Misprint Magazine Volume 2 Issue 6 by misprintmagazine

we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t love to hate. we hate what we love.

Hyperliterate smut for the disaffected.

the sxs whatever issue

volume 02

issue 05 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 06

MARCH 2007

VOL 02 ISSUE 05+06 MARCH 2007 we don’t love to hate. we hate what we love.

VITALS

CONTAct

Kip Hollingsworth

www.misprintmagazine.com hollaback@misprintmagazine.com www.myspace.com/misprintmag

Director of Small Capitals & Expert Numerals

Harvey Merrybottom

Director of Co-Conspiritories

L. Fauntleroy

Director of Diplomacies & Backroom Deals

Chadwick Pennyrich III

Director of Visual Arts & Languages The views expressed here are strictly those of the authors, and do not represent the views of Misprint Magazine, which is kind of weird because the ideas of author and entity are actually entirely codependent of one another, but fuck it.

Send us your free shit! Misprint Magazine PO Box 303157 Austin, Texas 78703 For inquiries, kudos, hate mail and the rest, e-mail Misprint at the above address.

EMAIL TO THE DIREctORS Howdy Misprint! My name is Kathy Ross. I am the business manager for The Zak Perry Band. I wanted to let you know I am sorry for the unfortunate experience you had at Nuno’s (vol 2, no 3). As for your remarks about the “shitty cover band who, from the street, appeared mildly retarded,” I would like to request that you check out the band. They have charted both nationally and internationally with several of their originals, many of which have hit number 1 on various charts. <end of message> Oops! I accidentally sent this before ﬁnishing or editing it. I guess I am mildly retarded! LOL! I hope you will enjoy the original music. We really appreciate it. Sincerely, Kathy Ross/The Zak Perry Band

(Editor’s Response) It’s true, our experience at Nuno’s was unfortunate, but you can hardly blame yourself. It was a staggering blow to our fragile egos that they wouldn’t waive the cover for esteemed members of the press. As such, it is possible we never gave Zak Perry a fair shot. Howdy Harvey! If you want to go to Dallas we will be opening for Grand Funk Railroad. We would be glad to put you on the list. I will even buy you a Lone Star. Maybe it will lighten up that cynical attitude or at least mask our retardation. LOL! Thanx! Kathy Ross (Editor’s Response) There aren’t enough Lone Stars in the world. Love, Misprint

A few words from the Director... WHAT CAN I SAY? So far, 2007 has been a banner year for Misprint Magazine. Consider all the hard work we didn’t do by not publishing a January issue for our planned issue release party. And how we forgot to alert our extensive media contacts that the show was even taking place? Brilliant.

Chadwick Pennyrich III

Despite all this, the community-at-large came out in spades, from glamorous coverage in every “Voice of Austin” weekly to the swelling of our Misprint Street Team ranks. Even Rupert “Crocodile Mile” Murdoch texted my Treo during the Oklahomos’ set to find out about our stock options. It’s after no soul searching at all that I’ve come to this conclusion: doing nothing is awesome. In fact, it’s the only way to succeed. So, once again the corporate shitstorm of SXSW is upon us all. To that I say a big “whatever.” For two years we’ve tried to sneak into all those sweet afterparties. We did our homework in an attempt to score some fucking press laminates. And we wasted countless hours trying to look fly to score Canadian 'tang. But this year we’re not trying at all. Because by not trying, I know for a fact that our wasted faces will be on every Lame Party Photographer’s weblog. Plus, we’re making our press badges out of old orange juice cartons. And ladies, I’m sorry but no one on the staff will be wearing one of those ridiculous printed hoodies. You’ll just have to love us the way we are. Cheers,

Chadwick Pennyrich III

Confessions of a Male Model

How To Pass a Drug Test

Just like a band sometimes needs a second drummer, a stylist sometimes needs a dude to be in a photoshoot with a bunch of hot chicks. Both of these roles are utterly pointless, yet somehow still prevail. Because of this, becoming a male model can be psychologically devastating. So before you say yes to a proposition from that “photographer,” you should read these words of advice from a real, former, ex male model.

Let’s face the facts; sometimes life is harsh. Whether you’re trying to land that sweet job working at the local auto parts store or you’re just keeping your ass out of county jail, the sad truth is that sooner or later you will have to pee in a cup. But fear not, if you just need to smoke a blunt with the homies every once in a while, odds are that it’s not too late. So read on and take good notes, and remember that all it takes is a little initiative and a complete disregard of the possible consequences.

Look Disaffected To get the look that “sells,” you just have to pretend that you really don’t want to be wherever they’re making you stand around and pose. Imagine watching your grandparents make out, or attending a show put on by Best Fwends. Or just simplify it and imagine the Best Fwends making out. Perfect. You just made the cover of Whoopsy.

Get Someone to Piss for You Remember when you were eight years old and you shit your pants on a sleepover, then had to borrow clean underwear from your friend? Me neither. Prepare yourself for nearly the same level of awkwardness when you ask your 10-year-old cousin to piss in a condom for you. It’s sad enough that you don’t even know a single person in town who can pass a drug test. But it’s even worse that you need drugs so bad that you’re willing to THC cells. I recommend that you mix two strap on a fake dong filled with someone else’s packets of the Knox gelatin mix with a tall urine. glass of Orange Juice to make it a little easier Sweat it Out to stomach. Just keep drinking water and Austin’s army of smelly, anarchist cyclists will watching your beard until its time to head to probably never get drug tested. But if they the test. ever end up on probation, lower body mass Don’t Do Drugs index and better general fitness means less We all know Whole Foods has already met fatty tissue to absorb drugs. You probably get its quota of stoners working the bakery out of breath playing Mario Tennis on your department. Maybe it’s time to trade in Wii, so its unrealistic to think you’ll get off the bong hits for the straight and narrow. your fat ass to start riding your bike to the Although it might seem hopeless, remember bar. In a pinch, a few extended sauna sessions this: in the land of the pretentious Austin before the test might help. Just try to resist party lifestyle, the one without vice is king. the urge to hotbox it in there. Since you’ve been forced to go clean, be as Gelatin self-righteous about it as possible. When This dude I know at the Flamingo totally your shitty band finally breaks up, you’ll have swears by this, so you know it’s a sure thing. instant immunity from blame since you aren’t Though it’s a no go for the vegans, a gelatin the addict for a change. And of course, there’s mix is the pothead’s best friend. The general always alcohol and cigarettes. idea is to ingest enough gelatin to coat the entire inner lining of your digestive tract. Once you drink a gallon of water, it will simply pass through your system without coming into contact with those pesky

Don’t Pay For Your Drinks More than likely, the chance of you getting compensated for your time in the form of cash is about zero. This being the case, you might as well get profoundly bombed out of your skull. If the photographer has any cred at all (meaning he/she’s getting paid by a real publication, e.g. something other than Misprint) there is probably a company platinum card involved. Ask for it up front and order yourself a Jägerbomb, stat.

No One Cares About You If your photos ever make their way into a publication, I can guarantee you no one will care. First of all, dudes do not want to look at other dudes, no matter how sexily-disaffected you might have pulled off that one shot. Even girls don’t want to look at pictures of dudes. Girls want to look at pictures of other girls, and secretly hate them or pretend that they’re best friends and do fun stuff together, like thrifting or flying kites. You Are An Asshole Once your lovely mug is published, you have officially become, in everyone’s eye, a complete and utter asshole. It doesn’t matter if you volunteer at a soup kitchen, broke up The Arm or spent a summer rescuing baby sea lions. You, my friend, are an asshole. There’s no real reason why. Ask anyone, like one of your (now former) friends, and they’ll just say “I don’t know, I can’t quite put my finger on it, it’s just... hmmm...I just think you’re an asshole. ” The Female Models Will Not Sleep With You I’m sure you’re super stoked to get all up close with the female model who will be the star attraction. Somehow, you’ll think that you’re on equal level with her and perhaps the two of you have a lot of shared passions, like looking at magazines. This couldn't be further from the truth. The truth is that she really doesn’t care if you're there or not. And no, she actually won't sleep with you. That's because she's dating some retarded local band's second drummer.

