2 Dollar Productions

The litmus test for sex appeal at the Austin City Limits music festival tolled every day at approximately 6 p.m.


By this time, most people had already sweated through their clothes five times, consumed six beers and listened to seven different bands. And despite the presence of many hard bodies wearing little clothing, the brutal combination of an unrelenting sun and next to no air moving left you sweaty and splotched, stinking and swaying, yet forging a rally to continue walking to the next stage.

If a person could look past these unsavory conditions and still want to fall to the ground with someone and screw in the grass like animals, then that's love. Love.

But I digress. The Austin City Limits musical festival is an endurance test, an event that at the end of the day, is definitely about the music and not about fornicating among the limited shrubbery.

The music was excellent as I managed to catch various acts including Bob Dylan, Steve Earle, The Decemberists, Lucinda Williams, Robert Earl Keen, Billy Joe Shaver, Artic Monkeys, and others whose names escape me.




Saturday was easily the toughest day as I started at the festival around 2:30 p.m. and sweated like a whore in church until early evening when my Dad, my brother and I ran back to the car to drive home, shower and then leave to Stubb's to catch Bob Dylan at 9 p.m.

The venue only holds around 2,500 people, and it was packed tight. Dylan played for 2 good hours while I stood under a tree and drank Shiner Bock while listening to "Thunder on the Mountain" and "All Along The Watchtower." It wasn't quite as exciting as the following night when Dylan cut through "Like A Rolling Stone" as I stood among 60,000 people in Zilker Park, but I was glad I got both ends of that spectrum.

By this point, the day had already been rough, but pushing things further, we decided to drive across town to catch James McMurtry as the Continental Club at midnight. The place is tiny and was sold out when we got there as they were letting people inside only when others left.

At 11:55 pm, I thought we were screwed, but then, a small crowd came out the front door and we strolled in the doors just as McMurtry cut into his first song. Perfect.


By the time the concert let out and we found a cab (driven by a strange Nigerian man who accelerated/decelerated at consistently random times while singing along to a really bad country song), it was nearly 3 am and we staggered back to my loft and collapsed.

And then Sunday came when it was time to brave the heat and return to the festival.

It was another full day that only ended when Dylan closed the festivities around 10:15 pm and the crowd dispersed and flooded through Barton Springs and Lamar trying to find their way home. I eventually made it to the loft, and took a long shower to wash the grime off from a weekend that was great and terrible at the same time.

I need a weekend to recover from my weekend, I thought, but it was also semi-amazing that during one 24 hour period, I was able to hear Earle, Dylan and McMurtry who are three of the best songwriters alive today and that was only on Saturday. When you're able to do something like that, it's a special thing and the other discomforts and hassles melt away like a Dove bar during a 3 p.m. music set.


Regardless, this knowledge doesn't help me as I sit at my desk this morning, trying vainly to get work done when my brain feels like pudding and my body needs about 12 straight hours of RIM sleep and a transfusion to rid itself of the Heineken and Shiner still coursing through my veins.

None of that will happen, however, so it's a damn good thing that I wouldn't trade feeling like shit for missing ACL, and I'd do it again tomorrow if the opportunity presented itself.

-BDS