Keeping the Right Flank Strong, 3 Years On.
vol. 3 no. 1+ September 2007
GUI
vol 03 issue 01+ september 2007 we don’t love to hate. we hate what we love.
GUI
directors
board of advisors
contact
Kip Hollingsworth
L. Fauntleroy Jaye L. Baitt Callahan O’Callahan Adolph Curmudgeon Col. Alastair Tunbridge (Ret) Abelard Fiddlebits Jan Tschichold Yngwie Malmsteen JT Money
www.misprintmagazine.com hollaback@misprintmagazine.com www.myspace.com/misprintmag Send us your free shit! Misprint Magazine PO Box 303157 Austin, Texas 78703
Director of Small Capitals & Expert Numerals
Harvey Merrybottom
Director of Co-Conspiritories
Chadwick Pennyrich III
Director of Visual Arts & Languages The views expressed here are strictly those of the authors, and do not represent the views of Misprint Magazine, which is kind of weird because the ideas of author and entity are actually entirely codependent of one another, but fuck it. This also applies to all our advertisements.
For inquiries, kudos, hate mail and the rest, e-mail Misprint at the above address.
email to the directors When the hell are you guys going to put out another issue? I thought I was a slacker! – Shawn Chippendale (Editor’s Response) Didn’t you read our press release in The Austin Business Journal? We bought a corporate jet and have been crisscrossing the globe checking out Grecian spas, doing some big game hunting and heckling Daft Punk.
We love email! Why not drop us a note? hollaback@misprintmagazine.com
Hey what's up guys. i just wanna say i love your fuckin magazine! I work at ginnys printing here in austin, and well, thats how i found out about misprint, because i put it together. im currently binding, and reading, your sxsw issue right now and i love it. i also made your previous issue. anyways keep up the great shit and ill keep reading (and making them). – derek (Editor’s Response) Thanks, man! We love you too! It’s been a while since you’ve heard from us. Assuming you haven’t been fired, you should be binding this issue right now. Hope you enjoy these crappy words and pictures. P.S. Don’t fuck up the center spread, okay?
A few words from the Director... so where the hell have we been? That’s actually a pretty loaded question. To the casual observer, it might seem like we’ve been sitting on our asses, too stoned and creatively impotent to even recycle the same shitty jokes about lame clubs and bands. But actually, we’ve “released” two hot issues since sxsw. The first one got leaked out to the Internet three days before we went to print. Then, for the next issue, we threw a super-exclusive, super-secret launch party. Unfortunately, it was so exclusive the cops shut it down and confiscated all the issues. You probably wouldn’t have gotten in anyway, because to get on the list you’d have to be a 6’5” bearded-lady with a supermodel physique or a centaur. Chadwick Pennyrich III
Birds Barbershop. Now twice as nice. Birds North
Birds South
6800 Burnet @ 2222ish 512-454-1200 7 days a week Walk in or call ahead
2100 S. Lamar @ Oltorf 512-442-8800 7 days a week Walk in or call ahead
There are even more big things on the horizon, but I can’t divulge too much right now. Let’s just say pretty soon all the current directors will only be here in an advisory capacity and we’ll be spending most of our time racing helicopters and getting diamond grills. Plus, our lawyers would kill me if I gave anything away. But rest assured Misprint will always be in good hands. Actually, as soon as I have my villa in Marfa I won’t really care. Cheers,
Birds North 6800 Burnet
2222
This being the first issue of volume 3, combined with our sweet cash flow, you can expect some changes. You’ll notice right off the bat that this issue is wider, ¾ of an inch wider to be exact. That doesn’t mean you get more words for your buck. It’s just to increase our carbon footprint by wasting paper with more off-white space. We also picked up a bunch of those old brass knuckle necklaces from FactoryPeople and smelted them into our vat of Pantone 1545 to give this issue a little extra metallic-brown panache. This is as close to full-color glossy as it’s ever gonna get, folks.
Burnet
Mopac
West Anderson Ln
But it’s really no loss, because we’re back. There’s one big difference between Misprint 3.0 and the old, lame Misprint 2.0. And that’s the major fucking bank we made during sxsw. I’m talking shit tons of cash. It comes as no shock whatsoever that nothing else out of Austin had even a shred of success... no major label pickups, no European distro, no sweet Canadian tours. Pity. There’s so much cash floating around the Misprint HQ right now we can bribe mash-up DJs to not play their music. We actually paid Kid What’s-his-name to leave Austin and never foul our ears again.
Koenig
birdsbarbershop.com
Chadwick Pennyrich III
The
Guide to Home Ownership we don’t love to hate. we hate what we love.
Methods of Self-Mythology
There’s nothing graceful about getting old. The drugs don’t work like they used to, the hangovers are getting gnarlier and parents start calling the cops when they see you hanging around their 17-year-old daughter. Ironic moustaches are gradually just becoming regular, creepy middle-aged-guy moustaches. That hot girl you saw at the Longbranch last night is pushing her baby stroller the next morning. But getting old isn’t all bad. If you saved any of the tips you made over the past five years you might want to consider buying a house. Just think about the killer parties. Here are a few hints for grabbing a piece of the American dream, Misprint-style.
Despite the inroads you’ve made with your hot indie band or software-writing career or nightlife personality, you aren’t important. And you are certainly not legendary. How do I know? Well, you live in Austin, you probably have a beard and are most likely in some kind of a band. And you’re reading Misprint; the ‘zine written by dudes whose shit is so un-together the last White Denim performance looked like Stomp the Yard by comparison. But don’t take this as a total jibe. Rather, let this be a wake-up call to craft yourself into the mythological asshole of legend you always dreamed you could be.
Finding Your Dream Home
Subsidize
Go to Rehab
Do Lots of Interviews
If funds are tight, consider running a small business out of your new home. When Louisiana finally gets around to making bloodsports illegal, demand for backyard cockfighting is going to skyrocket. All you need is a few bundles of straw, razor blades and some ex-cons waving sweaty wads of cash and swearing in Portuguese. Also, you will need cocks. Tons of cocks. If you’re not into cocks, consider bear-baiting. It’s sort of retro, so it’s probably due for a comeback. Besides, what’s better than a relaxing evening of Zinfindel, hors d’vours and a pack of feral dogs being mauled by a bear chained to a post? I’ll tell you what: nothing.
Nothing builds your legendary status like going into rehab (unless you’re Metallica and get all Promise Keepers on each other’s asses). The thing is, you don’t even need to build up a terrible addiction to some sweet, illicit narcotic beforehand. You don’t even need to go to rehab. The beauty of self-mythologizing is you can spend two months keeping bees, catching up on foreign films, playing Soduku and masturbating. As long as you stay away from coffeeshops and bars, people will just assume you were tackling some kind of crippling addiction anyway. Show up 6 weeks later with a well-groomed beard, a few hobbies under your belt and a ton of new-found respect you never earned.
There is no better way to self-mythologize than by doing shit tons of interviews. Try Austinist first. They’ll interview fucking anybody. Most interviewers are total amateurs; they’ll ask lame questions about your influences and just print whatever you say, verbatim. The best tactic is to remain cryptic and always answer the interviewer’s questions with another question. Or to ignore the questions all together and just muse on the most ridiculous, esoteric subjects you can think of. Narwhals, Morse Code and Zoroastrianism never fail. As a last resort, you could try landing an interview in Misprint. Just remember all their questions are baited to inflate their own narcissistic agendas.
