— Ran into Alan McGee of Creation Records/Biff Bang Pow! fame. He looked terribly out of place and Dickensian in Austin with his expensive wool navy trenchcoat, bald pate, and translucently white Scottish skin. He’s managing Mogwai now. It’s something of a comedown after running one of the most influential and excellent indie-rock labels ever, but he seems to be enjoying it. Do yourself a favor and listen to this all-time pop classic: “There Must Be A Better Life.”

—Tried to see Jose Gonzalez at Eternal Nightclub; was turned away because I had a record bag. “No bags,” said the security dude, “unless you’re a photographer.” “How about if you’re a journalist?” I replied. “No.” WTF? Are pens now dangerous weapons?

—Walking around Austin during SXSW, it becomes apparent that rock—be it indie or major label—quickly assumes the character of Muzak. It’s everywhere and most of it blends into the background with a peppy, gray-beige innocuousness. It’s telling when watching the SXSW crowds is far more interesting than 97 percent of the artists playing the fest.

—Cleverest street vendor name: The Best Wurst.

—Cleverest sticker seen on a portable toilet:
www.humbert.net
songs that don’t suck

—Norwegian quintet Serena Maneesh really love Loveless by My Bloody Valentine. Although obviously in thrall to that shoegazer masterpiece, SM do the legacy justice, and they all look fantastically fuckable (except for the violinist). They play Seattle March 25 and their album drops in late May on Matador. Start salivating now.

—Cleverest T-shirt slogan spotted: I LOOK BETTER ONLINE

—Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster resurrected psychotic gothabilly with a druggy danger. The vocalist roamed throughout the Flamingo Cantina club and had the gall to bump into a patron, who in turn spilled her drink on my notepad and track jacket. You see how I suffer for you?

—At Parrish, Art Brut’s singer actually sings, “Unfortunately, this is my singing voice.” He wears an ironic mustache, an ironic suit and tie, and starts every song, “Ready Art Brut?” He’s in the tradition of great British frontmen like the Fall’s Mark E. Smith, Pulp’s Jarvis Cocker, and whoever sang for Half Man Half Biscuit—too hyper-aware by half and deconstructing his words as they tumble out of his rotten-toofed mouf. It’s funny for about 20 minutes, cloying for any longer. The music is angular, Fall-like post-punk with choons you can whistle instantly.

—At GoGoGoAirheart’s gig, there was a guy dressed all in red and wearing a mustache. I don’t think any of it was ironic.