Misprint Magazine, Volume 5, Number 2

Litigation-free since 2005.

END LIVE MUSIC volume 05

issue 02

october 2009

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ADVERTISE!

Your hot ad.

Our hot content.

hollaback@misprintmagazine.com

email to the directors Hello, We currently have the domain name Beards.net available for purchase. Would you be interested in acquiring such domain name? Please kindly forward this email to the appropriate authority in your company/organization for consideration.

Best Regards, Sameh GenericDomainMarket - Sales & Marketing (Editor's Response) We are totally interested! That would be awesome! Are you in Austin? Hopefully we can work something out.

We could probably trade a 12-pack of beer and a little weed for it. What do these things usually go for? Let us know what kind of beers you want and we'll make it happen. If you're not from Austin, maybe we can negotiate something else. Thanks for thinking of us.

Hello, Premium domain names like Beards.net sell for $x,xxx to $xx,xxx. We are looking for $2,750 only.

Sameh GenericDomainMarket - Sales & Marketing (Editor's Response) Haha good luck, assholes. You can't control the beards.

Hello, My name is Maria. I am looking for a new friend.

Write me at : mmr.mulder@gmail.com Hope to hear you soon.. Maria.

(Editor's Response) Hi Maria, I do need a new friend. You seem nice, and, dare I say it, sort of sexy? Meet me at the Sheraton bar on 11th this Friday?

vol 05 issue 02 october 2009

SHITMYJORTS.COM

END LIVE MUSIC

directors

board of advisors

contact

Harvey Merrybottom

Kip Hollingsworth Bronx Wontgomery L. Fauntleroy Callahan O’Callahan Adolph Curmudgeon Col. Alastair Tunbridge (Ret) Jen Neighbour Abelard Fiddlebits Jan Tschichold Yngwie Malmsteen

www.misprintmagazine.com hollaback@misprintmagazine.com www.myspace.com/misprintmag Send us your free shit!

Misprint Magazine c/o The Side Bar

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.

continued Dear Chadwick Pennyrich III, Harvey Merrybottom, or whom it may apply at Misprint/Side Bar: I am a religious reader of your magazine and am curious about what it takes to be a Misprint writer.

Based on the regular printed content, I fear the position requirements must include the possession of a cock. But I see in your most recently listed Board of Advisors that there are some accredited women contributors (or at least dudes with real androgynous pen names). If there aren’t, this needs to change, dudes. Pronto. Don't you penis-folk know that women are taking over?

(Editor's Response) I agree that it's starting to smell like a locker room up at Misprint HQ. Send us some shit that doesn't suck!

(Editor's Plea) Dear Nomad, We are going to print Thursday night, and if you still want to get an ad in this issue, we need some art ASAP. Come on guys! Even Beerland was able to get their ad together! The Nomad is way more put together than Beerland!

(Nomad's Response) This is embarassing, as Mr. NomaNd,I can't let the degenerates at Beerland show us up. Dazzle Mr. Shitjorts with an ad that will double his load, make his porkpie hat not gay, and rot his lipstache.

(Editor's Response) Hey, thanks Mr. NomaNd! I'll drink at your bar any day. As long as that day is Monday and beers are a dollar!

A few words from the Directors...

Before I moved to Austin, going to see a band was a huge deal. I'd buy a ticket early and wait weeks with heady anticipation. It took over an hour to drive to a decent, shitty club. I'd get there when the doors opened, order a single beer and gently push my way to the front to secure a good view. Seeing a band was an event, a reason to stay sober and cherish every chord and cymbal crash. And I wanted to responsibly drive home.

Chadwick Pennyrich III

Harvey Merrybottom

When I moved here, for those first few weeks it seemed like an earthly paradise, a veritable elysium or shangri-la (in the literary sense), where breakfast tacos rained from the sky and springs of Lonestar bubbled up from the earth. But like ocean waves crashing relentlessly into a cliffside or the grey hairs sprouting in my beard, the promise of unending live music faded from paradise to purgatory. Over time, between the major festivals every few weeks and the dozens of crappier festivals seemingly every day, between the shitty metal of Red Eyed Fly and the trite open mics of Ruta Maya, between the Britt Daniels and the Bob Schneiders, that purgatory became an inferno. Now I feel that watching live music is about as thrilling as taking my daily vitamin or scheduling my vasectomy consultation. It's time for this bullshit to stop.

There's just too much crabcore and too many teenagers with laptops and too much of whatever some virgin bloggers say is cool. There are too many entitled bands with more internet fans than pubic hairs who still do not know how to tune guitars on stage. Too many bored and uncool pop bands snoozing through sets thinking about drugs and drink tickets instead of remembering that they're supposed to entertain. Austin is still the live music capital of the world, but by quantity only. So we're just going to say what everyone is thinking. Something that will echo around the Austin Music Hall and shatter eardrums at the Trailer Space: End live music. Stop sucking. Seriously. Because we'll drink anywhere. And they still let you smoke at the bingo parlor.

Fuck all y'all,

Note: For all three of our long-time readers, I also regret to inform you that the annual Genties have been retired. There's just no reason to award Austin's exemplarily gentrified anymore now that most people who live here have always thought of the east side as a place of boutique bars, loft-like dwellings and bike lanes.

Pumping Irony Next time you pull out that driver's license to get into your favorite music venue, take a look at the photo. After five hard years of Austin living, you probably look less like the guy in that photograph and a lot more like the broken guy checking the photograph. Drastic steps must be taken, and switching from Lonestar to vodka isn't going to cut it. It's time to throw an industrial-sized wrench into your late night booze and queso-fueled lifestyle.

The only choice is to join a gym, a place that ranks higher than church, Lustre Pearl and jail on the list of places you don't want to be spending time.

Girls

Frame Your Gym Time in Mythological Terms

Put aside all those lofty, bullshit reasons for going to the gym. You don't want to "be healthier" or "live longer." You're going because you've finally realized a dated wardrobe, a love of nothing and a dusty stack of 'zines aren't roping in the sexy alcoholics­anymore.

So why not try a rock-hard chest and a chiseled ass?

Well, keep in mind that the girls you lust after are only attracted to waifish, androgynous males who are naturally anemic and never, ever have to set foot in a gym anyways. And if you're hoping to meet a nice girl with the same self-esteem and body issues as you at your gym, forget it. They aren't attracted to dudes who have to exercise either.

Since you'll be unable to sustain any kind of compelling reason to keep going on your own, it's best to dig through the back issues of Greek Mythology for some inspiration. Anything will work, like the epic, against-all-odds battle of Hercules and that giant he killed with a bearhug or Rocky Balboa finally running up those stairs or whatever he was so excited about. Personally, I choose to adopt the legend of Sisyphus, who was sentenced by Zuess to roll a boulder up a mountain for all eternity. The fact that it always slipped from his grasp and rolled back down right before the very top ensured eternal, mundane, soul-crushing disappointment. That's a perfect metaphor for the stress-free and girl-full life you're hoping for, and it just so happens to pair well with the endless rope machine.