Misprint vs. Papa Roach Kicking around the dead corpse of nu-metal isn’t much fun anymore. Not to say I’m above it, but I don’t go out of my way to take the cheap shots I used to. But there are times when it becomes unavoidable, when seemingly random circumstances conspire against you. For example, if you’re working the shipping department at the homebrew store and they call your name on the radio to say you just won backstage passes to see Papa Roach, you get fucking stoked. When you go to see the Roach, you get katzenjammered and out pops Misprint gold. On its surface, the plan seemed ﬂawless. There is nothing I won’t endure for our readers, even nu-metal. And I sure as fuck wasn’t going to miss a chance to “party with the band”. The Papa Roach interview was going to be biggest coup in Misprint history. Moreover, I didn’t know anything about this band except for that shitty yet infectious “Last Resort” song. While nu-metal clings to life like a gutshot brontosaurus and Fred Durst can’t get anyone to come to his parties, the Roach has instead reinvented itself as a generic hard rock band. They only rap when absolutely necessary and their scratch DJ went back to work at the strip club where they found him. I got to La Zona Rosa at the obscene hour of 7 pm, my janky backstage wristband and innate pretension the only protection against the drooling, aging nu-metal masses. I sauntered up to the stage door like I owned the place, Papa Roach Fan #1. The gorilla bouncer stopped me like I was the asshole, and dropped the bomb: backstage time was over at 6. I was instantaneously reduced from a subversive, elite rock journalist to being just another wanker at a shitty rock show. Visions of green room groupies, sandwich platters, and an incisive yet subtle shit-hot interview

vanished. The only recourse left was to get annihilated and speculate why the agonizing openers HED(PE) were so bad at punctuation. Eventually the Roach took the stage. I always thought once you make it big, your label kicks the unattractive people out of your band. This is evidently not the case, as the Roach’s drummer was far from the svelte, chiseled numetal powerhouse you might expect. It was sad to watch him toweling down his sweaty neck after every song, but even more sad to think about the gnarsome, zaftig, labret-pierced chicks he gets to bang after the show. The true dealmaker was the frontman, Coby Dick, a confused patchwork amalgam of the last 7 years or so of fringe rocker aesthetic: part goth, part punk, part tattooed Red Eyed Fly reject. The end result was a Queer Eye makeover of a Perry Farrell impersonator with a little bit of L.A. pretty boy emo mixed in. Neck tatts are legit any way you slice it, but they’re a lot less scary when paired with caked-on makeup and a $200 bird of paradise haircut. His dance moves looked like an eighth grader trying out slam dancing at his ﬁrst Snapcase show. My favorite moment was when he asked us to call our radio stations to request their new single. The crowd was way into it. I wondered if these guys had bothered to listen any other bands in the last 5 years since they didn’t seem to realize how far oﬀ the mark they actually were. I don’t necessarily think that the dudes in Papa Roach are assholes. I just think they make bad music. They’re just another bunch of idiots from some other Red River scene who had a few good shows in a row and got gobbled up by the California money machine. Somewhere along the line they had enough drugs, booze and girls in the same place and decided that their band was actually cool. After that it all just went to shit and nu-metal douchebaggotry was born.

we don’t love to hate. we hate what we love.

Ramesh Srivastava, ringleader of Austin band Voxtrot, must be doing something right. They have about a billion Flickr photos tagged with their name, all taken by adoring girls who’ve bought every one of their EPs. We caught up with Ramesh on what I’m sure is the brink of rock-stardom, complete with glitzy cover shoots, collectible dolls and VH1 hosting gigs. Misprint: I’ve heard of this thing called an LP. It’s sort of like an EP, only longer. Am I crazy? Ramesh: You are indeed crazy. “LP” actually stands for Lonicera periclymenum, which is the Latin name for “Honeysuckle.” Do you think a lot of moms buy your EPs? Do you believe your failure to corner the Hot Mom demographic is directly related to your inability to grow facial hair? (Strokes the beard quite naturally afﬁxed to his chin in a focused expression of confusion). What’s the back story on the press photo with you all jumping in the air? That shit is adorable! Another botched suicide attempt. What’s it like being a huge rock star in Williamsburg and Silverlake? It’s fucking amazing. Last night, at Studio B, I hit Ryan McGinley in the head with a soup ladle, and just before he had the chance to get angry, he turned round, saw my face and uttered (in a rather broken and ﬂabbergasted tone), “Oh, that actually felt kind of good.” I read that you guys are big into techno. Do you have extra tight pants for the Eurodisco? Obviously. The stuff we wear in Europe is actually so tight that it’s illegal in the States. What did you think of Braveheart? I’m clearly FAR too biased to answer that question. I love your blog. What’s it like being a musician and a blogger? I was under the impression that, these days, pretty much everybody is a musician and a blogger. Clearly, you are missing out.

Sometimes it’s tough being Austin’s only music publication with any kind of journalistic integrity. But I’m not too proud to cash in all of Misprint’s street cred for a chance at a phone interview with American Idol/mom-slayer Taylor Hicks. All it takes is a few forged credentials, a couple choice emails with the label wankers and someone to pose as your editor. The rest is just Misprint magic. Do you know where I can score some blow? Obviously not, we’re twee, remember? Who was your favorite New Kid? I always liked Danny because of his dreamy eyes. Not sure... Too many “D’s.” Transformers or He-man? He-Man Bust, Jane or Glamour? Glamour. Which states have the most liberal statutory rape laws? Er, Texas, right? The Midwest: it sucks right? Not really a huge fan myself, but then again, I have always been a little high-strung. How many bandmembers are also “DJs”? All of us- we actually don’t even play instruments, everything is done in Final Scratch. Yes, those are MIDI guitars. It seems like you namedrop Finally Punk in every other interview. Do you really like them, or are you playing some kind of practical joke? Jokes on you! We ARE Finally Punk (think “Einhorn is Finkle”). Talk about self-promotion! What is your excuse for having only one drummer? We don’t. We basically pull that Olsen trick (a la Full House). Which one of you is dating Dakota Fanning? Me. Obviously...

Misprint: First off, congratulations on the American Idol win. I was rooting for you. You look kind of the guy who’s dating my little sister. Taylor Hicks: Uh, thanks. A lot of people have been talking about your gray hair. Do you think someone who is bald could become an American Idol? I had no idea America would embrace gray hair as much as they have. I think gray hair and baldness represent some maturity. What about someone with a beard? I don’t think so. I think people tend to distrust guys with beards. I have a beard. Well there you go. I don’t trust you. What have you been listening to these days? I hear you’re a big Billy Joel fan. Yeah, I like Billy Joel. What’s your favorite album? I like “Storm Front” a lot. I think its underrated. Me too. I think “We Didn’t Start the Fire” is a bitchin’ song. I love that part in the video where the hippy girl burns her bra. And it’s super sweet how Billy Joel looks like the Terminator with all the ﬁre behind him. Uhh... yeah. You have any beef with Justin Timberlake after he said you “couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket”? I think he’s just jealous. He’s all abs, no substance. Probably afraid of my sexy back. Have you been listening to any Austin bands? What do you think of SOUND Team? I never heard of the SOUND Team. I like Stevie, of course. And Los Lonely Boys.

