsy folk-core from hip kids who rock paisley
and the love The Band. This dude’s beard is
more powerful than any 5-bladed, batterypowered razor. Gaze upon Austin’s gnarliest
facial hair and despair!
When you’re in your hometown, it might be a
bit embarrassing to get completely wasted and
shake your insubstantial booty to a rock band.
But you’re in Austin, and we’re blacked-out drunk
anyway, so there’s nothing to be ashamed of
when you go nuts to the best garage rock party
band you’ve ever seen.
Worst Places to Take a Shit
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For those of us who spend our free time drinking
Pabst Bluest of Ribbons, smoking cigarettes and
eating Death Metal Pizza there is a foreboding
truth: eventually you are going to have to poo
at a bar. Here are some places in Austin to pray
you are nowhere near when that inevitable
moment happens.
The Ritz
No stalls. No door. Just two shitters set right in
the middle of the floor, prison style. Imagine the
conversation you’re going to have when some
bald guy with lambchops walks in on you at
your most vulnerable. “Hey man. Takin’ a shit,
huh?” Um...yeah.
Emo’s
Made notorious after The Onion’s “Bathroom
Too Disgusting to Shit In” article. Well,
they pretty much nailed it on the head (pun
intended). Over a decade of use by the most
depraved individuals in Austin, plus the fact
that it’s never been cleaned (not once!). You’re
better off using the port-a-potty with vomit all
over the seat.
Hole in the Wall
It’s a strange, voyeuristic thrill to peek through
the hole to see the bar while you’re peeing.
But that same thrill works in reverse for the
drunks at the bar who can peek in while you’re
dropping anchor. 100% true Misprint fact: Willy
Nelson once took a shit at the Hole in the Wall.
The Side Bar
First of all, drunk couples are kicking in the
door every 5 minutes, either looking for an illicit
place to snog or a private spot to bump some
rails. Second, the chalkboard is just too high to
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write insightful banter or sketch pictures of sad
raindrops.
Nasty’s
When the bar is called Nasty’s and has panties
in the rafters, it’s not like you have high
expectations of restroom quality. But the toilet
here, embedded in a janky homebuilt plywood
box, kind of makes the bushes near the parking
lot look pretty appealing.
G&S Lounge
The problem with G&S’s facility is the mirrors on
three walls. Nobody wants to look at themselves
taking a dump in infinity. Not to mention the
bartender will probably scream at you for
smelling up the place.
The Parish
This bathroom’s downfall lies in its proximity
to the stage. Picture yourself pooing while
listening to the droning keyboard solo of some
shitty roadshow you paid $42 to go see. Talk
about regret.
The Aquarium
The toilets at the Aquarium are probably the
best place to contract a VD in all of Austin.
Think about a gangload of crabs establishing a
fraternity and holding rush week on your taint,
just because you had to take a dump right now.
Title: SXSW XX Wristband
Location: Your wrist
Typographer: Lewis Black
On Austin Typography
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE THE PRIVILEGE
of waiting in line for two and a half hours
to obtain a SXSW wristband. Unless it’s the
privilege of waiting in line for two and a
half hours outside of Exodus to hear some
cornballs from Norway while the badge
crowd casually meander in. Typography just
doesn’t pay what it used to.
Fashion-conscious individuals will be
scrutinizing each article of their wardrobe,
from the angle of their student protest
bandana to the degree of nip exposure. Alas,
I am concerned no one will think to appraise
the one accessory that remains on their arm
the entire week. And that's a shame because
the SXSW wristband fucking sucks.
I was almost immediately able to figure out
that the typeface used for the wristband was
Poplar. This is a shame, because it’s a generic
font found on every Macintosh computer
with a design program. This bland choice
simply doesn’t do justice to innovative bands
such as The John Popper Project, Saves the
Day and Dashboard Confessional.
And what exactly was the decision process
behind placing the double X's over the W,
like a pair of pasties mocking you when all
you want to see is the good stuff? For me,
the good stuff will be far too hard to come
by because all my well-laid plans are now in
mental shambles.
But that’s good for Boy Least Likely To.
They used the typeface Clarendon on their
album cover and I was planning on attending
their showcase and calling them out as the
pussies that they are.
Elephant Room
Nice paint job, dudes. Nothing beats trying to
drop a deuce in an atmosphere reminiscent of
those catacombs in France where they put all
the dead people after the plague. Not to mention
the background racket of some “cool” cat’s
miserable attempts at scatting.
Words I Could Have Used Instead Of “Douchebaggotry” In My SXSW Intro:
Cocksuckery
Lameitude
Sucktronica
Buttfuckery
Dicklickery
Back-Alley Handjobbery
Party at the Moon Tower
Free Shit We Got
A thinly veiled attempt, disguised as journalism, to score more free promotional hogwash.
LATELY, AUSTIN STEREOTYPES have been
out of control. Real World portrayed Austin
as a party town devoid of culture and full
of immature drunks beating each other up.
Rollergirls showed a city of tattooed and
unhinged women. Kinky and Willy are
the token cosmic cowboys. Fortunately, as
SXSW will no doubt prove, these prejudices
couldn’t be further from the truth.
Linklater damned us worst of all with that
fucking party at the Moon Tower. Fair
warning to all the out-of-towners: the best
way to piss off a local, aside from moving
here, is to affect your best stoned voice and
ask some dudebro about the “party at the
Moon Tower.”