Be Weird
Make Your Own Mouthpiece
Eccentricity will keep your peers perpetually on edge. Think of it as an investment in your mystique; you can cash in when they finally get around to making a Behind the Music about you. So if you want to be the new Bob Dylan, next time your friends are all having rounds at the Side Bar show up dressed as a bumblebee, present them a stack of blurry Polaroids of you drinking by yourself in a barn and walk off without saying a word. That’ll get them talking.
You’re also going to need your own mass media platform to generate some buzz. Try creating a blog; they’re not just for basement-dwelling pr0n surfers anymore! Or try publishing your own ’zine; it’s simple, rewarding and lucrative. Just fill it up with useless articles and made-up bullshit. Every once in a while slip in a killer pronouncement that’s just self-serving enough to get people to take more notice of you.
Get Yourself a Buddy
It’s total gold when your demise is unexpected and untimely with the public. I guess that’s up to you. Or not? The only downside is that when it comes to cool ways to die it’s pretty slim pickings. Auto-erotic asphyxiation, water intoxication, getting shot by a deranged fan or being mauled by a giant robot are all basically played out at this point. Have no fear. No matter how you decide to kick the bucket, when you’re gone someone will throw a benefit show or pour out a 40 in your honor. Just make sure your Buddy didn’t die first. h
When choosing a home, it’s important to consider the features that really matter to you. If you want to grow marijuana, look for septuagenarian neighbors and deep closets for a good hydro setup. If you want to raise pygmy goats or urban chickens, look for a big backyard. And, don’t forget the inevitable zombie uprising. When there is no room left in Hell and the dead return to walk the earth, you are going to want a place that you can defend. This means high ground, small windows and storage for a shit ton of guns. Embrace The Gentrification
Face it: if you’re buying a house, you’re part of the problem. You’re elbowing your way into some traditionally ethnic neighborhood with your tattoos and rock music and organic groceries. Your new neighbors aren’t going to like your band any more than your old ones did. Since that’s the case, start calling the police every time you hear someone speaking Spanish. The Fixer-Upper
As a loyal Misprint reader, you have no doubt been inspired by our indispensable guides to home brewing, silk-screening and beekeeping. But that scrappy, DIY ethic is a double-edged sword when you smoke some weed and convince yourself you can rewire your entire home with a pair of needlenose pliers, a drum key and some toothpaste. With home improvement, as with all projects, liberal application of alcohol will only smooth things along. Also, you now have something you’ve been waiting for your entire life: a good reason to blow a paycheck on a chainsaw. Don’t worry, power tools work just like guitars. Plug it in, turn it up and start kicking ass.
The Inspection
Chances are the house is practically uninhabitable, as it’s probably built on an old Cherokee burial ground or some shit. Try to convince the inspector of poltergeist activity. If that doesn’t fly, just plant a body somewhere before the inspection. Don’t hate, negotiate! Roommates
A word of warning: when you own the house, it’s a lot less funny when your buddy pisses on you in your bed or spills the bong water on your carpet. Plus, don’t count on them paying rent every month. They’re your friends, right? That means they’re filthy degenerates, just like you. Closing
Bring your pen, your ID and your hangover as you sign your life away. This would be a good time to give up your dreams of riding your bike to the tip of South America and try to pick up a few extra shifts. h
“No man is an island” some famous person once said. What this means is that you need to find a trusty sidekick willing to tolerate your weirdness and substantiate your crazy stories. Once one person gives you credibility, everyone else will follow. Ideally this will be a person who won’t become jealous of your growing fame or how much trim you’re getting, and will be content picking through the scraps of the all the women you reject. Traditionally, these people are called “bassists.”
Die in a Tragic, Yet Incredibly Interesting Way
The whole Nordic-mythology-metal-lyric thing is pretty passe. I mean, Manowar has been doing that shit for like, 60 years. Colonial American history, in contrast, is shit hot right now. Will the next record have some songs about the Revolutionary War? Actually, we’re saving that for the third record. I think we can ride out this stoner-rock thing a little longer. we don’t love to hate. we hate what we love.
Misprint embarked on a noble quest to seek an audience with The Sword. High in their snow-capped mountain hall, over goblets of mead and roaring fires, they talked tennis, Dolf Lundgren and whether or not they are gay. They imparted to each of us a special gift to aid us on our journey home: a complete volume of Penthouse from 1983, a toy sea turtle hewn from their sacred Oak Tree and a mini fan/mister. Gefeoht dre ogan, mighty Sword.
M: In Guitar Hero II, if I can play “Freya” and get 100% on the hardest level, can I join the band? Right now, I’m at, like, 65%. TS: 100% just proves you rule at the video game version of our song, which is actually much harder than the song itself. I’m only capable of approximately 70% myself. Do you want to carry our amps? At your last Emo’s show, I noticed there were a lot of dudes. What have you been doing to address the gender gap in ironic stoner metal? You think hitting the Renaissance Faire circuit my help attract more ladies? It’s possible. If not for the ladies, then for the discounts on chain mail. What is the best part about opening for The Faint? Going through their dressing room while they were on stage and trying on their skinny pants. Also, eating their deli trays and whatnot. I read on your website “When making swords, the swordsmith invokes the aid of the guardian god. To invite him to the workshop, the smith goes through the ceremony of ablution and dons the ceremonial dress in which he works. While striking the iron bar and bathing it in fire and
water, the smith and his assistant are in the most intensified state of mind.” Is this some kind of gay thing? Or is more like joining a fraternity? Neither. It’s a summary of being badass. Sounds pretty gay to me. Does your drummer really have a Frazetta back tattoo of that Viking wearing shorts riding a polar bear? It’s actually a full back-piece of Taz wearing a wizard hat, holding a bong. What’s your favorite medieval weapon, other than the sword? Battle-axes are tight. Could The Sword beat Metallica in doubles claycourt tennis? Never, they have Lars. I’ve been thinking about giving my baby a tattoo of a dagger, so that as he grows up, it will become a sword. Pretty sweet idea, right? Any thoughts on how I can convince my wife? A grand idea, convincing might be rough though— I’d go the path of deceit and try and hide it.
On paper, it seems like Dolf Lundgren would make the perfect He-Man. So how come the movie was so lame? Because of Courtney Cox, obviously. Dolf gets off scot-free. Ivan Drago rules. Can anyone in the band play the dulcimer? Have you arranged any songs for harpsichord and lute so The Sword can jam out at Society for Creative Anachronism outings? No SCA outings, no LARPers in this bunch. In college, I used to date a girl on the fencing team and I had to go to a bunch of her matches. That shit was fucking boring! The swords weren’t even sharp. Sucks for you. You should have had a Walkman and a dub of “Piece of Mind.” Which member of the band is the most 1337 H4x0r? Don’t even pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Me, [Bryan] as I was the only one capable of translating. How come oak trees look all gothic and gnarly when I see them in photos, but in real life they just look pretty? Must be the ISO. Skynyrd or the Allmans? Tough call, I’ll say Allman Brothers. Britney or Madonna? Madonna. Dwarf Cleric, Human Palidan or Half-Orc Barbarian? Who would I rather be? Or who would I rather fight in an open field? Where’s the Elf Totemist? Where’s the Warmage? This list is incomplete. h
The New Austin Decadencia Whether you realize it or not, your cherished local institutions are laughing all the way to the bank with your hardearned dough. Suckers. Of course you don’t want to admit it, because Austin was supposed to be one of those towns with more lofty goals than turning any kind of a profit. But don’t be fooled by their attempts to still look respectable. The signs of their great wealth are out there, as are the examples of how out of touch they are with reality and with people like you. Why They are Rich Bitches
Their Fuck You to the Fans
What Made Milwaukee Famous
Each band member owns the penthouse in a different new high-rise condo.
austinist
“Charity Work”
Future Sellout Moment
Turned down the chance to be the Band in the Bubble.