Jojo from Los Lonely Boys gets arrested for marijuana every time he comes to town. As an American Idol, you probably shouldn’t get to cozy with habitual drug users. That’s too bad. I don’t know them personally, I just like their music. On the subject of habitual drug use, I heard you were jamming with Snoop Dogg not long ago. What was that like? It was fun. We did “Gin and Juice” and “What’s My Name, Fool.” Are you serious? Were you doing bong rips with Snoop? Oh, no, no. No, he was a total professional. I heard he quit drugs. Have you heard of Voxtrot? They’re a pretty big Austin band. You’d probably dig them, my mom is pretty into them. No. I’ll have to check them out. Speaking of moms, you’re single, an American Idol and the most eligible bachelor in showbiz. How many hot moms are you going to bang on this ﬁrst tour? What? Hot single moms. You’ve gotta be stacking up moms like the jeans section at Talbots. <silence> Are your pubes gray as well? Handler: <interrupting> That’s all the time Taylor has for the interview. Thanks for your time. Wait, wait, I didn’t get to ask you about Simon... Hello? Hello?

Mom By Momwest Last year at SXSW, it was all about getting your shit to the kids. In these very pages we dispensed invaluable advice about getting the cool haircut necessary to corner the youth market. But now it’s all about getting you wares to this year’s hot demographic, the Moms. Seriously, my mom won’t leave me alone. I get at least two emails from her a day asking if Goblin Cock is going to play the Absolutely Kosher showcase. So for all the bands out there, here are a few tactics to try to capture the moms’ cash, stash, and maybe their hearts. Word to the mother.

Write for the Moms It worked for The Clash, who solidified their status as the first and most famous momfriendly rockers with the classic “Lost in the Supermarket.” Take the hint and just skew the lyrics to topics that interest the modern Mom. Write songs about blogging, beekeeping, Percocet and Majhong. Take it to the Kids No matter how much they deny it, there isn’t a mom alive who would pass up a chance to fuck one of the Wiggles. I swear, the thought of taking a ride in the Big Red Car with Greg is guaranteed to moisten the panties of the coldest ice queen. So suck up your pride, put on your royal blue action suit and start singing wholesome numbers about Dorothy, the Counting Dinosaur and Wags, the tango loving puppy. The Wiggles are wrecking more moms every single night than Rod Stewart did on his last three tours. Hide Your Tattoos That full-sleeve masterpiece of Satan getting sucked off by Bugs Bunny in drag was a hit at the shitty dive bars where your band plays. But in order to have breakfast on Sunday morning with a hot mom and her son, you’re going to need a touch of class. This means long sleeves from Old Navy. Try to find them in black so you can still feel like a rocker.

Find a Keyboardist Having a keyboard player means your band is totally non-threatening, thus appealing to moms. Because no matter how hard you try to make it look like you’re really straining yourself to play those sweet synth leads, you’re not fooling anyone. You are not rocking out. No exceptions! Other instruments that make your act mom-friendly include banjos, ukuleles, glockenspiels, harps, violins (except when played by Warren Ellis), saxophones, bassoons, clarinets and acoustic guitars. Let Your Tour Van Double as a Mini-Van Sweep those empty Pabst cans out of the van. Collect those roaches in the ashtray for later. Try to wedge the skull oﬀ of your dashboard and hide your Bongzilla tapes in the glove box. In fact, try to eliminate all evidence that anything fun ever happened in your van. A rainbow air freshener will help. Perfect. Now it’s time to take the soccer team to an away game in Hutto. Get a Real Job If things start to get to serious, waking up butt naked in Tarrytown after your ripping show at Headhunters probably isn’t going to ﬂy. It might be time to trade in your axe for a W2. Your band sucked anyway.

Trend By Trendwest OUT

OUT

Student Protest Bandanas What’s there to protest anymore other than some downtown restaurant getting leveled for my new condo? Leave those kerchiefs back in your armoire, fellas, especially now that half of SXSW is on the scary East Side. They don’t take too kindly to Death Cabmeets-shoegaze foolery.

Ridiculous Printed Hip Hop Hoodies These things look fucking righteous, if you’re someone like The Game. But when you try to pull one of these oﬀ, you’re less “Jayceon from the block” and more “John-John from my loftlike dwelling.”

Showing Your Beard Dudes with extreme, gnarly facial hair are ﬁnally getting the conﬁdence and respect that they deserve, mainly because ZZ Top has never been cooler than they are right now.

High-grade cocaine The all-things-80’s revival is dead. Plus, this town lately has seen more nosebleeds than a slap ﬁght inside the Redrum.

Pants-shitting Doom Metal You want to be in an altered state? Try sitting still and listening to a 30-minute track of torso-grinding sludgecore about a colossal squid battling a sperm whale.

Showing Your Tits During an ACL show at the Emo’s main stage I saw Last Night’s Cobra snapping pics of some topless chick writhing on the ground by the bar in a giant puddle of Godknows-what. This pretty much signals the end of civilization, when sexiness involves festering in what can only be described as the runoﬀ of Emo’s taint. I’d rather drink Cavedweller’s bathwater.

Skinny Jeans This is nothing but bandwagoning at its worst, which is ironic because once you’re jammed into a pair of these jeans you can’t even bend your legs to hop onto the bandwagon. Instead, you’re left in a cloud of dust, looking like some lost, paralyzed cheesedick. This is the worst trend in the world and I’m glad it’s ﬁnally dead.

Skinnier Jeans Ah, shit.

Canadian ‘tang The whole country has taken a huge popularity hit thanks to the Scandal Scouts. The Canuck’s answer to the roller girls have single-handedly tarnished the image of both Canada and the Girl Scouts, despite the great nation’s contribution to post-rock, comedy and poutine.

Astronaut Tang It’s actually quite delicious, especially during one of those particularly balmy day shows. And it mixes great with vodka or everclear. Just don’t double cross it, because if you do you can pretty much guess which end of a lead pipe and plastic garbage bag you’re gonna be on.

Drummers All a band needs to do is plunk down a couple hundred bucks and they get a gizmo that does everything a drummer does, without being constantly drunk, bearded or hitting on your girlfriend.

Roadies Roadies are the working man, and not only can they twiddle knobs and tune strings, but they can ﬂy jet rocket packs, drive stunt cars and jump through plate-glass windows. They probably can play the drums, too.

British If I read one more press release about some “UK buzz band” I’m purchasing a FUCK Y’ALL, I’M FROM TEXAS shirt and wearing it without a trace of irony. If you’ve ever wanted to take in the Wren cathedral now might be the time to while Austin is boarding every wanker from across the pond.

Bloggers Like the British, they have sub-par hygiene. But get ready, because like some diet Pepsisoaked bee colony run amok, Austin will be overrun with sweaty dudes carrying nonscreenprinted man bags ﬁlled with laptops, digital cameras, laminates and high-priced Japanese dolls.

As hip as: Crying while masturbating to your Graham Coxon records. Comments: You know, I hadn’t heard from Damon Albarn in a while. I ﬁgured he retired to some Caribbean island to slam Coronas while he paid some Korean animator to draw him monkeys. Turns out he was just waiting for some label to round up a collection of limey has-beens and some dude who was in The Clash to form the lamest supergroup since Audioslave. Rating:

As hip as: Buying a cockring from a James Avery Catalog.

As hip as: Calling America “Scare-merica.”

Comments: When I saw this band, the singer showed up with his dong hanging out the bottom of his girl’s cutoff jean shorts. During one song the guitar players got into a ﬁght on stage, leaving only the drummer playing while screaming into the mic. The lead guitarist played the last two songs with blood pouring down his face. I thought it was fake, but he had 10 stitches in his head the next day. This band proves that all it really takes to get on to Vice Records is years of self-destructive alcohol abuse.