Choosing Where You'll Hate to Go

There are all kinds of factors to consider when picking a gym and none of them have to do with location, hours, classes, staff, facilities or equipment.

Much like a fraternity or a brothel you're basically paying for the kind of company you'll be keeping while "working out." There will be plenty of opportunities in your life to go cheap but this isn't one of them. Weddings, sure; the gym, no. You've meticulously crafted your current social life to avoid the kind of dudes that used to bully you in high school, so why be around them now just to save a few bucks at a Walmart-style mega gym? Hands down, your best move is to join a pricey boutique that's also the biggest cougar den this side of Animal Planet. Don't worry, they won't talk to you anyway.

The Part Where You Actually "Do" Something

Now that you've accepted the fact that you won't become the next Jason Statham or Douglas Quaid, it's time to enjoy the simple pleasures that come with going to the gym. If you like biking but hate sweating at the bar, try popping in a dvd of Road House in that video screen on the stationery bike– it'll feel just like you're biking to the Liberty! If you're looking to phase out those unhealthy, after-hours drinking sessions but still crave male companionship, text the dudes, grab some mats and sign up for an intense, meditative broga class. Beats buying the next round.

The reality is that the amount you're willing to change your life will be almost negligible. The best you can hope for is losing a pound or two and getting an occasional Craigslist m4m missed connection. At least you'll know someone out there thinks you're doing things right. h

The Misprint Guide to College Football You've probably been kept up nights wondering if there is some other activity that combines your love of loud, unpleasant places, alcohol abuse, underage girls and homogeneity. Shockingly enough, there's an easy way to fill that Emo's shaped hole in your life: Longhorns football. I know it sounds crazy, because behind every self-styled, hyper-conscious Austin rock bro there's a deep-seated geeks versus jocks paranoia (left over from when you got beat up in high school for listening to Metallica). But it turns out that high school was a decade ago, Metallica actually does suck and the jocks have free beer and want to party. So take a few hints from Misprint: swap Lonestar talls for Icehouse shorts, the Mohawk for Posse East and tons of dudes in black shirts for nubile college girls in cowboy boots. It's win/win for everyone!

Navigating the Tailgate Scene

Committing Crimes

Texas tailgating is an incrementally less annoying version of sxsw. Like South By, free booze flows like water, the streets are full of trash, clueless out-of-towners abound and girls in bikini tops give you free RockStar Energy Drinks. But in sharp contrast to the bars of Red River, every tailgate party is chock full of benevolent drunk idiots who want nothing more than to toss you a Natapault, talk about barbeque techniques. As a bonus, Texas tailgates are full of women. Compare that to sxsw where every party is 95% male record industry nerds from L.A. trading notes about their favourite Pavement show and asking each other where the afterparty is.

As a Misprint reader, it's probably been a while since you actually bothered to wake up before dusk on a Saturday. So you might not be aware that every home game is a citywide fuckshow that turns the campus into a Beyond Thunderdomestyle post-apocalyptic nightmare, filled with feral dogs, autogyros and college bros with flasks of rum stuffed down their shorts. Fairweather fans flaunt rules like "no open containers" or "no parking your Jeep Wrangler on the I-35 ramp."

But true college gameday warriors take full advantage of the atmosphere to commit legitimate crimes like bear baiting, prolonged lawn watering and baby trading. Imagine what happens when a poor eyewitness tries to explain to the cops that "a guy in an orange shirt" decapitated some dude with a razor-sharp boomerang. Even with the apd crackdown and their bullshit beard profiling policies, you're guaranteed to get off scot free.

Fitting In

With a red Solo cup in one hand and a sausage wrap in the other, there's no reason to sow the bitter seeds of punk rock discord. Despite every fiber of your little scenester being just screaming to be different, this isn't the place to rock that gbh shirt with the sleeves cut off or to try out your adorable, tiny vest. A good test is to look around and make sure that your shirt is the same color as everyone else's. Also, make sure it's burnt orange and not the color of the opposing team. It's time to accept that your whole tight jeans/boots/open shirt/ten necklace look you rock at Shangri-La is also a uniform and no less ridiculous than a Texas t-shirt. If it makes you feel any better, American Apparel has extra deep v-necks in Longhorn. Just memorize the sacred names of a few Texas QBs (Colt, Major, Chance, Chunt and Slimey) and you'll be hitting that beer bong in no time.

The Part Where You Actually Do Something

Inevitably, your new comrades will want to watch the actual game. Don't sweat it too much.

Even if the entire incomprehensible spectacle seems to you like a misplaced public display of homoeroticism, the "sports" are really secondary to the drinking and shit-talking, both of which are surprisingly easy to get behind. Also, with each bone-crushing and potentially brain-damaging tackle it's easy to feel a twinge of sweet revenge at every jock who terrorized you in high school for dying your hair or keeping a journal. h

Unfondly Remembered Clubs of Yore Everyone in Austin talks about the good old days. I do too, and I've only lived here three months. But even if you've lived here all your life, there's always going to be someone older and fatter, with a bigger alcohol problem and somehow even less employed to tell you how rad things used to be. But as Austin phases out live music in favor of bocce and cock fighting, it's worthwhile to look at where we came from and to remember the beloved clubs that made Austin, however temporarily, the Live Music Capital of the World. So to usher out the end of Austin's live music culture, we hit up some Misprint oldsters and dug into the archives to write the utterly nondefinitive epitaph for Austin's least fondly remembered venues.

Liberty Lunch

The Back Room

Liberty was a louder, cheaper, shittier version of Emo's. Despite the place being basically a reverberating concrete shed with a half-finished roof and see-through front door, all the bands you actually wanted to see played there–Mojo Nixon, Retard Elf, Dead Milkmen and a million others. On the plus side, they let anyone in and the adjacent day laborer hangout lot had convenient, largely vomitfree parking. The best seats in the house were outside by the back–you could see the band and watch the bouncers throw the drunk high schoolers too dumb to lick off their X's out the back door.

The Back Room was one of those places where I really hung out–East Oltorf was way too scary for me to risk my fake ID. But my drug dealer was a regular, and he'd always tell me about 65¢ beers, metal girls who didn't wear any panties and fucking Pantera playing all the time. I sort of regret never seeing Dimebag drunk as shit smashing his guitar, but nothing kills Austin metal nostalgia faster than the thought of Dangerous Toys playing one of their super depressing Red Eyed Fly shows.

Blackcat/Steamboat

I really can't separate these two places in my mind.

They were about a block apart on 6th Street, looked the same and basically booked the same acts. It seemed, no matter how many times I went to either club, all the headliners sounded like the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but then again, so did most Austin bands in the early 90's. I'm pretty sure the Black Cat would serve a twelve year old, but even in high school having to sit through another set by Breedlove or the Ugly Americans wasn't worth it.

