BY: SEAN F

South by Southwest, Day 1, March 12: I’m old. Yep, old. And we all know that going to shows is a young man’s sport. The only real advantage a 40-something like me has at SXSW is that I have an answer to the above question – but more on that later.

So I’m an old man living a young man’s dream: going to SXSW for the first time after years of wanting - followed by years of not really caring - to. So how do I start?

First, get a Buddy. It’s my good fortune to be traveling with Ian Hussey, Bookmans' Ina Road store manager. Ian is not much younger than me, but so much cooler it makes up the difference.

Second, get a Guru. A few days before I’m set to go, I’m wading through the massive list of bands set to appear at SXSW, trying to wrap my head around a plan. What am I going to do at this music carnival? I’m struck with inspiration, and I call my personal music guru: let’s call him Agent D. Agent D works in distribution, you see, and used music shops (like Bookmans) are the enemies of distribution. We go way back – back before either of us even had real jobs, much less these jobs - so it’s cool.  Still, we don’t want the higher-ups at the agency to get antsy about this rapprochement.

So I get Agent D on the phone and say, “I’m going to SXSW, and other than R.E.M. playing the first night, I have no idea who to check out.” Agent D has got me covered. Turns out he is making the trip to Austin as well, so he can provide on-the-ground guru services for the duration.

Now I’m starting to feel pretty good about this trip.

Until Wednesday morning, that is. First, it’s a 6:30 a.m. departure, so I pick Ian up at 5 a.m. He does his best to be cheerful but, please, it's 5 a.m. We park in long-term parking, bus into the airport, clear security, and then it hits me – I’ve left my phone in the car. I’ve got 50 minutes until the plane takes off and I’m at the gate without a cell phone. How will I communicate during the chaos that even I, a SXSW virgin, know will define the rest of my week? I won’t, that’s how. I’ll be cut off from my Guru, abandoned by my Buddy. 

This is clearly unacceptable, so it's snap decision time. I rush back outside, but how am I going to get back to my car? It’s 5:45 in the morning. Planes don’t arrive at 5:45 a.m. No one is going back to the parking area. The busses are all shuttling people in from long-term parking. And this is Tucson, it's not like I can just grab a...

Wait. A cab. I can’t believe it, a cab! I rush over and, of course, his light is off. In fact, he is crashed out. But I’m desperate, so I risk cabbie vengeance and tap on the windshield.

“What?”

“Are you available?”

“No, I’m waiting for someone.”

I’m so completely screwed. But my good cab man catches my crestfallen look and shows unexpected empathy. “Where do you need to go?”

I tell him. He takes me. Phone recovered, I’m on the plane and feeling good again. I’ve just had my necessary traveling near-disaster. I’ve cleared it and now we can move on.

You see, I’m a very poor traveler. I always have either a disaster or near-disaster. But my pattern is that the sooner the event occurs, the less damaging to me and my traveling companions. If the trip proceeds without a near miss, I know a direct hit is coming later, and who knows what kind of collateral damage there could be?

So we arrive in Austin, collect Agent D at the airport, and head into town. First thing D tells me is that I might not want to count on seeing R.E.M. “Everyone is talking about it. It’s going to be packed. You’ll need to get there right at 8 - when doors open – to get in.” On the way in D suggests that we stop at the convention center first to pick up our badges, but I’m hungry and we have a dinner reservation, so we’ll pick up after. (See how I am? I’m blessed with a guru and I start by completely ignoring him.)

After a fine bit o’ Tex Mex, we head over to pick up our badges. I’m anxious; it’s already 8 p.m. and I need to get to Stubb’s BBQ and get my spot. (“A barbeque joint? R.E.M. is playing a barbeque joint?”). We arrive to a line wrapping around the outer perimeter of the convention center. Even more disturbing, the line is not moving at all. That’s right, the computers are down…

Clock’s tickin'…clock’s tickin'…blood pressure rising… Why, why didn’t I pick up badges before dinner? I'm such an idiot…

Finally the line starts moving, we get our badges, rush to the gate, and…

Walk right in? I’m standing in a little dirt lot, you could maybe squeeze 1500 people in here, and it’s not even crowded! Am I in the right spot? Is this the R.E.M. show? 

According to my literature, Johnathan Rice should be up next if I am in the right spot. Sure enough, they announce Johnathan Rice. Three songs in I realize I either saw this guy open for the Gourds in front of 35 dedicated fans in Tucson, or he just looks and sounds like every other mediocre folk rocker since Uncle Tupelo broke up. (I’m still not sure which.) Otherwise I hardly even notice him. I’m still wrapping my head around R.E.M. in a venue that is little more than some guy’s backyard.