Comments: Virtuoso Mexican folk-metal duo are leading the charge of bringing musicianship back to live music insofar as they actually know how to play guitar. No hubris, no rock star bullshit, just a little bit of genuine talent. Actually, maybe they are rockstar assholes. I just don’t speak Spanish. Rating:

As hip as: Simultaneously empowering and degrading the Women’s Movement. Comments: Here’s a concept for a band: get three girls who look kinda hot when professionally photographed, have each one emulate a slightly different sexual cliché and then write a bunch of songs that are more about having sex than about creating remotely decent music. Oh well, it worked for Color Me Badd. Rating:

Rating:

THE HYPE HAS LANDED: BANDS YOU NEED TO SEE As hip as: Joining the Red River Homeowners Assoc.

As hip as: Interviewing Taylor Hicks.

Comments: With all the buzz on Blood Mountain, Mastodon has crossed the threshold into the territory of legitimate mainstream band. You might have missed them at the Grammys this year... they were the only guys on the red carpet with tattoos on their faces. I still think they’re a bunch of pussies, though. Slayer was nominated again this year (and won) but they didn’t show up for that bullshit. They were too busy drinking acetone, wearing 10” spikes as bracelets, partying with the U.S. secretary of the interior Dirk Kempthorne, and kicking Dave Mustaine’s ass, just for fun.

Comments: Remember when SXSW was about showcasing unsigned bands? Me either. If you “idolize” this asshole you deserve the eternal damnation of the Walmart-furnished hellhole you helped create. I say bring back “Star Search.” At least Ed McMahon had style. Rating:

As hip as: Getting a barcode neck tat and discovering it’s the code for a Gin Blossoms album. Comments: This is even worse than last year’s Wolfmother/Wolf Eyes/AIDS Wolf/Lazar Wolf fetish. Sure, pandas are fuzzy and all, but as far as I’m concerned any animal who is that determined not to fuck deserves extinction. I swear, there are more biologists trying to get pandas horny than Viagra ads in my inbox. Barry White? Panda porn? Just give them the dignity of a peaceful demise. Oh yeah, these bands all suck, too.

As hip as: Being neutral on new camo vs. old camo. Comments: Everything about this band makes me want to hate them: the damning one-two-three-combo of being fey, dancey and Swedish. It’s like a hipster version of ABBA only way, way gayer. But then I heard that “Young Folks” song on Grey’s Anatomy and I couldn’t get it out of my head. Just like that stripper I left in El Paso. Rating:

Rating:

As hip as: Rocking out with an 8-ball of Pearl Cream.

YOU NEED TO CHECK OUT THIS RATING SCALE.

LAME <----------------------------------------------------------> AWESOME

Justin Timberlake

Al Gore

Rick Rubin

Flintheart Glomgold

Frank Beard

Comments: Listen, Iggy Stooge has still got it. Sure that Sum41 record sucked balls, but Iggy didn’t care. He was banging his Nigerian-Irish stripper girlfriend the whole time in a penthouse suite. But if you cut Fun House and have sex with David Bowie you sort of get lifetime immunity. When he slides into his 501s, takes off his shirt and proceeds to wreck the shit out of every pussy buzz band to ever pick up a guitar you’ll remember what rock music is supposed to be about. Did I mention he turns 60 this year? Bitchin’. Rating:

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Austin Rock 101

Live Capitol of What?

Why ﬂy all the way to Austin just to see some shitty band from Canada? Why not partake in some of the homegrown rock that’s been put up on the chopping block?

Dear Mayor Will Wynn and honored City Council members:

Ghostland Observatory About a month ago some official SXSWanker said that no one should be pissed off about the delay of the official performer list because The Stooges, Pete Townsend and Ghostland Observatory were already announced to tide us over. Now I could believe that mentioning some band such as E.L.O. alongside the likes of the iconic (yet really old) Iggy & Pete might pass... but G.L.O? Nothing against them, because they’re good or whatever, but I’ve always suspected that if The Rapture moved to town Ghostland would be unemployed. Shockingly, despite their best efforts, the pigtail trend still hasn’t caught on.

The Black Angels With the tragic ritual hari-kari of Brother Will’s beard from the Brothers and Sisters, The Black Angels have now assumed the mantle of the beardliest band in town. Part of the local cadre of bands who like to sing songs about the Vietnam War, they have more MacBooks laying around than the Apple sweatshop in Hanoi.

Ume Featuring a totally hot, totally married, willowy pixie frontgirl who slays the guitar and screams so fiercely, she makes every axeman on Red River look like a complete pussy. Seeing Ume live is an experience where you are completely transfixed by the terrifying power of someone who is like the sexy version of Janis Joplin. Oh yeah, and I think there are a couple of dudes too, who play instruments and stuff.

My name is ___________________________. Recently, it has come to my attention that Austin’s moniker of “Live Music Capitol of the World” is without a doubt completely false. Please consider the many factors that counter that claim: noise ordinances, the smoking ban, downtown gentriﬁcation and the mile-long list of suckass bands and venues. In light of this, I suggest changing the name to one that is more apropos to the city’s history and culture. Here are a few examples to consider: Bat City, USA Home of the Original Emo’s™ Mixed-use Development Capitol of the World Austin: It Used to be the Tits 20 Years Ago Former Home of the Butthole Surfers Birthplace of Misprint Magazine

The Jungle Rockers The Jungle Rockers are Austin’s finest purveyors of gloriously ghoulish ass-shaking pagan garage rock. And yes, they look exactly like the kind of dudes who should be in a rockabilly band. I think one of them works as a barber, presumably specializing in pompadours, so you know they’re for real.

When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth This band has like seven drummers, four singers and sixteen guitar players. They all get really drunk, smoke Camel cigarettes and run around in the crowd screaming at you and knocking into things. Their music is the sound of a hyperactive man-child in a Viagra-induced seizure. Under some circumstances, this can be very enjoyable. Identifying such circumstances I leave as an exercise to the reader.

The Crack Pipes Seeing this band is almost like attending a tent revival show deep in the sweltering south. Except rather than an insane, sweaty showman leading the masses to a frog-stomping jam out, it’s led by an insane, sweaty showman with a gnarly beard. This dude has spent the last six months in the tundras of Alaska cold-chilling with grizzly bears and writing killer beats. He’s back, he’s hairy and ready to testify.

Anything you choose will be more accurate than what we have now. Thank you for your time and consideration. Sincerely, Registered Voter

Job Well Done Believable answers that will get you laid, in response to the question “What do you do for a living?”

Chaperone for Lilly Allen Personal Stylist for Andrew W.K. Nutritionist/Guru for that Bloc Party dude Laptop cleaner for Girl Talk Wacom jockey for Dick Linklater Austinite* Keyboardist in Spoon Trashcan banger in Peter & The Wolf Heir to Vidal Sassoon fortune Hot Dog King Fluﬀer for Peaches *only during SXSW

Shit, this one was supposed to be easy. All I was gonna do was just print the exact same list from last year, but unfortunately half of these dumps shut down or got turned into new, equally shitty clubs. Most of these places are completely different during SXSW. But here’s an idea of what this town is like if you happen to miss your ﬂight. Antone’s 213 W 5th In a safe hidden behind the portrait of Clifford Antone there is a homemade porno tape starring Stevie Ray Vaughn, Bono and Dr. John and directed by none other than Antone himself. BD Riley’s 204 E 6th There are two types of people in the world: Those who think Mad Max knew that he was risking his life as a decoy to lure the raiders away from the settlers’ oil and those who think the settlers suckered him into driving that tanker full of sand. Whatever type you are, this bar licks balls. Beerland 711½ Red River One word: ambiance. Seeing this place by daylight is just a reminder of how much of a prison SXSW really is. Beauty Bar Somewhere on 7th Members of the Trail of Dead painstakingly decorated this entire bar using their own line of glitter

and puffy paint. The Beauty Bar gives Austin’s coolest iPod DJs a place to “perform.” Bourbon Rocks 508 E 6th This place is tha mutha’fuckin jam. A haven for displaced New Orleans cover bands, it boasts the wireless mics, brand new monitors and Jager shots in test tubes. Plus classic rock is classic for a reason... because it instantly moistens the panties of 35-year-old biker chicks. Buffalo Billiards 201 E 6th Home of Austin’s worst sound. There’s a plaque in the green room marking the spot where Alex Kapranos passed out after being serviced by two groupies during SXSW ‘04. Casino El Camino 517 E 6th If you order a burger here and they tell you it’ll be ready in an hour and ﬁfteen minutes, you just shut the fuck up, nod your head and sit down. The burgers are delicious because they are made with human ﬂesh.

