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Friday, March 14, 2003 The SXSW Reports: Return Of Liz Phair Neumu's Christopher Hess writes: Thursday afternoon at the Austin Convention Center, headquarters for official SXSW business and, apparently, the place that offers the best reception for cell phones, Liz Phair took the ballroom stage to a surprisingly reserved reception. Polite, curious applause and a single hoot bubbled up from the audience, which filled about two-thirds of the seats in the cavernous room. A five-year hiatus and a less-than-great last record (1998's Whitechocolatespaceegg had plenty of good tunes, but as a whole it largely failed to live up to the standards set by her previous recordings) are perhaps justification for writing Phair off, but the promise of a short set followed by an onstage interview was enticing enough for me. Phair, in short skirt and jacket, looking from a distance as if she's barely changed at all since the release of her brilliant debut, 1993's Exile in Guyville, held an electric guitar and was accompanied by a guy on acoustic guitar and a guy on bass. They started out with a pair of new songs: the first, called "Extraordinary," an interesting if fairly standard pop song with a classic Phair heroine, the "average-everyday-saint-psycho-supergoddess"; the second a ballad addressing the euphoria of the early stages of a relationship, candid and nasty in a safe sort of way. Though it's tough to get a real sense of a song in this sort of setting, it appears that Phair is in another realm of songwriting for her new record, a self-titled release due out on Capitol in June. There are songs about the excitement of love and sex, and songs of empowerment again, supplanting the post-motherhood theme of her last with that of a reawakening to life outside the home. Then she took us through nice renditions of "Uncle Alvarez" and "Supernova" before surrendering her guitar and band and sitting down to talk with Neil Portnow, the new president of the National Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences (yep, the ones responsible for the Grammys). Sure, the questions were softballs (at least the first few were — hey, there's lots of places I gotta be this week, can't hang around for every minute of everything), but it was good to see Phair play and to know that what she's doing is still vital. The most surprising aspect of this year's conference so far is the lack of political dialog coming from stages around town. While it's true that everyone's experiences here are different, and that maybe some other journos have gotten healthy doses of antiwar rhetoric along with every set, I've had none — or at least very little. At the day party at Emo's, Calexico singer Joey Burns unleashed a brief if passionate account of his feelings on the impending war. Same with David Bazan, lead singer for Pedro the Lion, who mumbled a few words about the mistake our country was about to make toward the end of his band's lackluster set. In fact, if there's anything to tie the day together, it's that most of the performances I saw were limp, void of both of urgency and passion — there was not a sense that their 40 minutes on stage had any import at all. For a band that's already arrived, that has labels and a fanbase and a general public perception of them, SXSW could be a pain in the ass. Hurry in, rush to set up, play 'til they yank you, then hurry off. Still, though there's a perception that these shows are populated by sleazy industry types out on a big deductible weekend of debauchery, for the most part the audience comprises fans, kids who've bought wristbands and hope to see as many of the bands they love as they can. To phone it in, as did Pedro the Lion, who followed some strict adherence to plodding mid-tempo groaners and intentionally subdued and pointless murmuring between songs, just doesn't cut it. People's entire evenings were planned around these shows, and the Roxy was jammed by 1 a.m. when their set was to start. One of two exceptions on this day came in the first showcase. At 8 p.m. Sally Crewe grabbed a barstool and brought it onstage at BD Riley's. From that stool, the diminutive London singer/songwriter took us on a tour of her new album, Drive It Like You Stole It, a well-thought, well-played batch of rough-edged indie folk tunes. The record was produced by Britt Daniel and Jim Eno of Spoon, who also supplied drums and guitars for the record under the moniker the Sudden Moves, so it seemed reasonable to think they might be her band for this set. They were in attendance, but they only watched, even though Daniel was summoned to the stage late in the set to provide backing vocals. "Well, guess he's busy," Crewe intoned when Daniel failed to step up. But no matter — her set went off well and the audience dug it, her songs strong enough to stand up to the ubiquitous pub chatter and roaring of Harley engines out on 6th Street. The other exception came during the New West Records day party at Club DeVille. In seeing Liz Phair, I missed The Flatlanders, which seems in hindsight a bad choice on my part. But I did get to Club DeVille in time for Denton, Texas rockers Slobberbone's set. Though their last record has them turning up the pop in the mix, and recent shows have borne this out to the detriment of the all-out sweaty booze-rock that makes them so good, this time out they were ready to tear shit up. Their set was all energy, lead singer Brett Best flailing madly and spraying the front rows with enough sweat to make us forget it had stopped raining, ending in a beautifully done, long-grinding version of Neil Young's classic "Cortez the Killer." Before the set Best thanked New West sincerely, calling them "The only people who have ever taken us seriously." A rare moment of label appreciation. The rest of the night was sort of a wash. I just missed the Kent, Ohio band the Six Parts Seven, whose instrumental indie rock was one of the highlights of last year's conference. Hella, one of a staggering number of drum-guitar duos playing this year, rocked hard and crazy, and the Helio Sequence, another drum-guitar duo, took 25 of their 40 minutes to clear up computer problems. When they did start they shook the joint, but a three-song set doesn't allow for much of an impact. Next, over at the Ritz, the Bay Area quartet Stratford 4 practically bored me to death. They sounded flat and muddy, a one-dimensional wash of sound that was lost in the rafters, even 10 feet from the speakers. Over on the patio at Le Privelege, Chicago's 90 Day Men battled their own sound issues, forcing their jarring, brainy indie movements through a plastic backdrop that made the music sound better out on the street below than right in front of the stage. Things came together better for Seen, the drum-jam project of Rex and June of 44 drummer Doug Scharin, and they were able to lay down some long, funky grooves that fell somewhere between Tortoise and a drum circle. With three days' worth of music left to see, it's tough to despair over a few wasted Thursday-night sets. And with Jon Langford and his Waco Bros still slated for daytime shows and their own showcase, I'll surely get a good dose of political wind before this whole thing is over. The InsiderOne Daily Report appears on occasion.