Peter gets a taste of Levon love in Austin

Editor’s note: Peter Lewis, who since November 2008 has written about the culinary and cultural aspects of the Fort Smith/Van Buren region, continues to write for The City Wire from his new address in Austin, Texas. As he did with his previous delicious essays, Peter humbly attempts to move beyond the conventional and expose, entertain and enthuse. If anything Peter proffers in this space results in the expansion of cultural awareness of the world around us, we apologize in advance.

Austin City Limits Music Festival occurred this past weekend.

The crowds descended upon Zilker park to see more than 100 bands on eight stages in a three-day span. Even with torrential rains cascading down on the park all day Saturday, the masses would not be denied their entertainment. Rain soaked gals in skimpy outfits intermingled with more prepared pals in rain ponchos as the noises of the festival fought heartily with the rain.

Music consumption happens on many different levels. In its live form, there is nothing more enfranchising than the music festival. Unlike the exclusive nature of a one-off club concert, the festival is like a Western Sizzlin buffet. For one “low” price, you get to spend days in a field or park, walking around experiencing known, slightly known, and unknown bands.

Perhaps you could cast me as an elitist, but it is the element of the masses that I find so bothersome about large-scale festivals. As a dear friend and a trusted colleague put it to me (in somewhat sexist terms, unfortunately), “It’s a scientific fact that men are visually stimulated, so it’s manlier to want to be in an intimate setting where you can see/soak up the band you are there for. Festivals are for girls.” Obviously I cannot speak for another sex, much less my own, but for me I definitely prefer to experience music in a more intimate setting.

Despite my predilections against large-scale festivals, I trudged out to the newly refurbished Zilker Park with a few pals to soak up the scene. Friday was pristine. The weather was right and the beautiful grass the city spent much of the summer laying down was perfect. It all blended so perfectly with the ice cold 24-ounce beer they sold for $8 — price gouging is another drawback to festivals, by the way. Despite the price, things were looking good. I was palling around with a few old friends from Arkansas while the sounds of the summer’s hottest band, Phoenix, fell on my deaf ears. As popular as they are, there is something about a rock band from France that doesn’t sit well with me. Call me a jingoistic southerner, but I don’t trust it. Like our animated friend Hank Hill was often want to say, something about it just “ain’t right.”

Much of the night progressed much the same way. I spent too much money on beers, didn’t pay enough attention to the bands (save Raphael Saadiq … he was a glorious, soulful bright spot). Eventually, by the time the headliners (and one time Eastern Oklahoma/Western Arkansas natives), Kings of Leon came on, I had tired of the swelling evening crowds and ventured off for non-festival sustenance … and thus officially ending day one at ACL.

Day two was a torrent. Rains poured forth the entire day, soaking the attendees, the grass, and everything else out of doors. I’m already a sourpuss of sorts, so the prospect of being a wet sourpuss was more than enough to keep me indoors until the last possible moment. Finally shaking off my rain-addled doldrums, I went out into the world, bravely sacrificing my dry comfortable abode to become a soaked spectator at the altar of Levon Helm. Since he was not scheduled to be on until 6 p.m., I took refuge under a “Hideaway” tent to watch football for an hour. Making my way towards his stage, I sensed something was horribly wrong. There was already a large crowd.

To be certain, Levon warrants said crowd, but I was a bit surprised to find one there. Upon arriving, I realized that the majority of the crowd was not for Levon. The crowd was staking out spots for the Subaru lover, Dave Matthews. Miffed at being relegated to a spot 30 some odd feet from the front, I cursed the existence of “DMB” and chalked it down as yet another reason to dislike festivals.

God smiled on us all, however. Five minutes before the show began, the rain stopped. The umbrellas all fell down, I spotted a group of friends (this is always easier when your friend is 6-foot, four-inches). The band arrived and immediately tore into “The Shape I’m In.” While not getting to hear Levon sing the entire set, it was still a great show, and a true honor to see an integral member of one of the greatest groups ever to grace the annals of popular music. The set was largely populated with old Band songs and various covers. As the rain began anew at the close of his set, I smiled at the poetic fate of those DMB fans. I trudged back towards my car happy with life.

There was nothing for me to see on Sunday, so I didn’t go. I gifted my pass to a friend’s brother so he could see Pearl Jam that night. Seeing Levon was the only thing I really wanted out of ACL, and I accomplished it.

The whole experience made me again realize how hard it can be to truly connect with the music at a concert. It is certainly an abstract concept. And try as I might, I cannot connect to seeing someone like Phoenix or John Legend whilst watching them on a jumbotron. Hell, if I’m watching them on a screen, I might as well watch from the comfort of Sofa City. There I am lord of the manor, the beer is cheaper, the food healthier, and the restroom facilities are certainly more hygienic.

Mr. Patrick Henry once averred, “Give me liberty or give me death.” I don’t have any aspirations for death just yet, but give me life on Sofa City over a festival and you’ll usually find me a happier man as a result.

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