On the final night, I make it to exactly zero festival-sponsored shows. I do catch a charmingly named punk-oriented anti-SXSW showcase, Fuck by Fuck You, held outside of an art gallery next to some train tracks. Appropriately, I can't bring myself to give a fuck about any of the bands, but the visual art is compelling. A giant unframed canvas of demonic children shares space with a sculpture of found objects covered with a sticky-looking whitish substance. I'm sure it's some sort of glue.
At the Vice Records party I unintentionally catch energetic Brits Bloc Party (see CD review, p. 51) for the third time in four days, which I fear makes me a Blochead. Sorry about that. I must need to go home.
Read Lindsey Thomas's SXSW diary here.