Bass player also plays bass in a What Made Milwaukee Famous cover band.
Headlining the 2009 Kansas State Fair
Take a 25% cut of the Mohawk’s bar tab; Writers actually have to pay to get their articles published.
Continuing to accept TrueCraig’s money.
Give me the opportunity to anonymously bitch out FactoryPeople and people with cancer in the comments section.
huttoist.
Clap!Clap!
Could afford 50 layers of dude vocoders on their new L.P.
Fired all the hot clappers from the lineup. Added a few more dudes.
Don’t live in Austin.
Cher’s backing band.
Super!Alright!
Throw Dallas-style cheese parties with Britt Daniel, Jarvis Cocker and the attractive Hanson Brothers.
Only design with animated, sparkly .gifs.
Directed and produced a commercial about bunions.
Market own line of powder-blue neckerchiefs on QVC.
Emo’s
Charge $5.50 for a mocha latte. And $17 for Ghostland Observatory.
Couldn’t bring their $20K Vegas light show back to Austin because they lost it to Celine Dion on a game of dominos.
Allowing Finally Punk to perform.
Sell entire building to Camel and turn it into a cigarette factory. Plus one that, bitches.
Austin Daze
Save thousands of dollars a year by not employing a typographer, spell-checker or college graduate.
Completely blowing the interview with Kurt “The Nacho Man” Russell.
Still “Keep Austin Weird,” whatever the fuck that means nowadays.
Austin Chronicle’s Editors’ Choice for “Best ‘Zine.”
Flamingo Cantina
Make their entire year’s income in one day selling those stupid beads during Mardi Gras.
Refusing to paint over that Little Mermaid mural.
Not gutting the Velveeta Room to expand their stage. Provide shelter for ex-Oklahomos.
My new loft-like condo. And they can leave the mural, too.
Lonestar Beer
Fuel the entire economy of downtown Austin and make every live music performance, art opening and bar gathering at least slightly less intolerable.
Not sponsoring a Misprint issue release party.
$2 tall cans.
Crystal® Lonestar.™
Misprint Magazine
People pay us to not make fun of them. We’ve made tons of bank off of Will Wynn.
Leaving this table cell symbolically empty, thus denying you your joke.
Referee pillow fights at the Scottish Rite dormitory.
April 1, 2008.
Max’s Late-Night Monster Jam As hip as: Mother Goose pâté and a bottle of red. Comments: Sent to bed without dinner? Fuck it, go out and rage. Face it kids, Max was a straight up party machine. Out all night in his pajamas at what, age 5? Snorting powdered unicorn horns and Flintstones vitamins with giant fucking monsters? He puts every coke-addled scenester socialite to shame. Rating:
Beauty Bar 80’s Dance As hip as: A $20 minimum tab. Comments: Speaking as someone who was actually cognitive during the 80’s, I can confidently say the only good thing to come out of that decade was Escape from New York. Now, I’ll drink at any bar in Austin, including this one, but who the fuck are these people that you only see at Beauty Bar? I’m 99% sure Jason Reese keeps them locked up in cages out back during the day, barely alive on a cocktail of diet pills, fish flakes and A-ha. Rating:
“ain’t no party like a ___ party
Burning Man As hip as: A Mad Max-based gay porno. Comments: Nothing like listening to music you hate for 168 continuous hours while eating an entire chemistry set’s worth of ecstasy in the brutal desert heat. Yeah, Cochella sucks. But Burning Man is much worse, because here you could credibly have a 4-hour bro-down with a one-eyed nun dressed in drag while wearing a thong made of electrical tape and not be sure if it’s a hallucination. Rating:
hey, where’s the sandwich platter?
infoseek.com IPO As hip as: Getting a Friendster request on your fax machine. Comments: You can stroke your giant hard-on for Web 2.0 and how it’s the voice of the common people. I still miss Web 1.0, a time when a few unemployable jackasses could rake in billions of dollars up front to spend on cotton candy machines, solid gold goatee trimmers and desks made from the wreckage of the Titanic. I’ll take the heady days of Internet excess over a bunch of losers taking stupid pictures of their cats any day of the week and twice on Caturday. Rating:
LAME <-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------> AWESOME
Tony Montana
Robin Leach
Carmen Miranda
Louis XIV
Flute Playing Man-Goat from 300 Movie
Harry Potter Book Release As hip as: Getting drunk off Felix Felicis. Comments: Despite the fact that there’s every-flavor beans, chocolate frogs and wand-wielding rugrats galore, there will also be tons of hot moms dressed as naughty Slytherins. If you sneak in a six-pack of wine coolers under your robe and know how to handle a quaffle, you’re guaranteed the best night of your life. Rating:
Eeyore’s Birthday As hip as: Getting mauled by Poo Bear at a Serbian beer festival. Comments: You know why your party is lame? Because you don’t have enough overweight software engineers wearing nothing but silver body paint. It’s fun seeing all the cops standing around uncomfortably while a topless 50-year-old is tripping balls and leading a poor, shell-shocked donkey through a nightmarish petting zoo that’s half classic Austin stoner, half Pink Floyd video. Rating:
’cuz a ___ party don’t stop?”