Cedar Street Courtyard 208 W 4th Don’t let the word “courtyard” deceive you. It’s more of an outdoor playpen for boomers; a place where 10 p.m. is a late night and Coldplay is actually a double-entendre. Central Presbyterian Church 200 E 8th If you want to know who the next big thing is going to be, ask Jesus. That dude is up on his shit. He even got a screener of Grindhouse. He told me it “sucks a big fat one.” Club DeVille 900 Red River This bar is very deceiving. In a slow zombie attack, DeVille would seem like an ideal place to stage your last stand. Unfortunately, zombies have no problem scaling that rock wall and they don’t mind paying $6.50 for a rum and Coke. The Compound 1300 E 4th This place is one of the bestsounding in town because it’s also the home to a couple of old, mad

scientist sound engineers. They used to be geniuses, but after running sound for a million Los Lonely Boys shows they became clinically psychotic.

during the “piece.” And they’re not called “bands,” but “combos” or “quintets.” Why aren’t there more places like this? Oh yeah, ‘cause they’re boring and full of dudes.

Continental Club 1315 S Congress Made famous by the “anti-artist” scene in Slacker. Fortunately, the shitty punk band playing in the movie has been replaced by a bunch of troll-looking guys who reign on the Telecaster.

Elysium 705 Red River Like every rose has its thorn, every city has a goth bar. When will goth dudes realize that goth chicks just want a stupid meathead jock boy who will tell them what to do and take them to barbecues?

Co-Op Bar 400 E 6th This place is basically the satellite bar for all the shitty Greek houses on campus. Everyone’s been in here at least once to try the one dollar Long Islands, just like everyone at least once has laughed at a retard or killed a hooker and came to kinda regret it later in the night.

Emo’s

Creekside Lounge 606 7th A relatively pleasurable addition to 7th street, despite having to enjoy your cocktail next to an open sewer. But it’s still far enough away from they shitty music at the Red Eyed Fly patio. Dirty Dog Bar 505 E 6th Once called “the worst bar in the entire world” by Misprint, this bar has only one saving grace: its professional-grade arm wrestling table. This year’s SXSW match-up will be Iggy Pop vs. Pete Townsend to see who’s wrinkly, ﬂaccid forearm skin can suffocate the other ﬁrst. Elephant Room 315 Congress Austin’s lone jazz bar boasts nonstop, um, jazz. You know, that stuff where you clap for each musician

603 Red River When he punched a hole from the Emo’s Main Room into the Lounge, Frank Emo discovered a society of mutant gutter punks have been thriving in underground tunnels ever since Johnny Cash sat on that fucking bar stool. Eternal Nightclub 418 E 6th If you were ever into going to raves, you might want to pay a visit to Eternal so you can remind yourself why rave culture is dead. Here’s a clue: it’s because it’s stupid. Exodus 304 E 6th You know how if you want to kill two hills of ﬁre ants you just shovel up one and drop it on the other? Too bad we can’t do that to all the poser-rastafarians in town by scooping up Exodus and dropping it on top of the Flamingo Cantina. Flamingo Cantina 515 E 6th Nothing better than enjoying some of Austin’s best new music in front of a giant pastel undersea mural and a crap-ton of stolen lawn ornaments. Except 90% of the time this place is still jamming with a bunch of dready stoners who love Eek-A-Mouse.

Fox and Hound 401 Guadalupe Bambi was waaaaay better. Friends 208 E 6th “Helping Ugly People Get Laid Since 1998” is their ofﬁcial slogan. What a great positioning statement. So, if you’ve ever wanted to go to bar that’s got worse tail than the local zoo, knock yourself out. Fuel 607 Trinity If you like getting drunk with your mechanic at his garage this is the place to git ‘er done. Habana Calle 6 709 E 6th Maybe, if we’re lucky, this place will close when Castro dies. Headhunters 720 Red River It’s a little known fact that if walk in and yell, “Alright, which one of you pussies thinks he’s the toughest motherfucker in here?” you get all your drinks for free. The Hi-Lo 301 W 6th Taking the award for worst concept bar, this shitstain is split between a classy joint (“Hi”) and a faux dive bar (“Lo”). So if you meet a girl on the Hi side, you have to buy her an appletini, but if you meet her on the Lo side you can just bang behind the dumpster. The Hideout 617 Congress If you want to hear some live avant-harpsicord noodling while brooding over a cup of coffee, look no further. They also usually have some “art” hanging on the walls, too, which is sweet because UT artists have low self esteem.

Hilton 406 500 E 4th On any given night, some 30-something marketing professional/wife is at the Hilton bar being tempted with apple-martinis into a mediocre yawn-ﬁlled bonk upstairs in the company suite. Think “Lost in Translation” only Scarlett Johansson isn’t there. The Jackalope 404 E 6th I like this place so much I drove down to Laredo, scored some velvet paintings of naked ladies, got a tattoo of ﬂaming dice on my neck and grew a sleazy mustache. God, I’m an asshole. La Zona Rosa 612 W 4th If only every venue could be a big echoey box. Bartenders train here before moving up to concession sales at Astros Games. Latitude 30° 512 San Jacinto Enjoy the spacious and wellequipped restrooms at the Latitude 30º, remarkable only for being one of Austin’s best places to take a shit. The Longbranch Inn 1133 E 11th There are many things to love about the Longbranch: nice décor, only slightly pretentious crowd and a hot jukebox. So why do I feel like some poor bastard’s property taxes are rising every time I order a Lone Star? Maggie Mae’s 323 E 6th I’m surprised they don’t issue you a beer bong, a pink polo shirt with the collar popped and some uglyass leather sandals at the door.

Molotov Lounge 719 W 6th When I hit up the Molotov roof deck to pregame for some outsider art opening, I was nonplussed to see dudes wearing suits without a trace of irony. I ordered a Pearl in an attempt to class up the place, but the bouncers threw me out. The Mohawk 912 Red River Tapping into the esoteric stylings of the Canadian-based Mohawk Indians, known for their loyalty, their resourcefulness and their sweet denim vests, The Mohawk is built on an Indian burial ground, so no bar can survive here longer than 6 months. Momo’s 618 W 6th This is where band frontmen go to perform their weak-ass singersongwriter material. Cringe as you realize exactly how trite the lyrics actually are. Nuno’s 422 E 6th If you’re the kind of guy that has a goatee, bad tattoos and wears a lot of sterling silver jewelry, this place is your spot. Every weeknight dudes who really like Primus and the Chili Peps play here to half a dozen people with lip piercings. Opal Divine’s Freehouse 700 W 6th I love imagining the British staff (who are secretly Australian) erecting a tent in the parking lot while drunk off stolen Glensomething single-malt Scotch. The Parish 214 E 6th Apparently, this place used to be something cool, but then they decided to change the name and charge a million dollars for some

out of town indie roadshow that can’t get more than five bucks cover in their hometown. Pecan St. Ale House 310 E 6th The name references the original name of 6th street, back in a time when dudes would vomit in the street, get in fights and girls would lift up their shirts, all without electricity. Red Eyed Fly 715 Red River I would never set foot in this place because I don’t look scary enough. But I can tell you this place is loud as fuck. Judging by the bands that play here, this is a bad thing. Redrum 401 Sabine St 501 E 6th This is pretty much an Emo’s training ground for high school kids and dudes with goatees. Now imagine a band not good enough to play Emo’s. Isn’t pretty, is it? Red 7 611 E 7th Headhunters it ain’t. Because this metal bar doesn’t have free wi-fi but allows the University of Texas’ Men’s Varsity Waterskiing Team to hold soirees here. The Ritz 320 E 6th Heineken keg cans! Flashing lights! Naturally blonde bartenders! And not a BMX bike in sight. Room 710 710 Red River Everyone in Austin gave this place a month before it closed because of the smoking ban. But room 710 has yet again proven us wrong, just like it proved us wrong that there is indeed an audience for Pong and Cat Scientist.