Room 710

Man, remember all those sweet times at 710? Me neither. Room 710 was somehow able to hit the unholy trinity of unpleasant decor, unpleasant crowd and unpleasant music. Jesus, the schlong in that Number #1 Daddy painting alone was enough to ensure that no girl would ever hang out there. I did, however, once eat chocolate chip pancakes at the round bar (which, admittedly, was pretty cool) at 11 in the morning one sxsw.

Electric Lounge

One of the best spots to see local acts in the mid 90's was Electric Lounge (future ex-home of Krunkaoke Wednesdays at Tambaleo). Long-forgotten bands like Sincola, The Adults, Prescott Curlywolf and Cotton Mather would play their sets (usually really, really fucking loud) and then just hang out at the bar afterwards. A favorite bonus was when one of those graffitied csx trains rolled by, because they were the perfect, lumbering targets for drunks to throw their empty beer cans at.

Boyz Cellar

If you think the poor sharks at Qua are being held captive under dubious circumstances, it's still not even close to what former occupiers Boyz Cellar had: tons of shirtless, 18-year-old dudes in tighty whities prancing around with trays of jello shots. This was the first (and only) place where I felt like a total piece of meat and the first (and only) time I actually thought I understood what it felt like to be a girl.

Vicci "Just another Saturday night at Vicci, bro." RIP. h

The Stupid, Futile Rallying Cries of Texas The idea of Texas tends to conjure up some powerful emotions among its enthusiastic and largely uneducated inhabitants. Unsurprisingly, that enthusiasm gave birth to a litany of iconic, bombastic and completely futile slogans dating back to the days of the cowboys and culminating in the wildly successful "End Live Music" campaign of today.

Even the rampant heat, abundance of cheap depressants and giant burritos have done little to stifle the lunatic rants of anyone with access to a soapbox or a silk screen. Though it's unlikely that any rallying cry will ever have the lasting resonance of End Live Music (which is clearly some serious next-level shit), due diligence requires a thorough look back at the battle cries that have come before.

I've never been able to wrap my head around this whole "weird" movement because, to me, being weird involves doing some pretty freaky shit, like filming centaur gangbangs. Apparently being weird in Austin means vegan speed-dating, using a push mower and attending the Pecan Street Festival.

Effectiveness: If it keeps the doors open at BookPeople and Amy's Ice Cream, I guess it's okay.

After another downer night slumming Red River, avoiding bands and maxing out my atm card, at least I can count on a friendly 6th Street doorbro to hook a guy up with the cheap drinks. Finally.

I won't even call bullshit on the fact that they're HEB Powdered Iced Tea, sour mix and everclear.

Frankly, I don't really care.

Effectiveness: Absolutely clutch during the Misprint $7 Challenge.

Seriously. I am so tired of hearing about this dumb fort, which was a strategic blunder only equaled by the opening of Creekside Live or that CD vending machine at Emo's. At least "Come and Take It" has sweet vector cannon art that looks great on a tallcan or a rollergirl. I've said it once and I'll say it again: biggest Texan fail ever.

Effectiveness: Remember Goliad, bitches.

If you try to get in a bar wearing burnt orange on game day it's kind of like wearing a Scarlet letter.

But, if you can remember the name of the winning team after the game (hint–it's Texas!) you might be able to get into Maggie Mae's or out of a dwi.

Effectiveness: Everyone wearing burnt orange is potentially your best friend. And you may sleep with any one of them. Even if it's a dude.

Even though the dude who printed those posters probably moved here a few months shy of 2004, he had good intentions. Those electrical boxes and abandoned gas stations certainly weren't doing anything else. Unfortunately there's one piece of evidence that can't be ignored: If you do a search for a "Tejano bar" on Yelp, the very first result is the Shangri-La. Effectiveness: India Bonita just installed a bike rack.

Kuato Lives! Actually, no, he didn't. Everyone's favorite slimy, three-fingered mutant got taken down in a hail of space bullets.

Bummer. A few eyebrows were raised when governor Rick Perry decided to rule our Martian colony with an iron fist.

But what he didn't count on was muthafuckin' Kuato's dying words inspiring the governor of California to put down that girl with the three boobs and fuck the whole system. See you at the party, Perry!

Effectiveness: Blue Sky on Mars. h

Writing the Great American Novel As hip as: Punching Dave Eggers in the face.

Comments: If there's one thing to be gained from wasting your 20's in bars, it's that you've had so many genuinely profound experiences that are easily transformed into universal literary themes. I mean, sitting around shitfaced at the Side Bar with your underemployed friends talking about the Robocop sequels is something timeless, the backbone of a tautly paced yet revelatory narrative. Remember, all Kerouac did was change the names.

Rating:

Scrapbooking As hip as: Riding your art-bike to Hobby Lobby.

Comments: There's one thing the billion drunk images of you spread across five social networking sites and the pages of Busted simply don't have: edges cut into the shapes of clouds, little bells or adorable hearts. Take advantage of your office printer and hit up the sales at the Parent Teacher store. To ensure you produce an heirloom future generations won't recycle, glue in a stash of old concert tickets. Once live music is dead, that shit will be more valuable than the dirt in Waterworld.

Rating:

“band practice is cancelled

Getting My MBA As hip as: Tapping some seriously toxic assets.

Comments: Ever since they cut your shifts due to the one-twothree punch of economic crisis, crippling drug habit and the fact that you're a total dick, you've probably some quality couch time.

Though unlikely, it's possible that between bong hits and Guitar Hero you caught some TV that inspires you to put your best skills (using drugs, being a dick) to work. Something maybe like, Charlie Sheen in Wall Street? With your nights free, you can have an MBA in no time and that dream job of coke-addled robber baron will be yours for the taking.

Starting a Band As hip as: Getting replaced by Ben Kweller's pearl snap shirt.

Comments: Live music is finally over. It's the perfect time to start a band! The best practice spaces are all available and used equipment has never been cheaper. The one catch is that you'll never be able to perform live. Your new band doesn't have to worry about getting laid or looking cool anymore, so it's perfect for ugly dudes or musicians with stage fright. Just focus on making the music. A little band called the Beatles tried that out, and it seemed to work pretty well for them.

Rating:

Rating:

LAME <-----------------------------------------------------------------------------> AWESOME

what now, bitches?!

Ian Curtis

Kurt Cobain

Nick Drake

Michael Hutchence

Keith Moon

Improving my Dudehaus As hip as: Pounding tallcans with Wilson.

Comments: When you followed Misprint's advice and picked up that Eastside dudehaus for a song, you knew it would take some work before your kitchen got profiled in Rare magazine. But you probably didn't count on how easily fun shit can get in the way of ambitious projects like changing light bulbs or hanging framed pictures of poker playing bulldogs. But now that you aren't hungover five days a week from shitty Beerland shows, you'll be xeriscaping your bathroom before you know it. Set some goals, but start small: cleaning out your fridge or changing the bongwater doesn't count.