Westlake Mansion As hip as: Using a silent “e” in “grille”. Comments: There’s nothing like partying high up in the hills of Whiteyland to put into sharp relief your decision to pass on a business degree and instead major in art. The night’s highlights are a toss-up between leaving a giant turd in the 13th guest bathroom that won’t be found for a month, chilling in a jacuzzi with 3 NASAdesigned water jets just to massage your balls and pissing on Michael Dell’s front lawn. Rating:
Andrew W.K. Show in Ft. Wayne Indiana As hip as: Hitting yourself in the face with a brick. Comments: Set list: PartyPartyKill / Party With My Mom / Party in My Large Intestine / These ARE My Party Pants / Mom-Slayin’ Party /Hot Teenage Pizza Party / Jager Shots? Party! / Tupperware Party (Smokin’ Moms) / Bro-caine Party in the Tour Bus, Dudes/ PartyFace2000. I mean, the guy’s an asshole, but he’s kind of awesome. He’s just trying to live the dream. You may as well dig out your gorilla costume, drink a twelver of Old Milwaukee and go for it. Rating:
Led Zeppelin’s 1972 North American Tour As hip as: Getting to 2nd base for the first time while listening to Stairway. Comments: Everything you heard about the fish was 100% true. Just imagine Bonzo killing it every single night and having a pint of vodka and a needle of distilled leopard adrenaline every morning for breakfast. Also, homeboys had a 727 jet to carry their drugs, their egos, and two 18-year-old models they kidnapped in Chicago. Their jet had a bar, an organ and a fireplace on it. Why do you need a fireplace on a plane? Because Led Zeppelin wins, that’s why. Rating:
The Staff
Bidet that Flushes with Lonestar Multi-Head Shower
Stewardess no.1 Miss Catholic Teen 2006
Giant Squid Tank Sea Animals to Feed Giant Squid
Trophy Stack Bunkbeds Made of Mom Jeans From Treaty Oak Nelson Clock Beehive
Tissues, Lotion Fixed Gear, Brakeless Stationary Bike
Stewardess no.2 Johnny 5
Machine Gun Turret Coffin of The Dead Homie T.I. Constantly Raps About on His New Album
RIP
Edward Tufte Monoprint Unicorn Skin Rug Original Alamo Theatre Seats V-Neck Loom
Complete Set, First Edition, of Stage/Scene
Pilot Bruce Dickenson
Kegerator
Dance Floor/ Bocce Ball Court
Stained Glass/ Screenprinting Table Moped Ramp Brisket Smoker Dungeon
The Emergency Procedure:
Imported German Vinyl Turntables
(No i-Pod Connection)
Misprint Submissions File Cabinet
,
Rejected Flasks
Watch the KLF Burn a Million Quid
As every discerning liquor drinker has surely heard, the Reef sandal company recently rocked the rum-running world with the introduction of a new line of sandals boasting an integrated flask. Just imagine the hairy ladies swooning when you unstrap that fresh smelling flip-flop and liven up the party by letting everyone knock back a shot from your footwear. With ideas like this making it big, there’s just no reason why the visionary pop-culture scientists at Misprint Labs aren’t falling ass-first into piles of money. Here are a few forward-thinking liquor transport technologies that probably won’t be showing up at a store near you.
For all its quirks, SXSW is probably the finest laboratory of pop-cultural dynamics ever created. And for those of us who stopped puking Lonestar long enough to notice, this year was more pronounced than ever. The influence of sponsors, insiders, sellers and buyers has gone to a new extreme, particularly in a world where a geek with a laptop who never kissed a girl gets to play Stubb's because a few of the right bloggers liked his shitty songs. Music is a product, I guess. And you've got to sell it.
The interesting thing is that these principles work both ways. In the mid-nineties, a pair of wanker art students pulled one of the greatest pranks in the history of the music industry, fooling the labels, the advertisers and a generation's worth of music fans in the process. All while getting stupid rich. It's 1988 and trance music is building momentum. Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty were paying the bills as roadies for Echo and the Bunnymen when, on Drummond's 33⅓ birthday, he decided he wanted to be famous. So they formed the world's first "stadium trance" act and called it the KLF. The Phil Spector
The Double Jeopardy
The What Made Milwaukee Famous
The Confidence Booster
The Beer Beard
The Hiverator
What happened next is a phenomenal scam. They cut a single called "3 A.M. Eternal" which somehow graced MTV's Party-To-Go Volume 2 compilation alongside Salt-n-Pepa and Marky Mark. This song, like most of the KLF's music, was recorded with virtually no interaction from the band's principles, instead using random studio personnel, heavy sampling and poorly paid session vocalists. Following in the footsteps of early music concrete pioneers and borrowing from avant tape-nerds Negativland, the KLF twisted the "found" music formula to produce commercially viable dance cuts 100% talent-free. In 1991, virtually overnight, they were the biggest selling act in the world. Then things started getting weird. To promote themselves they began taking out cryptic, full-page ads in UK dailies. They remained evasive and aloof, communicating with the media only through a bizarre direct mail campaign. As their popularity peaked in 1992 they were booked to headline the BRIT Awards, a nationally televised event akin to the Grammys. For the show they brought with them an obscure hardcore vegan metal outfit named
Extreme Noise Terror. After a few bars of "3 AM" they stunned the industry crowd with a violently antagonistic thrash-metal performance. Before walking off the stage Drummond grabbed a tommy gun and fired blanks into the astonished crowd. Apparently they had been planning something with sheep carcasses, but security stopped them before they could go through with it. The #1 selling act in the world then vanished without an explanation, never to perform as the KLF again. They were dismissed as just another pair of drugaddled eccentric rock stars who cracked under the pressures of fame. Then, a few years later a Hi-8 video surfaced entitled Watch the KLF Burn A Million Quid. It showed Drummond and Cauty feeding 50 Pound notes into a fire, supposedly burning every cent that remained of their earnings as the KLF. This was followed with the publication of the Manual, a 50-page book detailing their rise to pop stardom. The manual is a scathing indictment of the music industry and was smug enough to refund the price of the book to anyone who followed their methods and didn't get a number one hit. Just about every successful mainstream act of today is following a formula that hasn't really changed since Salt-n-Pepa was cool. Just replace "trance" with any of the mallpunk or chug-rock bands moving units today and anyone can follow a few steps to success. The sad part is the indie scene is becoming the same way. Find your best-looking friend and give him a dumb haircut in the garage. Rip off a few Talking Heads songs and make them wimpier. Now, just send a tape to SXSW and start sucking. Congratulations. Somehow I don't feel like I'm in on the joke. h
hi-lo
grüv
For well over a year Misprint has called this place everything from a blight, a shitstain and its “fancy bar in the front”/”dive bar in the back” the worst bar concept, ever. So I was very curious to check this place out, not only because I’ve never been there but I’ve also read so much about it. Sure, I wrote all that stuff to begin with, but I think I have enough journalistic integrity to walk into a bar and be objective.
Even the thugginist Eastern-bloc European wouldn’t pass a chance to check out a club that so blatantly misappropriates their youth culture. As a Europhile myself, I had visions of tall, repressed blondes wearing nothing but necklaces made of ecstasy. Perhaps some dudes in tight pleather pants shooting AK-47s. And certainly some gold decorations made from the melted down statues of deposed oligarchs. Unfortunately, our party was denied entry because one of us was wearing cut-off jean shorts and a moustache. In retrospect, this was the best thing to happen to us all night. I still snuck a peek inside, only to see two drunk-ass moms gyrating against each other, joining forces to become some kind of milf Voltron in an attempt to attract a pack of burnt orange dudebrahs nearby. Jesus, I’d rather have the Iron Curtain.
Style: Manichean Dualism. Lone Star: $2 for a tall.
when you start wishing those crackhead
valets at the Teacher's Lot had matching buzz cuts and khaki shorts, or when it gets frustrating that every girl you make out with at a bar is secretly 19, you just might be getting too old for Red River. Fortunately, your new kindred spirits are waiting for you in the Warehouse District, a place where the tastes are a little more refined, the ladies are a touch classier and the patrons have actual dayjobs. Misprint went out on the town to get the real deal on Austin's own burgeoning Yupster scene.
the belmont
Style: Faux Rat Pack meets faux palm trees. Lonestar: $2.00 Sammy Davis Jr and Old Blue Eyes would never drink at a bar this lame. They’d be too busy pounding Manhattans at the Palms, snorting the 50-yard line at Giants Stadium and setting a groupie-deflowering precedent rivaled only by Led Zep’s ‘72 North American tour. But if you have an expensive pair of dress shoes that you don’t want to ruin at Emo’s and like drinking pina coladas by fake palm trees, this is your new spot. And to pour salt in the gaping wound that is my sanity, The Belmont also has live music, or rather a smoothjazz/jam band mashup that was oppressively bland and rhythmless yet maintaining enough smug hippy pretension to keep the boomers swaying. Not a pretty sight.
