DAY THREE >>>

My third day at SXSW began in disappointment: I arrived to Pitchfork's East Side Drive-In stage too late to see Seattle's finest hiphop outfit, Shabazz Palaces. They've got another gig today, so I'm hoping to make up for yesterday's loss (even though I've seen them no less than four times already, I'll never get sick of their sound).

Dejected, I ended up wandering to the nearby stage at Cheer up Charlie's, where I caught Vancouver, B.C. chillwaver Teen Daze leading the crowd in a midday dance party. Teen Daze is a restless creative spirit, with an incredibly prolific output and a constantly evolving sound. The tracks he played yesterday were synth-heavy dance tunes, which he triggered from a laptop hidden behind half of a cardboard box (to minimize glare on his screen, I'm guessing). He danced in place and waved his arms in the air, leading the dazed attendees in full-stop revelry.

My mood stayed high as I walked back to Pitchfork's stages for sets by Dom, Dum Dum Girls, and Smith Westerns. Dom's set was outrageous: the Worchester, Massachusetts band worked the crowd like seasoned pros, wowing everyone with their arena-ready, singalong surf rock. I realized about midway through the set that lead singer "Dom" looks a bit like Dave Mustaine, only I'm pretty sure Dave Mustaine never played a pink guitar or wore silver nail polish. They managed to include a cover of Prince's "Little Red Corvette" in the set, and during epic closing number "Living in America," Dom threw Brooklyn Lagers to the crowd and shared the mic (albeit only for a few seconds) with some of the dudes in Canadian electronic act Gobble Gobble. At one point, a bubble wand was thrown onstage and Dom showered the crowd with bubbles.

The Dum Dum Girls were a little more reserved, taking the stage in color-coordinated, monochromatic black outfits (high necklines, short skirts, garters) and wielding identical guitars. Lead singer Dee Dee's voice had a charming, warble-y quality to it that I'd never noticed on record, and their musicianship was inspiring. I didn't stick around for too much of their performance, however, as I wanted to catch some of Smith Westerns at Pitchfork's other East Side stage.

Like Dum Dum Girls, Chicago's Smith Westerns trade in a throwback kind of rock 'n' roll, and yesterday, they had the bratty attitude to match. "Thanks for choosing us over the Dum Dum Girls," lead singer Cullen Omori joked (he apologized for this statement later in the set). There were also lots of middle fingers thrown in the crowd's direction, fountains of beer spat into the air, and jokes made at Pitchfork's expense: "We got an 8.4 on Pitchfork and we're going to give an 8.4 performance." In fairness, their set was legitimately rousing (I'd give it a 7.9), but half the fun was in watching Omori act like a total dick. For his actions, he was rewarded with a bombardment of bottles, books, and bras.

The next couple of hours were spent milling around. I missed a couple artists I was dying to see (Julianna Barwick, for one), and ended up overhearing about ten seconds of Das Racist. It was at this point in the evening that I decided to make the half-hour trek outside of the downtown area and into Northeast Austin to check out a house show at Baby Blue Studios, a punk house/venue space/recording studio. It was my plan to catch a set by Olympia's Weird TV, but the show was running behind schedule, and I had to take off before they went on. I did, however, catch a rowdy performance by Austin punk quartet Creamers, whose sound was relentless and thrashy (I thought their most "garage-y" song was their best). During their set, an insanely raucous mosh pit was started, and at one point, a rolling chair was introduced into the fracas. It was sweaty, spazzy madness. It looked to be a pretty incredible show overall, with bands from all around the world congregating at the DIY venue, and acts like Rene Hell, DJ Dog Dick, and Caresick Care on the roster.

When I got back into town, I made a beeline for the 512 club, with an eye on catching three consecutive rooftop performances: Adventure, Cloud Nothings, and Toro y Moi. Adventure's performance was incredible. This was my first time seeing the Baltimore musician, and I'm mostly familiar with the chiptune, arcade-evoking sound from his first record. New single "Feels like Heaven" I've heard and loved, but everything else on his just-released Lesser Known is a mystery to me. Or was, anyway (now I guess it's more or less "known," har har). If last night's set gives any indication, the new record is stacked with greatness, and marks a dramatic departure from his previously-establish sound. I'm all about chrysalis-busting, and I love when an artist changes up their style from album to album. In the case of Adventure/Benny Boeldt, he seems to have ditched his old sound for something clubbier and more upbeat, with vocals on every track (where before there were none). It can be tricky when instrumental artists decide to pick up the mic and flex their pipes, but Adventure performed admirably.

Pop-punk revivalists Cloud Nothings weren't the last band I intended to see last night, but that's how my evening ended up shaking out. Their frenzied, whining sound probably hits home with rock critics of a certain age (particularly the ones working for taste-making indie rock paragons like Pitchfork), but fails to elicit much more than admiration on my part. Frankly, I generally try and avoid emo-tinged reminders of my misspent youth. That said, the dudes are excellent musicians, particularly their drummer, who was an absolute madman, and I was happy to have caught them.

Afterwards, my night went sour. I left 512 (despite a strong desire to see Toro y Moi play a psychedelic rooftop dance party with strobing pink/green lights straight out of Enter the Void) in hopes of seeing lauded minimalist dubstep soloist James Blake at the Central Presbyterian Church. Blake's already one of the big breakout stars of SXSW (nevermind the tidal wave of hype he surfed in on). Everyone in the young, savvy crowd I've been romping with at Southby has been incredibly stoked on seeing Blake but, to my knowledge, none of them have managed to pull it off yet. Despite arriving to the church with time to spare, the line was enormous, and security informed me that the venue was at capacity and "there was no way" I was going to make it in. Later on, I learned from a fellow Cascadian journalist that the wait to get inside was so long and interminable that one of his buddies had to pee in an empty water bottle. This is the kind of craziness Blake is already causing. He plays again today, and I'm not even sure if I'll put in the effort to try and catch him—during the time it would take to wait and see him, I could probably see at least three other bands play, and my operating principal so far this week has been quantity and quality.