Preparing My Tax Return As hip as: Getting an itemized receipt from your bartender.

Comments: Don't wait until the last minute to figure out how to write off tattoos as a medical expense on your tax return. Sooner or later, you come to the point where setting up a tax-deferred Roth IRA is a lot more fun than slamming Jägerbombs at a StABBA show. Actually, that's always been true.

Rating:

Rating:

..........................forever? â&#x20AC;?

Being a Dad As hip as: Hiring a sitter so you can go to your own bachelor party.

Comments: More than likely you brought your spawn into this questionable world under equally questionable circumstances. So the least you can do is try to get some quality face time with the little dude before he's old enough to start Googling you. Besides, your babymama is totally ready to hit the bars.

Rating:

Record Collecting As hip as: Organizing your records biographically.

Comments: It's only natural to want to replace the rarely pleasant experience of listening to music at clubs with the consistently pleasant experience of listening to music at home. And there are thousands of great records that have already been made, just waiting for you to discover them! There are no shitty openers, drinks are cheap and you control the volume. And if you see a fight or have to push your way through two huge smelly dudes with the sleeves cut off their shirts to get a beer, it's probably your fault.

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Huge Fucking Lego Models As hip as: Convincing your parents to buy you the Pirate Ship.

Comments: Look, we all know you never really liked going to shows, you liked the social capital of "being seen" at shows. But now, thanks to the internet, imagine all the social capital you'll earn by turning your extra bedroom into Lego scale model of the ice planet Hoth (like, with Lego Tautans and shit). You'll be an instant brick forum superstar and might even make it onto Digg! Isn't fawning adoration from anonymous internet friends worth 5000 hours of build time? Isn't this more satisfying than ignoring another show in the Emo's courtyard?

Rating:

6th Street

7th Street

8th Stre

Chief Art Acevedo

ABANDONED WASTELAND

710

BULL MC

PIZZA!

Who goes here?

HEADHUNTERS

Red River EMO’S

SPIRO’S

PLUSH

ELYSIUM

BEERLAND

RED EYED FLY

Johnny Cash Barstool

EL SOL

Closing 2009

RED 7

SIDEBAR

EMO’S

Jägerbomb

Jägerbomb

Dudesthis place is the shit!

CREEKSIDE

CLUB MIXX

Retreat!

BEAUTY BAR

Shitty Obey “art”

COPS

High-functioning Alcoholics

Dudes in Shitty Bands

Fixed Gears

Bartenders

Dos Equis

Tour Vans

h eet

9th Street

10th Street

Charles Attal Party House

CLUB DE VILLE

THE MOHAWK

TEACHER’S LOT

Wheatpaste Campaign!

STUBB’S

RED RIVER LOFTS

Demilitarized Zone

Brit

HAUNTED FOREST!

Fern

FM Plissken’s Loft-like Condo

t Da

niel

W S FM Attal’s Command Tent

Wrecking Cranes

Pedicabs

N E

Condo Dwellers

Retired Teachers (Ret)

College Bros!

Misprint Staff

High Class: Graduate School Deciding to go to graduate school can be a big decision. It's especially hard when you have to break up your band, quit playing shows at Beerland, quit working at Beerland, get your GED and stay sober long enough to write your name on the application, all before you even get to buy a Trapper Keeper. Your first instinct is that this might not be worth it. But as a responsible academic-to-be, these costs have to be weighed against the stark reality that being a doorguy isn't really something you feel passionately about, you’ve been broke since 2001 and you've run out of ideas. And the recent total collapse of capitalism pretty much ensures you're going to stay that way. Also, even if live music wasn't dying, your band sure as fuck was never going to pay the bills.

Quitting Your Job

Whether you're going to admit it or not, the only reason you're actually even bothering with this is because you want to quit your job. The best part of quitting your job is that your boss is secretly super mad that he doesn’t get to go. That poor sucker is in too deep and makes too much money to get off this gravy train. Just try not to be a total dick about it.

Since you are probably the critical cog in your service industry machine, try making the transition as smooth as possible for your ex-coworkers. Just show up wearing burnt orange, put in your one week's notice and get all of your remaining shifts covered because you’re “excited, but really stressed out.”

Getting Paid

Thanks to the economic crisis and thousands of starving ex-auto workers, the federal government is actually printing giant mountains of dollars and giving them away to people who don't want to work.

All you have to do is fill out a bunch of forms that say you don’t have any money but still want to go to college and you will be magically rewarded with a sick pile of cash called “loans.” Start enjoying a few years of lavish, reckless non-employed living where you can focus on your "art" or "comparative anthropology" without slaving away in the salt mines. Try not to think about it, but when it's all over brace yourself for the unpredictable and unrelenting payments you’ll be making every month for the rest of your life. It's cool though, because you'll be smarter and more mature by then so you won't mind giving up meals, beer, weed, Netflix, electricity and running water.

Getting Straight A-Minuses

Everyone passes in graduate school. It’s about setting your own low standards, falling just short of them and pathetically beating yourself up about it when you later discuss those abysmal failures with your favorite faculty member. Nothing can spit-shine your staggering mediocrity quite like the sarcasm and faux-humility you honed in your last failed long-term relationship.

The Part Where You Actually (Pretend to) Do Something

Aside from not working, the only other benefit of graduate school is being able to act like you're super busy, thus giving you a guilt-free pass to get out of anything even remotely annoying. Tell your friends that you can’t go to Momo’s. Tell your family that you don’t have time to video chat. Start telling bothersome suitors that you don't have time to see Whip It. Just lay low and enjoy that two-year scholarly vacation. Before long you'll find yourself in the heady world of academia, enjoying literary brunches and a subscription to the Atlantic. You'll probably still be broke though. Don't say we didn't warn you. h

Down and Out in Hotel Bars An undiscerning alcoholic might assume that a hotel bar is basically the same as a regular bar. But peel back the layers and you'll discover that even the shittiest hotel bar has a palpable vibeâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;a feeling that everything is transient, anonymous and sexy, even dangerous. If you get wasted and puke (twice) on the Liberty's bocce court, you're going to have that hanging over your sorry head forever. A hotel bar is different. No one will remember you. No one is who they say they are. And there's an infinite number of bedrooms just upstairs.

Sheraton Austin Hotel

TGI Fridays @ The Radison Hotel

701 E 11th St Unassuming yet strangely pleasant, the Sheraton is my new favorite spot. It's live music free, open 'til 2 and best of all it's virtually impossible to run into your asshole Red River buddies there. It's sort of like discovering the warp levels in Super Mario Brothers for the first time. This place is everything you love about a Red River bar, without the Red River, mainly because it's really well lit and the toilets flush. This is also where the Mohawk puts up touring bands, so you're pretty much guaranteed to "party with the Murder City Devils" if you just loiter in the lobby after last call and take the elevator ride. With the retirement of the Retired Teacher's Lot, the valet here is clutch, especially when you charge it to some anonymous room or prominent touring rock musician. HHHH

111 E Cesar Chavez St Say what you will about venerable late-night burger joints and the lengths megachains will go to to feel "authentic," there's still one thing Casino El Camino just doesn't have: shit tons of jalepeno poppers.

