SXSW - Night Two

Post Italian meal, Andrew and I head on to check out the first of the bands on our list tonight - FM Belfast. This was one of Rigsy's recommendations, and it's a damn good shout. The name of the band is entirely misleading, as they're from Iceland rather than Northern Ireland. You'll be able to learn about the origin of the name on an upcoming ATL TV show, so I'll not spoil it for you here. They're playing upstairs in Maggie Mae's, and by the time we arrive the whole place is jumping. It's true party music, with both male and female singers, that comes across like The Go! Team via CSS. Rave on.

The next fact I'm going to share with you is pretty embarrassing, but also pretty funny. It's no secret that I wear impressively tight trousers, but on this day it was an ill-advised choice of clothing. Texas sunshine + incredibly tight pants = excessive painful chafing. Yes, that's right, chafing. So bad in fact, that I had to drag Andrew along to the apartment I'm staying in till I got changed. 'What's that you've left behind in Texas?' you might say. 'My self-respect' would be the immediate reply.

One change into fresh, looser-fitting trousers later and we're off again. This time it's to try and get in to see MGMT at the Rio. Rigsy once again let's us slide into the queue he's already halfway down, but this time it's no good. With a line of people stretching right round the street hoping to gain entry, a SXSW rep emerges and tells us that no one is leaving the already packed venue so we've pretty much no chance of getting in, and that as we paid a lot of money for the tickets we'd be best advised to try somewhere.

It's good advice that we decide to heed and so Rigsy, Andrew and I take the opportunity to head round to Barcelona to see DJ/Producer Diplo. The place is totally rammed and the crowd seem to be enjoying his dancehall inspired, dub-heavy set. About four tunes in and disaster strikes, the soundsystem dies, it's been Dip-blown. To be honest, the set wasn't what I was expecting from the man and it's good to make an exit.

The next choice of band we go to see is based pretty much entirely on their name - Tokyo Sex Destruction. Can you really go wrong with a moniker as awesome as that? The answer is no. They're playing at Red Eyed Fly, which is a sort of outside stage and a cool spot. With absolutely no expectations, what followed was a mindblowing concoction of Rocket From The Crypt, The Hives and Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, all carried by a front man who is like a punk-rock Mick Jagger minus the strut and maxed out on the hardcore. He spends way more time off stage than on, even taking the mic through the crowd and into the toilet at one point. No space is safe. He has a neat line in performance moves too, controversially wrapping the mic lead around his arm and slaps it, as if he is about to shoot up with a hypodermic needle, but instead he uses a mic. Rock 'n' roll is the drug that pulses through the veins of this band. What a discovery they turned out to be.

With the performance bar raised incredibly high, we head off Esther's Follies to see if deranged, midget, sleaze-funkster and Ron Jeremy porn-a-like Har Mar Superstar can clear it. Turned out that he could take it to a whole other level. When he first graced the stage there was a modest amount of people in the room, but with a combination of downright pumping electro tracks and an unlikely sex appeal he attracted an audience like moths to a bright light. Har Mar sure knows how to work it 'You fucking love Har Mar Superstar' he says. 'Hell yes we do!' is the reply. 'This is another new song, and it's a fucking gem'. 'Damn straight it is!' we retort. He makes huge self-congratulatory comments and you just have to agree.

It's incredible how he achieve this effect too, because let's face it, a short balding man with a pot belly shouldn't really be able to sing songs about sleeping with your girlfriend after you. On first glance you'd think he wouldn't get to sleep with anybody, but by the end of this set you're convinced that is indeed a real life sex symbol. He totally embraces his body image, shedding items of clothing one at a time, througout the set, until he is clad in nothing but his undercrackers. And he isn't doing this just for the fans indoors, the rear of the stage has big windows onto the street which he periodically dances in front of, like some sort of peep show, grinding up against the glass for the pleasure of an ever-growing crowd of onlookers. He works two audiences ten times as well as most people can work one.

He might use gimmicky aspects (at one stage he uses a device to hang a mic from his neck so he can sing and dance hands free) and novelty appeal to get your attention, but it's not all just front, Har Mar is a genuinely talented musician with a great bank tunes. Prince is an obvious reference point, and the new material he plays is in the same vein as his earlier work, but if it ain't broken, there's no need to fix it.

By the end of his set the whole room feels like one big party, and when he again says 'I'm Har Mar Superstar and I'm fucking amazing' that his statement is both beautifully simple and 100% accurate.

A wicked end to a superb night.