Scoot Inn 1308 E 4th This bar was formerly known as the Red Scoot Inn, the East Side’s most caucasian-friendly Mexican cantina. It also used to open at 12pm. Now under management of the Longbranch Inn, it opens at 4 and no longer has Tejano music on the jukebox, save for “La Bamba.” Six 117 W 4th All the pear margarita machines are powered by owner Lance Armstrong pedalling a stationary bike in the basement. Soho Lounge 217 E 6th Why is this place called Soho when it’s so obviously a new-money Texan’s futile attempt to emulate what they imagine bars look like in Los Angeles?

Spill 212 E 6th Venerable typographer/Misprint hero Jan Tschichold rolls in his fucking grave every time a fratboy downs a Jager Bomb at Spill, home of the worst designed signage in Austin. Spiro’s 615 Red River If you don’t know the deﬁnition of the word “trill” don’t even come near this bar outside of SXSW time. I’ll give you a hint as to what it means: shooting you and stealing your VW Beetle would be considered trill. Stubb’s 801 Red River Rather than ponying-up the $34 for entry, try pitching a camping chair on Waller Creek, grabbing a 40 and listening from there. That’s

what I’m doing for the Esquire show nobody seems to want to put me on the list for. Uncle Flirty’s Loft 325 E 6th After Darwin’s was rendered extinct by natural selection, this bar became Uncle Flirty’s Loft. All I can say about this place is that 6th Street has now ofﬁcially become self-parody. What won’t be parody will be when my rich uncle from California actually builds his loft on the rubble of this place in a few months. Whiskey Bar 303 W 5th Go here on Thursday nights for dollar cocktails and it looks like SXSW (read: stupid hats and mustaches). Come here on any other night and it looks like a Dell happy hour, if Dell were in the ghetto.

Misprint Guide to Austin Culture

Those Giant Guitars

To placate their special out-of-town guests, the city of Austin recently erected, like, a hundred giant Gibson guitar statues all around town, each one decorated by some stupid hippie. The purpose of these statues is twofold: to demonstrate Austin’s extreme narrowmindedness when it comes to live music and to reassure the world at large that Austin is about 15 years behind the “hokey public artwork tourist trap” trend.

Austin is a pretty backwater town, wrapped in isolation, jargon and esoteric ceremonialism. All of which can be quite daunting to an outsider just trying to get to the fucking Merge Records showcase. That said, Austin folk are also particularly suspicious of “outsiders,” and your multitude of badges, money clips, asymmetrical hairstyles and pleasant odor don’t help. Following this guide will help you ﬁt in just a little bit better and avoid unpleasantries if you cross a neck-tatted native at the local watering hole.

Brush Up On The Ying Yang Twins

Use Your Index Finger

When you walk into a crowded bar, simply point your index finger at the bartender and spin it in a counter-clockwise motion. This is the signal for the “Los Lonely Star,” a shot of Lonestar and Dewar’s, Austin’s most popular and beloved drink. Drinking this is a rite of passage, and Austinites will forever treat you as kinfolk. This same movement is also frequently used while attending a laptop band’s show, as it is the equivalent of throwing the Goat-head at a metal show.

Having no legitimate music scene of its own, Austin loves them some Ying Yang Twins. Walk down Red River on any given night and you hear kids shouting “You got a one way ticket to hell / Smack dab in the middle of the ATL!” Pop into Headhunter’s and they’re blasting “She fine as a super model/ Built like a coke bottle.” Do not, under any circumstances, knock the YYT within earshot of a local.

Bandana Codes

Austin’s vibrant gay scene is embodied by the bandana in the back jeans pocket. There’s no point in covering the intricacies and interests of the various gay subcultures because, well, they’re all still gay. And awesome.

Gay

Very Gay

Girls from Austin

If you happen to get drunk enough to be attracted to a girl from Austin, keep this in mind: Every single one of them loves the Texas Longhorns. Comparing significant experiences to moments of Longhorn lore will guarantee you to get laid. For example, any of these metaphors will work with the following sentence: Man, that Aesop Rock set owned like • a Ricky Williams bong rip • Bevo I, II, or V • Clyde Littlefield’s dong circa 1930

Austin Legends, 100% True At Emo’s inaugural show, the first person to enter through the doors as a paying customer was none other than Ted Nugent The corpse of Leatherface is buried in an unmarked grave underneath the giant oak tree at Stubb’s Amphitheatre. After Clifford Antone was incarcerated for smuggling four semi-trucks full of marijuana, Hair Care mogul and Stevie Ray Vaughn enthusiast Vidal Sassoon became a silent partner to keep the legendary club alive. Daniel Johnston is able to communicate with wooden blocks. In 1977, Willie Nelson took a shit at the Hole in the Wall.

Party at the Moontower

While you are in town visiting, you must check out the secret weekly Friday night party at the moontower. What takes place is a level of debauchery unrivaled in North America, a weekly party resplendent with designer drugs, kegs of free beer, DJ’s with mad scratching and mashup skills, and the best sex you’ll ever have, ever.

Stay Off The East Side

I read on the side of an electrical box that yuppies should not venture to the East Side. Since electrical boxes are city property, whatever is written on them must be true. So not much is known about the ominous land east of I-35, but it has been told that it is inhabited by fierce bands of smelly bike messengers fueled by inexpensive yet mouth-watering breakfast tacos.

Brocabulary Salsa

During the Great Depression the entire Austin population would have been decimated if not for salsa, which was eaten 3 times a day. This has carried over to today, and why even the Chinese restaurants serve chips and salsa. Get ready, because all the coffee in town is served with salsa in it, too.

DO Touch the Bats

Austin is home to the world’s only domesticated free-tailed bat colony. If you ever find yourself lost in the 2nd Street Shopping District, just give the highest-pitched whistle you can and wait a few moments. Several friendly bats will alight upon your head and gently guide you to safety. The bats are completely disease-free and, also, quite cuddly. And surprisingly good around small children.

Pepper these words into your daily speech and you might be mistaken as an Austinite. Mansome: [adj] A ruggedly-attractive man, worthy of a man-crush [ex: Jude Law] Manssage: [v] When you wrestle with another man in a playful like manner. Broment: [n] The magical instant of looking into your buddy’s eyes after finishing a Helldorado. Brodeo: [n] Any kind of activity that is an all-male experience [ex: a metal show, sitting in the back of truck] Brodown: [v] Any activity between men, sans shirt. [ex: shooting guns, tubing, giving each other tattoos.] Guylights: [n] Hair highlights that another man assisted you with [ex: members of Fallout Boy, Young Love] Dudetown, USA: [n] A gathering of men on an international level [ex: Beard & Moustache Competition, SXSW]

Title: Jaime’s Is A Breast Feeding Friendly Restaurant! Location: 8th and Red River Typographer: Jän Humperdink

On Austin Typography A periodic critical analysis of public signage.