The martini menu is ridiculously expensive and they all have retarded names, but it would still cost just as much to drink at Club deVille. Weirdly, I kept thinking I was going to run into my parents here, despite the fact they live on the other side of the country. And while we were initially enamored with the super friendly waitstaff, I have to admit it started to get pretty creepy after that second conga line they did around the bar, all the time rubbing their boners against people's backsides. One other point of contention is the revisionist bullshit history TGI Friday's is peddling on their menu. There's no fucking way some corporate chain from Iowa invented the Long Island Iced Tea. HH

Driskill Hotel Bar

604 Brazos St The Driskill is a place I've always avoided. Not because it's Austin's last bastion of ruthless, milkshake-stealing oilmen and a gilded, kitschy homage to cowboy culture, but because I subconsciously assumed I wasn't allowed there.

I figured if I ever stumbled in I'd get roped, pistolwhipped and run out of town on a rail by some Texas Rangebro. Incidentally, it's a great place to take a shit; instead of paper towels they give real towels that you still get to throw away. Everything at the bar is made of cow hide: the chairs, the coasters, even the drinks. Legend has it that LBJ proposed to Ladybird here on their first date.

There's also a plaque that says the Driskill is at least twice as haunted as Elysium. But after our second round of beeftinis, the urge to go ghosthunting was replaced with a much stronger urge to drink somewhere that doesn't smell like a tannery. HHH

Hotel Vegas

1500 E 6th St At this point all we wanted to do was black out at the Irongate, but thought it would be safer to have one more drink and sleep the whole damn thing off at Hotel Vegas. I called ahead, but had a ton of trouble doing the math in my head when the concierge asked me how many hours I wanted the room for. I just wanted it long enough to drink a bottle of bourbon and take a shower. By the time we all arrived I was horrified to see that the place burned down weeks ago (most likely by a grilled cheese on an errant hot plate) and, even worse, had no fucking idea who I talked to from there earlier or what number I called. h

The Handy ACL Band Rating Spread. This Shit Writes Itself.

THE DECEMBERISTS Sorry Decemberists. Okkervil River has totally usurped your place as the "smart, vest-wearing band loved by English majors." If I were you, I'd call up Jeff Tweedy. There might still be time to hop on the tail end of that hockey arena Wilco tour.

THE YEAH YEAH YEAHS I know nothing about Karen O, other than the girls I used to date a few years back all apparently dressed like and/or wanted to be her. Since they all sucked, Karen O in my mind has turned into some kind of progenitor of boring, annoying girls, sort of like the queen xenomorph in the Alien movies but way, way worse.

Ben Harper Ben Harper has his own clothing line of "loud-colored suits, funky pants and crazy attitude." He also has full sleeve tatts, plays his guitar sitting down and happens to be a "total pussy." College dudes who love Dave Matthews are totes stashing a joint in their box of Marlboro Lights to pull out just in case he plays "Burn One Down."

The Walkmen Seeing the Walkmen live is like jamming a mood CD of ocean waves with a tall warm milk in one hand and your favourite cuddly blankie in the other. They're like a rock and roll version of Ambien, only less fun and harder to abuse recreationally.

Levon helm In a move that shocked festival organizers and fans the world over, it turns out that despite being 246 years old Levon Helm is still alive.

Aside from playing on a few irrelevant records you've probably never heard of (The Basement Tapes, Music from Big Pink), Grampa Levon stills writes killer songs and pounds Tecates in Mexico with Tommy Lee Jones. We forgive you for playing with the Black Crowes, dude!

girl talk News flash, fuckface: the parts of the Girl Talk record people like are actually...OTHER PEOPLE'S SONGS! Holy shit! No matter how many bloggers dig on your stupid headband or your Old Navy boxers, you did not single-handedly invent "mashup culture."

It's called being a "DJ" and it's been around since, oh, I don't know...the invention of fucking records?

I'm pretty sure the latest version of Garage Band comes with Night Ripper pre-installed. Fuck this guy, he needs to go away.

Coheed and Cambria Nerd alert! Huge puberty fail for these castrati Rush-fuckers who dress like software engineers and jam sci-fi prog-emo rock operas for fat kids at the mall and recovering Mars Volta fans. Here's a sobering news flash to keep you warm on all those lonely nights spent on the tour bus rolling D-20s and masturbating to furry porn: the bros in Dream Theater never got laid once in 25 years of touring.

Airborne Toxic Event Asian guy. Moustache guy. The longhair with the v-neck. The girl who looks sort of cute from the back of the club. The oldster who wrote all the songs. These dorks definitely went to college. Too bad they never learned that naming your band after a Don DeLillo novel is about as rock and roll as twice-yearly dental checkups.

the virgins A bunch of schoolgirls dressed as dudes braiding unicorn tails would still be manlier than this band.

pearl jam Look Eddie, I'm sorry I lost the faith there for a few years, when I was trying to be cool and "alternative" and edgy. Turns out I was lying to myself when I told the first girl I ever brought back to my dorm room freshman year that I liked Modest Mouse a lot and I wasn't really into No Code any more. Misprint is ready to make amends.

Just pony up for some tuna steaks and a few bottles of red at Eddie V's and we'll call it square. Deal?

Dave Matthews Band Everyone has some sordid piece of history from their past they'd rather keep buried, like once being straightedge or getting a blowjob from that dude. For me, it's attending a Dave Matthews Band show some twelve years ago. At least I can wake up every morning and thank god I'm not the person I was back then, rather than wake up and still be Dave Matthews.

Arctic Monkeys It must be tough going from ACL headliners a few years back to being just another band typeset in the small font, but if I were a bunch of random British soccer hooligans that got 20 grand in equipment and a record contract shoved in front of them I really wouldn't care either way. Girls at Uncle Flirty's will still sleep with anyone with an accent.

THE DEAD WEATHER "God damn it, Meg! This is how you fucking play drums. Just like this. On the fucking ones and threes. It's fucking easy." After years of bitching about how Meg can't play the drums, Jack White finally puts his money where his mouth is.

As long as he keeps Misprint in business by forming a new crappy band every year, homeboy is still gold in my book.

bon iver This dude is totally okay, but I'm calling bullshit on his whole "I wrote my album in a cabin for three months while being heartbroken" shtick.

Anyone who's ever actually been to a cabin knows that hiking, fishing and bird watching are just way more fun than sitting around being sad. I'm all for self-mythologizing, but you're just not trying that hard.