Equal parts architectural oddity, phallic
symbol and fevered drug-fixation, the Moon
Towers are as much a part of Austin as
throwing up in the beer garden at Emo’s.
Dazed and Confused made them famous
but, despite being ubiquitous, even most
locals don’t know their real story.
The Moonlight Towers are a failed
experiment in urban lighting erected in
Austin in 1895. The general idea was to
illuminate the city with 31 super bright
carbon arc lamps atop 160 foot guy towers.
This was in lieu of the overwhelmingly
practical and obvious solution of
streetlights; presumably an early attempt
to keep Austin weird. They each had a
dedicated generator and were supposedly
bright enough to read by for a 3000 foot
radius. Yokels were in a panic, worried,
among other baseless fears, that their plants
would grow out of control.
But the actual history just scratches the
surface of the lore surrounding the Towers.
Most locals remember when Stevie Ray
Vaughn admitted that he lost his virginity
beneath a tower at 12th and Lavaca.
However, their darker, Masonic origins
remain largely obscured. Not unlike the
Frost Tower, the Longbranch Inn and the
Sword, the Moon Towers are said to have
been the product of occultist influence. The
original architect of the project was said
to be a noted Freemason and spiritualist.
He insisted on 31 towers instead of the
original 32 due to the number’s cabalistic
significance. It is said that when viewed
from above, the Towers’ original positions
clearly outline a seven-pointed star, a symbol
of esoteric Freemasonry. It also resembles
a marijuana leaf, if you look at it right, so
maybe that architect was just really high.
So, whether looking for an occult conspiracy
or just underage drinking, the Moonlight
Towers are a sure bet. Only fifteen remain as
historically significant local curiosities, their
magic grow-lights replaced with modern
bulbs. Do your part to keep Austin clichéd
and smoke a bowl under one. Or grab a bike
and half a 30-pack and try drinking a beer
under each one.
Tickets to the premier of
“The Outdoorsmen”
Perryscope Pictures
The Psychobilly Sickness DVD
Stay Sick Pictures
Back in my college days, when everything was
simple and easy, a group of my friends decided to
have a keg race. The race was comprised of two
kegs of Icehouse beer and two teams of fifteen
randy dudes. The rules were simple: whichever
team finished their keg first was declared winner.
The race resulted in 30 drunken life-amateurs
with a trash can half-filled with vomit. In pursuit
of the intelligentsia/literati persona I have
attempted to cultivate since graduating, I have
done my best to eradicate this memory and
replace it with the time I drove to Fort Worth to
see a Dan Flavin retrospective.
When I drink I think that I am funny. For instance,
one time while drunk at the Cucaracha I asked a
tattoo-laden woman where she got her “work”
done. I thought this was funny. She, however, did
not. She mocked me to no end, which I suppose
I deserved. In the end, her boyfriend (who kind
of looked like a cartoon character mix of Johnny
Bravo and the Fonz) turned out to be the nicest
guy ever and took pity on me, preventing me from
being beat up by a girl right in the club.
At the beginning of The Outdoorsmen, I began to
reminisce over the time in my life when I would
have preferred to spend my vacations smoking
pot in Moab as opposed to listening to unsigned
rock bands in Austin. I suppose this is the
charm of the documentary. That, and watching
blindfolded fat dudes roll around in the dirt looking
for cans of Bud Light.
In summation, this movie premier was a lot like
going to a regular movie, except it was free and
the director was there. This gave the premier a
slight air of exclusivity that wore off as soon as
the check for my beer arrived.
Rather than watch and review The Psychobilly
Sickness, which would be like having Abe Vigoda
review a Bun B album, I decided to find out if
there is anyone left who still likes psychobilly.
Unfortunately, the Cucaracha has closed, and I
couldn’t find any Flametrick Subs shows (they’re
apparently featured in this dvd, by the way, but I
suppose I would have to actually watch it to find
out) before this article needed to be finished.
Still, I will keep this DVD in case I ever bring home
a rollergirl or Satan’s Cheerleader so that I can
prove I am down with her scene.
Send your free shit to:
Misprint Magazine
PO Box 303157
Austin, Texas 78703
Gossip! Gossip! Gossip!
After a decade of coke-induced constipation,
Axl Rose is finally ready to crap out “Chinese
Democracy.” Slash is too busy banging Stone
Temple Pilots groupies and dipping into
Scott Weiland’s stash to care.
Drama-thirty at the Ritz! New owners
threaten to take down the bike racks, get rid
of the tatts, and turn the Ritz into honkytonk for underage drunk girls and the men
who love them. MySpace goes apeshit, and
air-hockey players get pissed.
A Flock of Seagulls finally made good on
their threat to play Austin, giving you an extra
chance that week to relive the worst parts of
the 80’s at Elysium. They’re all bald now, so
forget using the show as inspiration for your
next bro-hawk.
The Octopus Project is jetting off to
Coachella to party with Madonna, proving
once and for all that your band is not Austin’s
next big thing.
The Beastie Boys are in town and have been
hanging around Stubb’s, looking to give
Hasid mic-rocker Matisyahu a stern beat
down. This town is only big enough for one
crew of Jewish MCs, bitch! Too bad for the
Beasties that Matisyahu is so hot he’s getting
record deals from Ariel Sharon. Take that
back to Brooklyn.
And to all you fuckers stabbing people at
rock shows: cut that shit out. What is this,
the West Side Story? If you’ve got to settle
a score, Ponyboy, settle it like a man: write
about it on your blog.