AS THE FAITHFUL READERS KNOW, it’s been a while since OAT has appeared within these pages. There are two reasons. First, I took a months-long sabbatical to scour frozen, primordial Nordic lands in search of loner, shut-in typographers designing crisp, sans-serif type in log cabins. Second, upon my return, I went to the theatre and watched some film called Norbit. The opening credits were so horrible, I couldn't get out of bed for weeks. Part of what pulled me out of my stupor was this signage <above> for Jaime’s. Oh, what a glorious gem it is! As any type designer knows, there are only a handful of projects when the beauty of their design is in harmony with the subject matter it’s defining. I’ve mentally blocked the projects where I’ve agonized over the tiniest minutiae of a typographic element, every shape, every angle, only to take a few steps back when finished and realize the letters spell something horrid like “Goatwhore” or “Birds Barbershop.”

Which brings us back to this signage. Allow me to tell you something about typographers. No matter how passionately they disagree on things such as serif vs. sans serif, now matter how many ﬁsts can ﬂy during a debate on legends like Jan Tschichold or Adrian Frutiger, all typographers, every single one of them, love them some titties. Typography is a demanding mistress. When one dedicates his life to the pursuit of the most perfect italic letterforms, there isn’t much time for an around-the-way girl. Which makes me believe the type designer for this sign was particularly sexually frustrated. Just look at the way the letters lean to the right, gently begging a passer-by to come on inside and see the show. There are no sharp edges or hard angles on this typeface, rather it is all soft, and round and vibrant, not unlike a milk-laden bosom. This is ironic, because most likely this designer has never seen a naked chick, ever.

Top Ten Reasons to Visit Daily Juice During SXSW 10. Every time someone from Brooklyn mentions pizza in NY, we cut off a finger. 9. Festival organizers flush their colons with wheatgrass at closing party. You should see the pile of used flats out front. 8. You've been to LA, but you don't know new, rich, white wealth until you've stood in our lobby. 7. We reuse leftover ACL festival wristbands to make SXSW nooses. 6. Seven out ten rich foppish dandies agree: I'll go if you want to. 5. Where are you going to find a super legit coke connection in town? Longbranch Inn? Too obvious. 4. Misprint editors think Austin is pretty cool. (Not the city, the big guy that works the register and gives out free stuff) 3. Owners are Barnes and Noble heirs who give all profits from juice sales to the funding of a local copyright law pre-school for minorities. 2. British bands should know: Tang isn't doing anything for you. 1. Don't smoke drugs, drink a smoothie.

Cure your Hangover at Daily Juice! 1625 Barton Springs Road 512.680.8760 www.dailyjuice.org

How Shit Works: Screenprinting

The “Art” of the Gig Poster

Lonely? Can’t get a girlfriend? Have a lot of free time? Are you compelled by a need to feel artistic, yet aren’t creative enough to ﬁnish a coloring book? Screenprinting is the hobby for you. It’s an arcane, annoying, pain in the ass that instantaneously generates a modicum of artistic credibility. And best of all it’s 100% talent free.

Before Jesus invented the Internet, bands once used printed ink on paper (also called a “poster”) to let people know which venue they’d be stinking up that weekend. Since the MySpace page has replaced the streetpole, the humble poster now has to pass itself oﬀ as art in order to drum up a market for grainy images of ghetto blasters or Snake Plissken. Before you begin your career as a rock poster designer, you should know it’s a thankless job. You get to meet your rock heroes, but don’t expect a shred of compensation when you drop oﬀ hours of creative genius at the merch table. It’s bound to be disappointing when you discover all those people actually came to see the band, rather than your sweet art. That being said, becoming a poster artist has never been easier. Here’s a few ideas to get started.

History Screenprinting, known to the pretentious as serigraphy, has origins in stenciling. Japanese artists in the 1400’s would print pictures of hot, busty chicks with giant eyes using fabric and animal-based glues. The current process was invented by the Brits around 1900, who immediately began printing stupid forest animals onto their blazers. Screenprinting took off during World War I as a cheap commercial process for printing iconic propaganda which would later be ripped off by generations of gig poster designers. It didn’t get hip until Andy Warhol ordered his sycophantic assistants to make big prints of whatever the fuck was laying around his pantry. He just signed his name and hawked it to pay for Nico’s drug habit.

Equipment First and foremost, you’re going to need an apron. Aprons can only be legitimately worn by screenprinters and hot moms, so seize the opportunity. Plus, when worn correctly, they accentuate your hips in a jaunty way. You’re also, going to need some beer, a twelver at least. Like beekeeping and helicopter piloting, alcohol will only improve your results. Beyond that you’ll need some screens, (just silk stretched taut across a frame), emulsion (the photosensitive chemicals), a lamp, ink and skinny t-shirts. Everything else, including creativity, is optional.

Preparation Find a dark place (think shades drawn, not a darkroom) and apply the emulsion to the screen. Using a hard scraper and long strokes, coat the silk with a paper-thin layer until the holes in

the mesh are blocked. Work quickly, because it becomes light sensitive as soon as it dries. While your screen is drying, drink a beer and start thinking about your design. Just take that sweet pic of Axl kicking ass and use Photoshop or MS Paint to turn up the contrast all the way. If your image looks real shitty, don’t fret, it’s just DIY, bro. Go pop yourself another tallcan. If you need ideas, pick up a copy of Alternative Press or Spin to see what the band on the cover has on their black T-shirts. Print out the art onto transparencies you stole from work.

Process The fundamental concept is that the regions of the screens exposed to light are chemically solidified and become water and ink proof. The mechanism behind this is essentially Druid Magic. Tape the transparency onto the screen and shine your lamp on it. The dark spaces will not harden and wash away after exposure, leaving spaces where your ink can flow through. Exposure time is where you’re going to screw up. My halogen exposes in 6 minutes, your mileage may vary. Immediately hose it down and watch your hot artwork appear.

Proﬁt! All that is left is to print bitchin’ artwork of sparrows shooting AK-47s at skulls. Lay your screen on the shirt and use a squeegee or CD case to push the ink through the mesh. Wear that shit to the next Young Love show and watch the sexies come running. Tell your new 17-year-old girlfriend that you’re an artist. She’ll be totally impressed.

The Found Object This method is a classic and never fails. Scour the thrift store circuit until you score a Sears Roebuck catalog or an old Farmer’s Almanac. Then simply photocopy a few images and combine them into something 100% original and all your own. That old tractor goes great with those vintage women’s undergarments. Now just use your non-dominant hand to write the band’s name in bubble letters. Done and done.

The “I Made it Myself ” This is very similar to the Found Object style, except you put your sketchbook instead of an old issue of Stag Magazine in the scanner. A hand-rendered image will ensure your status as a true artist and guarantee that your poster is one-of-a-kind. Forget about the fact that you can’t even trace Snoopy from Sunday comics. Through the magic of the silkscreen your mindless doodle will magically transform into a piece of pop ephemera that will last a lifetime in the back office of your local coffee shop.

The O. Henry Concept is king. The image on your poster should be a play on words, a visual pun of either the band’s name or a lyric from one of their hits. If the band is “Spoon,” try a picture of a spoon. Fuck dude, we never saw that coming. Brilliant.

The Original Gangsta Rock music is about balls, volume and ego. So show some respect for the iconic popularizers of poster art and take a magic trip to the mystical 1990’s. In plain terms, draw a devil woman with giant boobs or a cartoon dog driving a hot-rod. Fill the rest of the poster with stretched out type and you are in business. Desaturated colors are for emo wimps. Wreckonize, bitches.

The Original, Original Gangsta Let’s face it, back before Austin got cool, the hippies owned this town. Aside from pulling godzilla hits of Mexican hay 24/7, they occasionally took a break to print all kinds of tripped-out paisley bubble posters for Shiva’s Headband. Of course, nowadays all the great poster artists of the 60’s are designing brochures for the latest luxury condo.