John vanderslice It's really hard to knock the Slice who, besides having the floppiest hair this side of Britt Daniel, seems to be a genuinely nice person. The problem is he has one of the largest catalogues of snoozer guitar music in history. My barista is a genuinely nice person too, but at least she can make me a damn good cup of coffee.

FLOGGING MOLLY These n端-Celtpunk rockers feel about as authentic as a breaded chicken basket at Mother Egan's. I'll give them points for singing songs about pirates, but unfortunately they're about the lame ones that have scurvy, hook hands and puffy shirts and not the badass ones that hijack oil tankers with rubber boats and grappling hooks.

school of seven bells School of Seven Bells follows what I call "The Blonde Redhead Formula," where the band is basically comprised of equally-hot twins and make music that does not suck.

Kudos. However, there is an antithetical formula to "The Blonde Redhead Formula" that is easy to fall prey to, one that I call "The Tegan and Sara Formula." I'll wait and see.

!!!

Remember when Prince gave music journalists nightmares when they couldn't find his stupid Love Symbol #2 in their glyph palette? This is sort of the same thing, except now it's even more annoying because their stupid name just makes it really hard to download their albums.

THE TOADIES Twenty bucks says their set is going to be an epic, extended jam of that one song about the stupid vampire in the lake. The Toadies are praying desperately that a little of that tween Twilight magic will rub off on them this ACL so they don't have to go back to being toll collectors in Plano.

andrew bird Look, I'm tired of these fucking smarmy bow-tie and foppish hat and vest bands who dress like they're living in a James Joyce novel. We're on to you, and we know all the extras from Newsies are super pissed at you for biting their style. Those adorable singing hardscrabble newsboys all have fucking ruthless meth habits now and are ready to kill. This goes for you too, Devotchka. Cut that shit out or I will personally sic Christian Bale on your ass.

the b-52s I just caught an interview where some reanimated corpse from the B-52s all hopped up on Viagra called their music "loud, sexy rock-and-roll with the beat turned up to hot pink!" Yeah, bros, about as "hot pink" and "sexy" as my granny rocking some shiny tights and a bodysuit at one of those all ages Beauty Bar parties. Oh, well.

Here's to hoping they'll play "Love Shack" or "Rock Lobster", or maybe even one of their billion other songs that no one has ever heard of because this band has been completely irrelevant for two decades.

THEM CROOKED VULTURES John Paul Jones is part of a long tradition of bass players. They're always the nice boys, the ones that get drawn in girls' high school notebooks. But let's not forget that this dude was in fucking Led Zeppelin. Even though you always hear about Bonham taking vodka enemas for sport or the whole Page thing with the fish, it's not like John Paul was sitting on that fucking private jet warming his hands by the fireplace drinking a cup of tea. And if he's keeping company with that creepy Valium addict from the Queens of the Stone Age, whose nervous system is so damaged he can't make proper eye contact, who knows what kind of shit Gramps is getting into. Add Dave "I'm a post-Dick Chopp megadad with a giant weightlifter neck" Grohl into the mix and this sounds less like a lame for-profit supergroup and more like a dangerous idea born out of boatloads of drugs.

The New Rules

Misprint's ten point program to save live music, because we're not complete assholes.

10. Don't practice the drums. Or hit them hard.

Drummers serve only one critical purpose–to keep time so the bassist doesn't fuck up. Sticks are meant to be passed out after the show, not broken on stage.

Ume, you're doing fine. No frills, no fills.

9. Laptops are okay.

Laptops are for pornography, homework, 'zine making and rock and roll bands only. No exceptions! Don't be that wanker trying to point two Marshall stacks towards each other because it "sounds cool." They weren't even designed for that.

Just plug your guitar into your Powerbook and really blow minds.

8. Take advantage of all those Austin music venues.

Listen, in Austin, legends are made every Tuesday at 7 pm in places like Nuno's and the Red Eyed Fly. Austin's hallowed halls of live music (and the drunk idiots hanging out at the adjacent bar patios) are there waiting for you–you–to make rock and roll history every night of the week.

7. Smoke machines and lazers are not just for sold out shows at the Mohawk.

Don't let anyone tell you that your fog machine is just used as a distraction to mask your gross lack of musical talent. Everyone eating shitty pizza at the Parlor really wants it to taste like fog.

6. Play until the crowd gets it.

If you can't get your point across to an audience in thirty minutes, go for another thirty. If they still aren't getting it, try an encore.

5. Know the difference between Austin bands and bands from Austin.

The Trail of Dudes are a band from Austin.

Okkervil River is a band from Austin. You are an Austin band.

4. Have realistic notions about "creativity."

Thanks to the internet, every person in this town has statistically already seen and heard all possible combinations of sights and sounds that can be created, ever. Don't think of it as a glass ceiling; think of it as the marble foundation for your swinging, 7-story dudemansion. Seriously, by the time you finish this sentence Muse just made half a grillion dollars.

3. Music history is for music history majors.

Great writers never read other writers. Same goes for people in bands. In fact, ignore every band you've ever heard of. You've got the next classic pop album buried in that skull of yours somewhere. Pawn your record collection, smoke a bunch of cigarettes, herd some goats, live in a cave or grow a beard.

Congratulations, you're halfway there.

2. Fuck the fans

Take it to the critics. They may be a bunch of sad doofuses who spend their days trading live Daft Punk mp3s and masturbating to Grizzly Bear bootlegs, but they're also the ones dictating the taste of our generation, mainly because they have the most Twitter followers. If you want to save live music, make sure your record sounds like whatever the bloggers listen to, which these days seems to be mostly Beyonce.

1. Stop giving a shit

Rock audiences don't want to be entertained. Fuck them. They're only there for the beer. h

THE FUN FUN FUN FEST FUN TOURNEY '09

crappy local bands (1) Riverboat Gamblers The Gamblers seem to be one of the last bands left in Austin who actually still give a shit about putting on a rock show, as opposed to just standing around moping through set after set of wet noodle pop songs. They also seem to be one of the last bands left in Austin who actually still give a shit about shitmyjorts.com.

Gamblers

(4) Black and White Years I'm surprised these dudes can still play their instruments after giving out all those handjobs at 101X to get their latest disco song into heavy rotation alongside Alice in Chains and Blind Melon. These bros actually look pretty fun to party with, but they'd probably invite those two idiots Jason and Deb (too cute for radio, not cute enough for TV) and that's something I just don't want to risk.

(3) The Laughing Dear The Laughing: As I write this, your CD release party is mere hours away (which I will not be attending). Don't worry, Misprint still loves you but really misses your white tiger, sleeveless vests and face paint. I know you're trying to be a serious rock band now but fuck, The Flaming Lips get away with the same goofy bullshit and they're total wankers. Get on it. Love, Misprint.

