Scott Andrew - lo-fi acoustic pop superhero!

I spent Friday night hanging out with Jay on Sixth Street.

8:00 pm

We’re standing in line to talk to Toby Slater following his set at Maggie Mae’s. I’m hoping to purchase one of his CDs, but Toby is currently attending to two young female fans who seem intent on holding his attention for as long as possible. Behind them, two more women, both middle aged, and then Jay and I. After a while one of the older women, agitated with the long wait, turns to the other and says something, and I catch a few words about “groupie ettiquette.” The woman notices that I heard, and we both grin. “Groupie ettiquette?” I say, and she says “there’s a code, there’s rules.” I laugh a bit. “No, really! And I should know.” And with that she holds out her badge for us to read:

PENNY LANE

I turn to Jay, trying hard not to react visibly. Well, she’s about the right age for it. Hm. I sneak another peak at her badge while she talks to her friend. Penny Lane? Nah. That can’t be right.

Toby is still busy with the girls, and the woman begins counting. “Five, four, three, two, one…” and with that, she and her friend turn on their heels and leave. And that is how Toby just missed talking with rock’s most famous groupie. Maybe.

We talk to Toby for about five minutes. I ask him if he thought his online efforts to draw a crowd to his set were successful. He said something to the effect that every warm body counts, and it’s inexpensive, so yes, it worked satisfactorily. However, it’s just a drop in the bucket. Toby jokes about writing a song about MetaFilter (”Why Can’t I Self-Link?” and “Take It To MetaTalk” are some of the titles we come up with); a novelty song like that would make him the darling of the moment, but Toby’s skeptical of the inside-joke approach. He’s a nice guy and seems to be working hard to firestart something. I buy one of his promo CDs.

9:20 pm

Now we’re at Buffalo Bill’s, checking out the Six Parts Seven, a band from Kent, Ohio. They’ve got an indie rock sound, but you can tell they really want to be prog rock. Someone in this group listens to a lot of Genesis and King Crimson; I’m betting it’s the older-looking guitarist who has this crazy finger-tapping, Steve Hackett style.

11:10 pm

I had no idea there was a huge open-air amphitheatre behind Stubb’s BBQ. Jay and I are here to catch Better Than Ezra, who are still alive and kicking even though no longer signed to a major label. Jay is a New Orleans native, and went to the same high school as the guys in BTE and had his own band. Apparently they fought over who would play the school dances.

Better Than Ezra comes onstage and proceeds to rock the roof off (well, there was no roof to begin with, but you get the idea). They’ve got a new album out which apparently has some acoustic guitar-based tunes, including a catchy sing-along song which seemed to be a sly jab at Sugar Ray. The lead singer is magnetic, waving his arms and playing to the crowd. “They’re definitely not the same band,” says Jay, who then explains that BTE was more of a shoegazer band when they started out in New Orleans. And loud too, without the subtlety displayed in tonight’s set. We figure they must be drunk, or happy to be free from major label obligations. I recognize the few radio hits, although their breakout songs “Good” and “In The Blood” are absent.

12:15 am

Where is Johnny Lang? He was supposed to go on at midnight, after Better Than Ezra, but there’s no sign of him. The tech guys are taking their sweet time setting up the equipment. Damn, it’s cold tonight too.

12:30 am

Still waiting for Johnny Lang.

12:42 am

Lack of fiery blues licks is causing my ankles to freeze.

12:50 am

Lang finally takes the stage, and it’s worth the wait. How old is this kid now anyway, 19? Jay and I come to a quick conclusion: it’s just not fair. No one should be that talented. Lang’s voice might as well be that of an old Mississippi delta bluesman, and he probably can’t even legally drink yet. Oh yeah, and he plays guitar too. Like really good. Like better than you. Being the rhythm guitarist in Johnny Lang’s band is probably as easy as being the bass player for Van Halen. Easy money, just strum and try not to get in the way of the scorching leads that arc from Lang’s guitar. When Lang stops playing you can imagine smelling ozone.

It’s not fair. Geez, save some for the rest of us!

“This music plays so well in this town,” Jay says. “Everyone misses Stevie Ray.” Jay, who attended school in Austin, tells me a short story about the day of the fatal helicopter crash. “There were people standing at a shop window where there were television sets, and they were crying. All of Austin was silent that day.”

We hold out for three tunes before the cold drives us into the street and back toward the hotel.