We were pleasantly surprised that only a Hamilton was required for 5 tallcans, but we skipped taking seats on the leftover droog furniture from its milkbar Oslo days and headed to the back bar. The only way to describe it is that if I was to tell my mom that I hang out in sketchy dive bars, this is probably how she would picture it in her head. This place is totally non-threatening, complete with purposefully mismatched couches from Pier 1 and a couple imported, tatted-out bartenders who were fired from the Red Eyed Fly for being too nice. This place ruled, mainly due to the fact that I was the toughest motherfucker in there.
prague
Style: 20th Century Vampire Chic. Lone Star: “Vot eez dat? Ah ah ah.” I suspect Texas is a shitty place to be a vampire. I mean, how do you go tubing? How do you watch SXSW day shows? Imagine my surprise to discover a subterranean vampire hangout in the midst of 5th Street, complete with black napkins, black urinals, torches, gargoyles and pale brunettes with severe haircuts and no knowledge of Voxtrot. We took our pint glasses of virgin’s blood and cozied up in the VIP area, only to be brusquely kicked out by some translucent dude who reserved the space for his 300th birthday. There were some girls dancing around the stripper pole, but that just left me waiting for the blood sprinklers to come on like in the sweet opening rave scene from Blade 2 and Wesley Snipes to storm in kicking ass. I guess that only happens after hours. Dir. note: Prague’s website has the best animated .gifs, ever.
Style: A UT Eurotrip. Lone Star: Probably.
six
Style: Padded lycra shorts. Lonestar: $3 to $10, depending on bartender. Lance Armstrong named this bar after the number of times he won the tour de France minus one, presumably as a nod to Satan. Every night Lance mounts a stationary bike in the basement and provides unlimited free energy to the entire city while being serviced by a dozen corporate-financed hookers and a troupe of goat-man hybrids. You would think that with such a sweet arrangement there’d be no need for a policy of overcharging you on your drinks. But you’d be wrong. And you can’t be too sympathetic to the bar staff because if there was a Hell for bad bartenders to be condemned to, it would definitely be this place.
vicci
Style: A 3-story Mom Tower. Lonestar: At least $20.50. At about one a.m. we tried to go to Vicci, but balked at the $10 cover. When I asked what was going on to merit $10, the bouncer replied, in all seriousness, “Just another Saturday night at Vicci, bro.” This is so my catchphrase for the rest of the year.
canvas
Style: The Factory, if it were in the ghetto and Warhol were even more of a sham. Lonestar: Real artists only drink Coors, apparently. Judging by the illegibly typeset sign and installation art unfit for the waiting room at your dentist’s office, I figured the owners of this frat bar-cum-”gallery” simply hadn’t yet developed the sophisticated eye needed to capitalize on Austin’s funky, artsy vibe. But after getting an earful of modern rock and service from the most disgruntled, unfriendly bartendress outside of The Parish, I came to the conclusion that this vacant hellhole is probably run by a bunch of amateurs who had $50K to throw at something. One of Warhol’s lame Soupcans would have been a way better investment.
light bar
Style: An L.A. Bar by way of Downtown Houston. Lonestar: $3 Here’s where some shit went down! One of our party disappeared, and just when I was getting worried I see him downing a tequila shot with some polo-popped dudebro! As it turns out it wasn’t the makings of some sweet, unbridled bro-down, the dude just had an extra shot and wanted to stay sober enough to safely drive his girlfriend home. What a geek. But, under the guise of being an out of town businessman, our guy got some invaluable advice about navigating downtown: on 6th Street, the girls are too young and it’s harder to get some action, but if you stick to the Warehouse District you are guaranteed to get laid. Baller.
pure
Style: A Maxi Pad commercial. Lonestar: No shiny shirts, no leather shoes, no service. This all-blue shithole might have the distinction of being the most exclusive bar in Austin. With all our degenerate friends bailing, we figured we’d all be up to dress code. They let me in wearing white Vans slip-ons with a Wyatt Earp stencil (as portrayed by Kurt Russell), but they stopped our number 3 for wearing... black sneakers? After we pointed out that there were tons of dudes in the club wearing the same shoes, we told the bouncer we’d do him a favor and tell them all to leave, too. Not impressed, the bouncer told us to get the fuck out. It’s now my life’s goal to get into this fucking bar. h
Baby Juggling for Fun & Profit Edging out fixed-gear bikes, giant squid and stunt kites, babies have emerged as this season’s must-have accessory. Unfortunately, unless you’re really up on your shit, you’re going to be like, nine months behind the times. But don’t worry, if you get started now, before long you’ll have your very own adorable poo-machine to dress up in tiny little red Pumas. When all your stoner friends who couldn’t remember to feed their goldfish somehow became parents, you start to look at parenting a little differently. And moms are still super hot.
A few months ago, I was a just a dude with a beard, a hangover and a dream of riding my motorcycle to the tip of South America. Then, through the magic of alcohol, my wife got pregnant. There are typically several stages of acceptance: panic, denial, alcoholism, grudging acknowledgment and finally, elation. All of these, except for the last one, typically don’t go over so well with the wife. I learned this the hard way. Regardless, she was sure it was mine and honestly, there’s no point in arguing that sort of thing. It was now baby time! The next few months were a blur, with the wife and I taking turns throwing up in the morning. I painted a huge mural of Eddie from Number of the Beast in the nursery and scheduled guitar lessons to prepare my spawn for a career as a mediocre Austin rocker. I also planned for karate and shooting lessons. When the machines rise up to enslave us, every able body counts. And I wanted this kid to hate and fear our future robot overlords from birth. Combat training aside, being a daddy is a pretty sweet gig. Your life has unalterably changed, but this doesn’t mean you have to buy a minivan and move to Pflugerville. As a dude, your responsibilities are limited to holding, playing, bathing and occasional picture taking. It’s mom (or the wet nurse) who gets the raw deal. She’s the one with the boobs. If the kid is crying, just tell the wife you think he’s hungry. It’s like a get out of jail free card. Get back to bed and thank your pals at Misprint as you enjoy those precious extra hours of sleep. Of course, there will be some tense moments. Take bathtime, for example. The wife seems to think he needs one every day. What the fuck? He’s a baby, he isn’t dirty. What the fuck has he been doing? I’m the one out there working for the weekend and you
don’t see me showering every day. And as much as you think you can handle the whole diaper thing, babies, despite being tiny little people, produce a mind-altering quantity of poo. Be prepared. Once the kid gets old enough, it’s fun taking the lil’ dude out with you. A baby is an attention-grabbing accessory, and it will inevitably bum you out once you notice how many gorgeous women who normally wouldn’t give you the time of day start hanging around the kid. This goes double if you splurge on that $25 Snake Plissken onesie or if the kid rocks a babyhawk. Bring extra bottles, because even the coldest ice princess will melt at the chance to feed an adorable baby. This leaves you a free hand for drinking. Stay away from live music and obnoxious assholes. Even though they say it’s all ages, this means no Emo’s! No exceptions! You might be able to get The Sword to turn down for a lullaby, but otherwise you’re going to get some weak-ass fey indie pop that has been scientifically proven to turn infants deaf and/or gay. It’s amazing how much your life improves when you can entertain yourself for hours watching a kid drool and put things in its mouth instead of going to some lame rock club. Bonus Misprint fact: Parents learn that “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” has more than one verse. Verse six is about whaling. And the eighth and ninth verses are about Satan, which is actually pretty bitchin’. Lastly, don’t be an asshole yourself. If you’re out partying and the kid starts crying, get the fuck out of there. Unless you’re at some kind of momfest, no one likes a crying baby, even if he is the cutest damn thing ever. Just get home, put the kid to bed, jam some mellow Neurosis record and blaze one. You’ve earned it. You’re a dad, after all. h
Greetings from High School
By Jaye L. Baitt
We get submissions all the time. Typically, they suck ass. But this submission is different, namely because it’s from a nubile, 100% real high school girl. But before you get all up in arms about any alleged improprieties, I’m going on record and saying I met her in a completely harmless way: over the Internet. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in high school. I figure it’s more or less the same except with more guns, more text messaging and some lame shit called Facebook. What follows is an excerpt of our first ever high school submission, lovingly annotated by the Misprint staff. We think this new correspondent has potential, once she turns 18.