Gamblers

Laughing

(2) This Will Destroy You Way to pick a band name that you'll never live up to, guys. It must be a huge bummer to always be mistaken for Explosions in the Sky.

irrelevant metal & punk bands (1) Danzig Look, I know everyone is still talking about how Glenn got punched out by that dick from YouTube. But he still can croon like a schlock-punk Bing Crosby fattened on a lifetime of Z-grade horror movies. I know it's probably time for the Dadster to hang up the tight mesh shirt and spiky gloves, but he's a black belt in karate and once said he wants my skull, so it's probably best not to fuck with him.

Danzig

(4) Gorilla Biscuits Straightedge hardcore changed my life. As a confused suburban youth, it encouraged me to replace irresponsible sex and alcohol with punching dudes in the head and listening to really terrible punk. Whenever I see bands like this today, I'm reminded that music used to really mean something to me: brotherhood, integrity and perpetual virginity.

Danzig

(3) Night Marchers It's a bummer that my Rocket tattoo doesn't get me into shows anymore, but I'm glad Speedo took a break from surfing and whitening his teeth to go start a pretty rocking new band. But last time he was in town we caught him at Side Bar wearing a huge gold watch and creeping the shit out of some 19-year-old girls who clearly hadn't heard of Drive Like Jehu and weren't impressed by his tan.

(2) Face To Face Hyper-melodic, super-positive singalong pop punk is a relic from simpler times, when all I had to do was convince the guy who worked at the gas station I was 18 so he'd sell me smokes. Still, the bittersweet combination of 7-11 coffee, driving around in shitty cars and a dub of Don't Turn Away personally got me through a few really tough high-school breakups.

F2F

mild cards

GZA

VIP

Danzig

Crystal Castles (4) Wow. Seriously? When I first heard this "band" I was pretty sure someone was fucking with me, as I couldn't believe anyone could actually make music this bad. This shit sucked the first time when it was called "The Faint." These eyeliner disasters make MGMT sound like fucking Black Sabbath. And they get a big font? Dorks need go back to working at Buffalo Exchange.

(3) Death So the nerds at Drag City felt they really needed to prove that they were the best crate diggers in all the land. Great job. I concede it's a nice reissue for all the completists and ex-college radio DJs out there, and certainly an interesting footnote in the history of American punk, but I'm not sure they really needed to resurrect these fossils for a tour. Honestly, I'd have much preferred the other Death, the seminal gore-metal hair windmillers who did that bitchin' Zombie Ritual Song.

Jesus Lizard

Showing the terminal lameness of our generation of rock and proving once again that most new bands suck, the final battle comes down to a clash of post-punk and metal elder statesmen.

Danzig and Yow are both old, probably smelly and kind of psychotic. But only one of them is going to be wearing a demon skull belt buckle. Only one of them lifts weights all the time. And only one wrote songs about blowjobs from Jackie O.

The GZA (1) Here's what I know about the GZA: white people like him, he's some kind of beekeeper, he's a ninja, he's really smart and he was also in a video game in which he fought other members of the Wu Tang clan with a Liquid Sword.

So I guess this show will be cool?

VIP

Drinking in the VIP Area (unseeded) I have to say that last year's VIP area was about as much fun and as exclusive as hanging out in the Emo's courtyard. Despite being completely underwhelming, I'll still be there the whole time, because, in case you haven't picked up on our theme, I am really tired of live music.

slightly less crappy touring bands

Jesus Winner: Danzig

Jesus

The Jesus Lizard (1) In the good old days, David Yow used to drink a bottle of whiskey and rub his penis on the microphone on stage while smoking a cigarette. I don't know if this happens any more, but the amplified sound of Yow's cock is still better than 100% of the laptop jockeys trying to pass themselves off as rock bands these days.

Mission of Burma (4) Despite being deaf grandpas, they're still the only band at Fun Fun that'll play that "reach for my revolver" song. If you didn't catch their set at the Emo's 13th Anniversary show back in 2005, you missed the Burma dudes giving a special shout-out to their full-time cassette tape manipulator, who, in addition to spending every show in the sound booth instead of rocking out, doesn't play an instrument cool enough to get postpunk groupie tang.

Les Savy Fucked Up (3) It's the year of the zany, fat, bearded frontman who likes to take his shirt off while being backed by a band comprised of really annoying people, in this case either graphic designers or Canadians.

LSFU

Of Montreal (2) Dear Kevin Barnes: I am so tired of seeing your penis on stage. Please come up with something new. Love, Misprint.

Typically, Misprint leaves the futile job of insightful public discourse to well-intentioned yet ultimately pointless publications like Citizine or the Statesman. But every once in a while we get the opportunity to drag our good name through the seething muck of local politics. After waking up from a much-needed, yet totally unexpected, nap in the Red River Hotel (a.k.a. the A.P.D. drunk tank) we decided to put some of the hard questions to the finest of Austin's finest, Chief Art Acevedo. Mr. Acevedo has been making a splash on the national stage thanks to his killer Yelp write-ups, scandalous Anne Rice cosplay and outspoken intention to "fight every single punk ass motherfucker" in town. We didn't even have to text Misprint buddy/Beard eviscerator Mayor Lee Leffingwell to track the chief to his secret, cop-like stronghold. During our unceremonious exit from police HQ we ran into Acevedo trying to work the fax machine.

Misprint: So, why can't I get drunk at Cheers Shot Bar anymore?

Acevedo: Technically, it was never legal for you to get drunk at Cheers Shot Bar.

A: No. You should actually turn those in.

M: You didn't see me last night.

So, all of a sudden, crime is a big deal? Are you aware that I can go to this little intersection called 12th and Chicon in broad daylight and score lawn darts? Jarts! On the streets! In our town!

A: Uh, no, I wasn't aware of that.

M: You know, I've heard rumors that there are people in Austin who smoke marijuana on a daily basis. Sometimes several times a day. Often before bathing or checking Twitter. I mean, there are like four frisbee golf courses in town.

A: I doubt it. It would be very difficult to make a living here as a habitual drug user. Also, you should really call it disc golf.

M: It's true. I have a set. Do you want to come back to my place, jam some Nirvana and play a round?

M: Did you know the S.W.A.T. tank up at the Lamar HQ has had a flat tire since I moved here? What are you guys

going to do when the inevitable invasion of T-1000s from the future show up and finally bring about the apocalypse?

A: Well, the S.W.A.T. team is trained for that kind of thing.

And we've got plenty of atvs and horse cops. Have you considered holing up in Austin City Hall?

M: So what was it like working on CHiPs? A: I worked for the California Highway Patrol.

M: Damn, I had a bunch of questions about Eric Estrada, like, could he really ride his motorcycle while standing on top of the saddle or was it a stunt double.

we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t love to hate. we hate what we love.

A: That was me actually. Fuck Eric Estrada. I was more of a Rockford Files, Magnum, P.I. man anyway.

M: Did you see that Magnum, P.I. episode where Tom Selleck opened a fortune cookie that said he was going to die? That was fucked up.

A: One time I found a 7" hidden under my Moontower pizza at East Side Pies. I don't think it was nefarious, I think it was just some asshole who wanted me to listen to his band.

