ifc”There are two of you, don’t you see? One that sleeps… and one that parties.”
It happens every goddamn year: the Austin anxiety. The smell of cheap beer, rotting taco meat on the city streets, hand a hangover with the emotional weight of childhood trauma. Stumbling, mumbling, and rumbling, you head into South by Southwest each day with only one thought, What’s next?
Because the annual conference-turned-clusterfuck squeezes the music industry dry until every artist decides to buckle up and drive/fly/teleport/Skype down to the Texas capitol… there’s so much going on that even your Google docs tell you to piss off. Ideally, you’d just hit up whatever’s next, but here’s the thing: Whatever’s next is never good enough.
More, more, more. Me, me, me. Mine, mine, mine. Now, now, now. It’s a greedy week of entitlement, but if you’re clever enough to jot down a few notes and just go in with the expectation that you’ll be humbly deaf, severely constipated, and slightly bleeding at the toes — well congratulations, you’re a veteran and come next year, you can say: “I was in the shit.”
So, yeah, god bless these parties.