In my freshman year of high school there was a 1 boy who wore dress pants, vintage shirts, sick nasty tie-up Vans and listened to The Strokes through shitty $5 headphones. He was so hot.2 There was something compelling about his obvious lack of effort regarding his appearance. But then, in tenth grade I think he either moved or went to rehab. Sigh. We would have been so good together. I’m over it. You can’t really understand what it’s like to be angsty until you have dated and broken up at least one time, which I’m sure you have by now, considering the fact you are old and probably creepy. Congratulations? 3 To avoid such socially painful situations, simply date boys and/or girls who are finished with high school. Despite what your parents have told you (especially dads, mine’s fucking scary. But you knew that already you smart cookie4), old people are fun!5 They can buy you cool stuff like cigarettes and alcohol, you will get automatic respect from your friends and if it ends badly you can always turn them over to the police!6 And even if you’re not into old guys, still flirt with everyone, faculty and bosses included. I can’t even tell you how many free cups of coffee I’ve gotten from a well-timed giggle or one of those lookylooks.7 Aw, this came double-spaced, how adorable. That’s not accepted in the Misprint Style Guide, though. 2 This dude sounds like a total wanker. 3 Zing. I can still drink at Barflys though. Wait, that place sucks. You win this round. 4 I bet I could drink a beer with your dad. Is he a republican? 5 You have no idea. 6 Just try it. We drink El Nin˜o™ Ritas with the cops at Chili's all the time. 7 “Looky-looks”? Sweet jebus. 1
But inevitably, high school romance does lead to intense emotional pain, which can typically be dealt with in two ways, art and drugs.8 Both are losing propositions. Poetry and songs on your Squier Telecaster are strongly discouraged, and will make your final grade school years that much more cringeworthy (even if you did have, like, the best idea for a band name ever9). Weed has its own share of problems.10 Countless friends/loose acquaintances of mine have been totally screwed over because they couldn’t wait the forty-five minutes until school ended to get high in the bushes thirty feet from the cafeteria. Hard drugs are a nono as well, but if you’re leaving algebra to bump rails in the bathroom you may have a bigger problem on your hands.11 Simplify it all and stick with alcohol.12 While you grown-ups strut all high and mighty with your engraved flasks, we youngsters use one of those relics called a “thermos.” It’s like a flask, only way bigger13, and they come with neat stuff like Transformers and Spiderman on them. I mean, I’m sure your flask is classy and all, but my Sex Pistols thermos not only calls attention to the extent my awesomeness reaches, but also doesn’t make me look like a closet-gay English teacher. (P.S., I really do have a Sex Pistols thermos. It came with the lunchbox.)14 Actually, there’s only drugs. Art is a waste of time. The "Bearded Clam Diggers" is already taken. 10 Namely, other people who smoke weed. 11 A day-old Beauty Bar stamp, most likely. 12 It’s good you’ve learned this lesson now. This will make 8 9
your life much easier. 13 You’re probably drinking a formula of Mike's Hard Lemonade, Diet Black Cherry Soda and spring water, though. I put 190 proof grain alcohol in my flask. 14 The Sex Pistols suck.
Summer Reading Cheat Sheet For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway
You can ignore what it says on the back about the horrors of war and the human condition when confronted by one’s own mortality and all that other nonsense. Today, respected critics read Hemingway’s masterpiece as a cautionary allegory about a little band called Metallica after they cut their hair and stopped drinking beer. In fact, don’t even bother reading it. Your time is way better spent listening to Ride the Lightning over and over until you can play all the solos. A Tale of Two Cities By Charles Dickens
A gripping tale about the brutal turf battle between rival hip hop scenes in Minneapolis and St. Paul and the fly, around-the-way girl that got caught in between a mash-up DJ on each side. “It was da best of times/It was da worst of times/Livin’ life with a 9 an’ a pocket fulla rhymes.”
1984 By George Orwell
This work of non-fiction chronicles the most terrifyingly infamous year of the 80’s, when the trifecta of Rick Springfield, the Cocteau Twins and Ronald Reagan were placing all aspects of pop culture under their control. Basically everyone had to wear ripped jeans, ridiculous haircuts and brutally oppress the fringes of society. And also lust after your good friend’s woman and wonder where you can find one like that.
The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde emerged from some Victorian velvety-purple primordial hipster ooze to basically set the record straight on what was cool for the next 200 years or so. To save you the trouble of reading this book I’ll just sum it up for you. Manly sports, hard labor and heterosexuality? Uncool. Peacock feathers, perfumed soap and orchids? Cool. Now just ditch class, find a wealthy benefactor and start earning your living on your good looks... Things Fall Apart By Chinua Achebe
This novel perfectly captures Man’s struggle to cope with the uncontrollable reality of his rapidlychanging surroundings. We follow a young rockabilly named Lewis who lives a contented life amidst dive bars, tattoos parlors, barbecues and beating the shit out of skinheads. Then one day, a day like any other, The Strokes appear bringing with them a new life of skinny jeans, singing into megaphones and looking not unlike chicks. Suddenly everything he loves is no longer cool and, giving up, moves to the suburbs and works for a software company. This actually might be an artistic metaphor alluding to suicide, but I don’t have a master's degree in English. Leaves of Grass By Walt Whitman
Don’t let the title fool you. This book is about one thing and one thing only: unholy, profane, Jurassic bong rips. Teachers who assign these poems smoke mad weed. Pull your prof aside after class and ask if she want to rip some bingers of that Northern Lights you’ve been saving. She'll completely forget about your C- average.
I end each day with a prayer that Asleep at the Wheel’s bus driver will listen to the band while driving and literally fall asleep at the wheel. I am going to step it up to two prayers a day until ACL.
LCD SOUNDSYSTEM
Brandon Flowers, whose layer of pancake makeup is so thick there must be dinosaur bones buried in it, recently called their new record “one of the best albums in the past twenty years.” Obviously he’s been way too busy getting into fistfights with The Bravery to appreciate the true best band of the last two decades: Oasis. Liam, kick this guy’s ass, will you?
I wish, instead of starting Misprint Magazine, I started LCD Soundsystem. Those dudes have zero talent and managed to get rich namedropping obscure references to proto-hipsters so nerds with Wikipedia feel like they’re in the know. News flash, bloggers: Daft Punk has always sucked.