Free Shitstorm! She, Sir Who Can’t Say Yes Self-Released

Their press release talks about all of the “alternative tunings” they implement, which I always thought was one of those industry code words for “has no talent to play the guitar the way it was designed.” Fortunately these dudes have the tunes to back them up, particularly the melancholy opener “I Love You Blowtorch Eyes.” If both these dudes had beards they’d be huge. -----------------------------------------------------Bill Baird Silence!/Sunset EPs Sunset Candlelit Television Eyes DVD blondebill.com

Bill is the little blonde guy in SOUND Team. Sunset is an album of rambling folk songs with LSD-trip lyrics about dentists and giraﬀes. Silence is a disk of ambient soundtracks to unﬁlmable high-concept pornos from the mid-80s. Both are pretty radical and come in sweet hand-stapled packaging. The limited edition DVD is a heartwarming romantic comedy about a young Bill Baird trying to make it in this crazy, mixed-up world. Aside from the hardcore sex scenes, my favorite part was when he walks up to the Taco Cabana drive-thru, guitar in hand, and strums out his order. Classic. ---------------------------------------------------Cavedweller The Best Version of Gloria Ever There Was Business Deal Records

This dude’s beard is so gnarly that you get the impression he might actually dwell in cave. His album is some out-there psych-folk that’s been in heavy rotation ever since it arrived at Misprint HQ. Reminiscent of Devendra on happy pills, except minus the all-dude sandalwood oil naked massage sessions.

A thinly veiled attempt, disguised as journalism, to score more free promotional hogwash. Dedrabbit Manifesto Novella

I love a good anarchist collective as much as the next guy, so it warms my heart to think about some smelly squatter in New England distributing his 250-page diary for free. But I’ve already read Junkie, so I just can’t bring myself to care about another Holden Cauﬁeld who was too punk to stay in college or too iconoclastic to hold down a job. Yeah, you’re persecuted, bro. You’re alone and isolated in this capitalistic society. Blah, blah, whatever. Maybe you should stop to consider that you’re alone and isolated because you’re just a selfrighteous douchebag. ----------------------------------------------------Aliens Self Titled Misc Music

Misc Music is a new local imprint that’s doing their part to put a stop to the mom-friendly wimp rock that’s become “the Austin sound.” The Aliens EP is dark, stripped-down lo-ﬁ grungy goodness. These guys probably like Helmet and Failure at least as much as I do. In fact, after I spaced this EP I dug out my copy of “Betty,” rolled a stinky jammer and played airdrums in my bedroom to “Milquetoast” like it was 1994. ----------------------------------------------------Passing Drug Tests

By Kenn Biscranium and Dr. Herb Kindler (possibly pseudonymous) www.uadetox.com In between the quotes from prominent potheads, cheap shots at his parole oﬃcer and gripping tales of bongrips with his stripper girlfriends, this book dispenses a fair bit of questionably-scientiﬁc information about pissing clean. Shockingly, it reads like it was written by someone who smokes truckloads of weed. I wouldn’t stake a prison term on it, but it’s probably more useful than a Misprint guide to anything.

The Laughing Tiger Cry EP Self-Released

Only in Austin could someone take a solid concept like street gangs and turn it into something hopelessly lame. The Laughing is like one of those gangs in West Side Story, only even more effeminate. Teal shirts? White sneakers? Denim vests? Theses dudes are gayer than a stack of strawberry pancakes. Still, despite being a really shitty gang, they’re one of the more exciting bands I’ve seen on an Austin stage in a while. Channeling a rocked-up Milemarker or The Faint during one of their bi-curious phases, their debut EP “Tiger Cry” is a dance rock record that won’t make you feel dirty afterwards, even though it opens with a sexy baritone sax riff fresh from the “Rumpshaka” sessions. It’s hooks with substance. Creative weirdness with the musicianship to back it up. A theremin, a million synths, and a glockenspiel up the nerd factor a bit. And the production is super crisp so every sleigh bell and tech fill come through. I hadn’t gathered this from their live shows, but the album’s lyrics push the “emo tiger” concept album to new heights. The record is a heartwarming allegory of an outcast tiger’s quest for redemption in a world that just can’t understand him.

All music. Every direction. That’s the Laurie way. The Laurie Show 11 p.m. to 3 a.m. Friday night Before the Break www.kut.org

Even though their live show sorta looks like a Bugle Boy commercial circa 1988, I can back this band and still maintain a shred of masculinity. Send us your free shit! Misprint Magazine PO Box 303157 Austin, Texas 78703

KUT Austin 90.5 FM KUTX San Angelo 90.1 FM www.kut.org

Gossip! Gossip! Gossip! Implosions in the sky! Nothing like a planned demolition to bring the city together. But in typical Austin fashion, the frat-party camaraderie surrounding the demolition of the Intel’s nascent downtown HQ quickly degenerated into a melee of fingerpointing and blame-gaming. Insider Misprint sources report “the job was totally botched, brah.” Apparently the City of Austin was going to book either Slayer or Mastodon to obliterate the building with sheer metal awesomeness. Instead, due to budget cuts, had to settle for Crash Gallery, leaving the building mostly intact. ----------------------------------------------------The Awesome Cool Dudes from Furniture Records are finally releasing their cassetteonly collection of covers of Oneida’s 15minute psych-rock classic “Sheets of Easter.” Cassettes are awesome, but two-minute covers of fifteen minute songs are even more awesome. This shit is cooler than your mom. Dig out your water-resistant Sony Sports boombox and jam it at your next pick-up volleyball game. -----------------------------------------------------

In other British zombiﬁcation news, Johnny Rotten was in town to judge some hyper-lame battle of the bands at La Zona Rosa. A bunch of Guitar Center employees with bad tattoos dueled it out with seven-string guitars to see who could become the next Evanescence. Afterwards, Rotten stopped by Fado for a pint o’ bitter, fulﬁlling a lifelong dream of “drinkin’ in some feckin’ bar that looks like the Ewok’s tree village” and proving once and for all he’s a total fucking yuppie. ------------------------------------------------------The always relevant Society For Ethnomusicolgy recently circulated their “Statement Against the Use of Music as Torture” around the EU and UN. Apparently U.S. forces abroad have been jamming that new Clap Your Hands record to extract confessions from detainees. Maybe if they circulated that memo around Red River I might actually be able to go downtown once in a while.

Gentriﬁcation update! The owners of Beerland are opening up a new bar that promises to be 100% live music free. Beerland owner Randall Stockton reports he’s sick of all the talentless punk bands stinking up his stage and just wants a place where he can chill out and play dominos. Misprint readers everywhere are fucking stoked. Don’t ﬂake, dudes. Let’s make this happen.

------------------------------------------------------Those crazy tonedeaf bastards across the pond just awarded longtime Misprint punching bag Oasis the “Outstanding Contribution to Music” award. From what I understand this is kind of a consolation prize for not turning out to be the next Beatles after all, despite their inspired eﬀorts. The following week, Liam made the news again for kicking some poor bloke’s ass. Normally this is as unremarkable as another rainy day in London, but this time Liam beat a paparazzi to a bloody pulp in front of his ﬁveyear-old son. Liam continues to inspire us all.

----------------------------------------------------British scientists have ﬁnally perfected the technology necessary to reanimate the corpse of Keith Moon for a much-lauded SXSW Who reunion show. John Entwhistle will not be reanimated but instead replaced by a robot with bass guitars for hands. The show is going down in a bunker 30 stories below the Capitol and you’ll need a special secret laminate made of diamond-encrusted unicorn horns to get in.

------------------------------------------------------Drama-thirty in Emoland! Construction of the much anticipated Emo’s Vegas has ground to a halt after Frank Emo took Wesley Snipes’ immortal words from Passenger 57 to heart and bet his entire share in club on black. It’s probably for the best, since Emo’s Vegas is never going to be able to compete with the weekly Hootie and the Blowﬁsh revue currently tearing up the Vegas scene.