GHOSTLAND OBSERVATORY
WILCO These guys swapped their Yankee Hotel Foxtrot radio long ago for a rotating tie rack and are now content being a pasty, middle-of-the-road Dad Rock band. Hey Tweedy, Mother Egan’s is a few blocks north, yo.
PETER, BJORN AND JOHN
AMY WINEHOUSE
A one-hit wonder without the hit, these fey njerds are Sweden’s answer to Dexys Midnight Runners. By this time next year they’ll be slinging coffee in Stockholm hoping their band gets immortalized as a Trivial Pursuit question.
Amy Winehouse has pretty much caused the universe to implode, not because of her scorching “soul baring” music or whatever, because that shit sucks, but because she actually got me to admit that she was much, much hotter before she got all tatted out, corpse-thin and addicted to drugs. Now she’s just the female equivalent of Kid Rock.
LUCINDA WILLIAMS The best excuse for watching Austin ex-pat Lucinda Williams is to see how quickly and how badly she is going to break into a drug-induced self-esteem freakout and completely lose her adoring audience to whatever washed-up nu-country wimp band she’s up against.
PETE YORN What is Pete Yorn doing at this festival or any festival for that matter? The guy might have been a draw back in ‘01, but shit. Wasn’t he exiled back to Jersey? How did he get out? Can I ask any more shitty rhetorical question about this doucher? Sorry Pete, 5 years earlier and you would have been Jack Johnson-Mraz. Today? Just shit.
Remember that episode of Friends where Ross plays a keyboard and performs weird songs about space? If he had had an obnoxious frontman, he would’ve beat Ghostland to the punch by about ten years. Also, seeing this band here is the deal of the summer, because a 3-day ACL pass still costs less than one of their shows at the Austin Music Hall.
BOB DYLAN Zimmerman has been tripping of late, and these days he sort of looks, sounds and acts like my grandma impersonating Vincent Price. (No offense to my grandma, she’s a cool old lady.) Those last two albums were pretty sweet, though, and his ‘stasche is super creepy. Still, I don’t know if I want to hear him butcher the classics like an emphysema patient who just got a root canal.
ARCTIC MONKEYS Are we still talking about this band? Seriously? They are headliners? Give me a fucking break. You might as well have white Ray Ban knockoffs be a headliner, because they have roughly the same shelf life.
BJÖRK I don’t give a fuck about Bjork. I just hope I see Matthew Barney at the Side Bar dressed as WWII General Douglas MacArthur while smearing himself with petroleum jelly as he films a conceptual documentary about a hypertrophied penis.
The only thing I can say about this band is that they at least play better than their former tour opener Clap Your Hands Etc. Way to reach for the stars, dudes.
The paul green school of rock all-stars This “school” is really just a breeding ground for future moustachioed Beauty Bar gadabouts, artfully blurry headshots and future hot Misprint interns/regrets.
WE GO TIL 11 Basically Hanson for the post-modern, ironic generation (just re-read their bandname), but with less talent. It’s only a matter of time before one of these dudes knocks up a classmate, quits school and starts working at a soap factory.
WHITE STRIPES
SPOON
Sorry Jack, you’re a cool dude, but that marimba record was bullshit. Also, what’s with stealing all of Michael Jackson’s costumes leftover from the Dangerous tour? Let’s get back to the basics and give the fans what they want to see: you kicking ass and your sis’s huge boobs as she fucks up another drum part.
With fun jingles and bright colors, Spoon (named after every child’s favorite utensil) is the hottest kid’s group since The Wiggles. With their new release, the aptly titled Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, the foursome has cemented their status as a favorite among the ever-so-picky millennial demographic. Portland is beaming with pride.
BLONDE REDHEAD Listen, when you’re a smoking hot petite Japanese art student and your band consists of twin Italian ex-models it's kind of hard to fuck it up. I mean, it sounds like the plot to one of those trendy hipster pornos I just bought at Dreamers.
QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE I can’t wait to see Josh Homme and whichever members of his drugaddicted desert-lizard backing band he was able to check out of rehab aurally violate 10,000 Round Rock yuppies. The Queens are going to be high as fuck on blow, wearing sweatpants and taking no prisoners.
THE NATIONAL
MY MORNING JACKET They’ve got giant beards. They smoke a lot of weed. But you can’t fault them. These poor dudes have been on tour with Zimmerman. Hourly bong rips are pretty much the only way you could put up with him yapping about Alicia Keys all the time.
SOUND TEAM I love SOUND Team. Getting kicked off Capitol records was the best thing that ever happened to them. Fuck Pitchfork, anyway. What we all really want to see is Blonde Bill and about 15 other dudes wearing stupid hats and acoustic guitars playing Pete Seeger-style, communist-gang-vocal freak folk. Fuck yeah!
BLUE OCTOBER True story: I once sat next to this band on a 7.15 AM flight from Newark to Austin. They spent the whole flight drinking canned margaritas and trying to convince the homely stewardess to party with them because they were in a band. These over-the-hill scrotum-peddlers stink of lame so badly that no amount of goatee wax, forearm tatts, and labret piercing even begins to hide it.
RODRIGO Y GABRIELA
BACKDOOR SLAM
Say what you want, but everyone knows that Mexican immigrants are a vital part of the economy. Quite simply, they are doing the jobs that Americans aren’t willing to do. This, apparently, includes making good music.
Shit, dudes, how the fuck do you name your band “Backdoor Slam”? I don’t even want to Google this one.
KIDDY CORRAL
THE KILLERS
Fresh from a hiatus taken to pursue their respective hobbies of Ultimate Frisbee and Team Suburu Racing, the Indigo Girls are back and ready to...ah fuck it, making fun of the Indigo Girls is soooo expected. And, honestly, Closer To Fine is a fucking monster of a song.
HOT MOMS
INDIGO GIRLS
KIDDY CORRAL
ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL
THE SIPPY CUPS
HOT MOMS
The Handy ACL Band Rating Spread. This Shit Writes Itself.
The Sippy Cups sing wholesome kid-friendly pop jams about jellyfish and robots, which, though catchy and adorable, are basically like those LSD blotters with cartoons on them your health teacher warned you about in 5th grade. Not since H.R. Pufnstuff or that Sesame Street bit about the llama dentist have kiddy acts been so openly promoting recreational time travel. Lame parents beware.
KIDDY CORRAL
HOT MOMS
YOUNG LOVE Young Love has a special place in my heart as the biggest steaming turd to ever emerge from the seething cesspool of the Austin scene since Stevie Ray Vaughn. I’d rather take Satan’s smouldering cock in my ear while listening to Sabbath-raping gore-grind bands at Red 7 for all eternity than have to listen to this fey, Justin Timberlakewannabe-muthafucka ever again. Fuck this dude, fuck the music industry that spawned him and fuck all those hot girls who prop up his ego by blogging about him. P.S., when you list your influences, you should be able to come up with someone better than Bloc Party.
ACL Oddsmaking
Place your bets with your nearest Misprint bookie.
Charles Attall flies over the crowd in a jetpack while laughing maniacally and burning $100 bills. 1:1 Amy Winehouse is too high to perform and ironically ends up in rehab. 2:1 1:1 They cancel the physical festival and decide to hold the entire thing in Second Life. 4:1 Ben Kweller wears a sport jacket and a western shirt. 1.5:1 Cat Power bursts into tears due to stage fright. 4:1 Young Love bursts into tears due to making an honest self-assessment of his music. 3:1
Free Shit We Got
Josh Homme introduces all of those kiddie bands to hard drugs and loose women, launching them on a lifelong career of rock star hotel trashing and syphilis. 6:1
A thinly veiled attempt, disguised as journalism, to score more free promotional hogwash.
Polydactyly Transmography
The free shit business just ain’t what it used to be. I know experimental rock bands aren’t exactly raking it in, but to deliver the press kit written in Sharpie on a bar napkin? It’s almost like they don’t take us seriously.
Spoon stops playing mid song, and Britt Daniel pulls off his mask to reveal he is none other than an adorable puppy. 7:1
The sound is Tortoise with the vibraphone turned down and the geek turned way, way up, and was altogether one of the more interesting jams to come through Misprint HQ in a while. I get the feeling that these two kids can deliver a pretty killer live show. I’ll be sure to check them out next time it’s pouring rain and I happen to be walking by 710 without an umbrella.
The arid landscape of Zilker degenerates into a postapocalyptic battleground as gangs of tattooed youths wearing bandanas as loincloths roam the grounds stealing babies and building their machines of war. 8:1 A Thunderdome is erected at Rock Island. 9:1
Peter, Bjorn and John play that one song that was on Grey’s Anatomy. 1:1
The Killers and Bob Dylan are thrown into the Thunderdome with just a single chainsaw. Zimmerman emerges victorious. 10:1
My Morning Jacket play a 7-minute drum solo so the rest of the band can smoke weed 8:1
Misprint staffers finally get those press passes. 1000:1
Take a Stand The Ugly Beats
Once, after a show, we were hanging around with a few of the Ugly Beats and they asked us if we wanted to go grab some "brews." That's why I love this band. Not for the sweet hollow-body guitars or the keyboardist's adorable mod dresses. Not even for their totally ass-shaking songs. It's because they project this incredible 60's campy earnestness and overwhelming nice-guy vibe that's just impossible to fake. I bet when they toured Europe after one song even the most hostile Francophones were taking off their tops, waving Texas flags and throwing Lonestar bottles like it was Beerland.
Least Popular Bloodsports (in descending order) Roller Derby
x1,000,000 Judi Chicago
Squid Baiting
I think it’s safe to say that global rock testosterone levels have pretty much hit rock bottom. I mean, with dudes like Young Love and Ryan Adams getting paid, the tough guy rockers with the huge necks of yore are rolling in their graves. If you take a stroll down Red River on a typical Saturday night, it looks as if everyone is basically trying to act all “ironic” to cover up the fact they’d really be much more comfortable at a gay roller-disco wearing glitter and a feather boa.
Snail Wrasslin’ Orang-Attack!!! Bloodsport Starring Jean Claude Van Damme Emo Boxing Emu Boxing Scorpions glued to the backs of cats vs. the 1985 Boston Celtics Voxtrot / Young Love Charity Arm Wrestling Invitational at the Dirty Dog 9 small monkeys with switchblades tied to their arms vs. a stout midget
Send us your free shit! Misprint Magazine PO Box 303157 Austin, Texas 78703
Which brings us to Judi Chicago, a smart fauxmosexual disco rock act that has so many levels of irony removed from reality that they might actually be making good music again. Sure it’s dance music, but it’s nerdy enough to hold my interest and doesn’t have that smarmy, vapid LCD Soundsystem vibe. Rippin’ lead, lots of Speak ‘N Spell and hysterical lyrics give this one some replay value. Also, not a “mash-up” in sight, thank God. So if you’re a total doofus and afraid your rock-loving friends will make fun of you if they find out you really just love house music, this could be the record for you. Tell them Misprint said it was ok.
Gossip! Gossip! Gossip! Austin’s most gentrified gun shop/longtime Misprint pal FactoryPeople has shut its doors, sparking a dramatic wave of degentrification in south Austin. Owner Le Popov is sick and tired of the APD harshing their mellow whenever they try to give vodka away to their beautiful, rich friends. They will continue to sell unwearable wares to “rockstars” over the Internet. ----------------------------------------------------------Dear Kevin Shields. There have been some rumours floating about a My Bloody Valentine reunion. If there is a grain of truth to this, I’d like to take this opportunity to tell you to cut this bullshit out. Reunions that have sucked: Stooges, Gang of Four, Smashing Pumpkins, et al. Reunions that have not sucked: None. A pile of poo covered in reverb is still a pile of poo. So please keep your ten thousand guitar pedals locked up in self-storage next to your snowboard and baseball cards. Take a page out of the Jeff Magnum playbook, champ: move into a hobbit hole in the wilderness, farm goats, blaze stinky jammers and occasionally update your blog. Sincerely, Misprint. ----------------------------------------------------------In other slutty oldster reunion news, the Spice Girls are giving it another go. This time around, they have reinvented themselves as a glammedup emo-core outfit with Sleepy Spice doing the screamy vocals and Panda Spice singing the hooks. Sneezy Spice said in a recent interview, “We’ve been round the block more than once, so we can teach you young bucks a few things,” causing the instantaneous deflation of 10,000 erections. ----------------------------------------------------------Murdered by Internets! Hot on the heels of the demise of S.F.’s premiere pro-beard Wiccan recipe rag Arthur, seminal ’zine Punk Planet is packing up the newsprint for good. Turns out that ever since The Ramones blew up that high school back in ’86 kids stopped learning how to read. Print is dead. Kind of makes you wonder why the fuck we even bother.
On the subject of irrelevant institutions, the beleaguered, nomadic and astoundingly crappy venue Redrum has finally capped their Sharpies and closed their doors. Three fat dudes with goatees and bad tattoos are the only ones who care. Hopefully someone will buy that place and start booking some cool bands instead of high school kids, iPhonewielding screamo pretty boys and Jackson-pawning Panteraheads. The place has good sound and a bitchin’ smoking patio. Gentrifiers, get on it! ----------------------------------------------------------One of those giant fucking cranes downtown is working on the Austin branch of luxury brand mainstay/future Misprint advertiser W Hotels. Magic Johnson and none other than Willie Nelson have invested in the project, which will also include the new ACL Studios. When asked to comment, Nelson was shocked to discover it’s possible to get so high you can invest in a luxury hotel and totally forget about it by the next morning. W staffers have been instructed to treat vagrants or stoners like any other guests just in case Willie rolls in for a postAntone’s biodiesel-fueled hooka session. ----------------------------------------------------------Members of The Sword have been spotted courtside at the French Open sipping peartinis with Metallica. Details to follow. ----------------------------------------------------------Following the footsteps of the Who and ABBA, The Flaming Lips’ tripped-out concept album Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots is getting the Broadway treatment. Expect a gripping performance by the exhumed and embalmed corpse of Rip Torn as a pink robot and Broadway veteran Sebastian Bach (of Skid Row) as Yoshimi. ----------------------------------------------------------Remember all those great shows you saw at Emo’s Lounge? Me neither. Now Emo’s retarded little brother that couldn’t quite decide if it was going to be a pleasant cocktail lounge or Emo’s-like shithole is up for sale. Real estate insiders tell us the space is being converted into a pet store and will soon be hawking adorable kittens to Red River drunks.