M: Had you heard of Misprint before this interview?

A: This is an interview? You're not new cadets? I thought you guys looked too sober...

M: No! We're Misprint.

Misprint Magazine?

A: I've read your crappy magazine. What's with all the squids and centaurs?

M: We write a lot about beards too. For the record, what's your official response to the rampant beard profiling happening in Austin?

A: Beard profiling?

M: It's an epidemic! People are getting pulled over for walking or biking while bearded! There have been assassination attempts on high profile members of the beard community and no arrests made! I know several gnarlybearded dudes who refuse to leave their efficiencies out of fear, although they never really went out much anyway now that I think of it.

A: Statistically, men with large beards are not to be trusted.

Officers are ordered to pull over these people on the spot to issue citations. How else in a recession is the city going to fund our annual Columbus Day Boat Party & Luau?

M: Yikes. So, Robocop or Police Academy?

A: Robocop, duh.

M: Good call, dude. Twilight or True Blood?

A: Books or on the screen?

M: Either.

A: I like the Twilight books for their moral authority, and the True Blood show for the gratuitous nudity.

M: Does the APD, to your knowledge, employ any vampires?

A: Of course not. Look, there's been a lot of criticism...

M: Then how come all these pale, attractive dudes with really good hair keep pulling over my drunk friends and try to get vials of their blood?

A: All right, fuck it. You really want to hear this? The Austin Police Department has a highly-trained, elite squad of vampire cops. When they're not honing their deadly skills under the blood sprinklers at Prague they're sleeping beneath the Congress Avenue Bridge. Their thirst for blood is unquenchable, and they'll pull your sorry ass over in an instant. Happy now?

M: No. h

Free Shit We Got

A thinly veiled attempt, disguised as journalism, to score more free promotional hogwash.

Fever The Laughing

Damage Pants Damage Pants

Attention bands in Austin: if you're looking to hook Misprint up with your latest drop, try and emulate what happened with The Laughing's Fever. Not only did I show up late to their show, thus missing their set entirely, they also thanked me in the liner notes. If only they bought me a beer this would have been the best Free Shit We Got ever. Two out of three ain't bad.

There's a lot of things you can say about Damage Pants. They're a two-piece.

They have a stupid name.

They're unlistenable.

They're too loud. I wish they would stop playing.

What you can't say is that they are pussies. And in Austin these days, where most bands spend more time picking out pearl snap shirts than getting fucked up before shows, that counts for a lot.

The current line-up is comprised of ten foot tall, inaugural Misprint Beard & Moustache Gnarliest Beard winner Grant "Dopeyface" McNugget on the skins, translucent, beardless crooner Logan "Burnt Orange" Middleton and a couple of interns. The biggest surprise on Fever is that, after the fifth song, there are like ten more songs. An LP? What the fuck guys? Who has time for that?

The name: Damage Pants. If there were words more likely to be stenciled on a generation's worth of leather jackets I haven't heard them yet. It's a name that's majestic and powerful yet resonant with the bleak realities of modern rock; like a woolly mammoth with dysentery, covered in blood and vomit clawing for its last breath before sinking forever into a tar pit. Of course the "hip" music bloggers have given them flack for it. They say "there's no amount of marijuana that would make that a good band name" or "surely at some point they sobered up and realized no one should actually name their fucking band Damage Pants." But there's nothing more validating to the Damage Pants name and sound than the metric shit-ton of imitators who have been trying to ride their pant-tails to fame, most famously the staggeringly pathetic locals "Perfect Pants" and the metrosexual downtempo dubstep outfit "Damage Slacks."

This being their third release, they finally have shit dialed in. Referencing the hands from Pearl Jam's seminal Ten artwork on the cover is nothing short of a masterstroke and the drum track actually knocked a hubcap off my VW. I'm sure the Chronicle still hates them which means they're probably doing everything right.

Send us your free shit!

Misprint Magazine c/o the Side Bar

For reals. Drop that shit off at the Side Bar.

The sound of the Pants is Lightning Bolt on heavy barbiturates meets Scratch Acid on an extra case of whiskey with the volume fucking dimed. Their new drop comes on tasty 180 gram vinyl and is worth every cent of the zero dollars I paid for it.

But like most Pants, they are best experienced live, preferably somewhere shitty, while you're drunk and angry.

Gossip! Gossip! Gossip!

Some local nerd out for a buck and clearly missing the point just dropped his new Daniel Johnstonthemed iPhone game. If that doesn't sound exploitative and creepy enough, in it you play as Jeremiah the Frog as he enters a "bipolar mirror world" seeking his "one true love." When pressed for comment by The New York Times, Johnston quipped "If they make it into a real video game it might work out. I don't even know what an iPhone is."

----------------------------------------------------------Jessica "I somehow made the Invisible Woman even more lame" Alba and Danny "I killed like, 12 dudes in prison and even though I found Jesus I'm actually tough as shit and will totes fuck your shit up" Trejo are just part of the celebrity circus in town filming Robert Rodriguez's next gore-fest Machete.

The pair were spotted at Malverde where Misprint insiders report "they smoked a bunch of cigarettes and were really, really nice. Also, they were carrying GIANT FUCKING KNIVES AND HACKED THE SHIT OUT OF ALL THE DUMB MOSS AT OUR BAR." Rodriguez, whose entire job now consists of pounding Tecates in his castle, blowing up motorcycles and casting high-dollar actresses in roles as low-rent strippers was nowhere to be found.

----------------------------------------------------------Also playing a murderous knife-wielding stripper of some kind is Lindsay Lohan, who's been spotted slumming it with all the hairy, ugly dudes at ShangriLa. Apparently she heard it was a centaur hangout and was hoping for an "only in Austin" experience of gazing upon a giant fake horse cock while sipping a Shangrita to really impress her friends back in L.A. ----------------------------------------------------------Occasional ring bearer/full time whiner Elijah Wood has been officially tapped as the godfather of punk for the long-rumoured Iggy Pop biopic.

Insiders report that he's been prepping for the role by burning all his shirts and stuffing the crotch of his black 501s to "feel more authentic." Homeboy was last spotted in town around during sxsw looking glummer than Gollum when Red 7 bouncers wouldn't let him jump the line to see the Hold Steady show. Good luck with that shit, Frodo, but we're waiting for the dvd.

The dire financial times has put a strain on the fundraising efforts of local non-profits. With less disposable income, people just aren't splurging on those bikini bike washes or gluten-free bake sales anymore, even if it is for a good cause like haam or the Ex-Members of SOUND Team College Fund. But ever since Stage/Scene stopped giving away those hilarious monthly local band planners, even the most jaded among us can't resist a whimsical charity calendar. So in 2010, vying for space on your fridge with the mega-successful Vegan Firemen of Austin Calendar and the straight-up creepy Coke Dealers of Red River Calendar comes the must-have Tattooed Ladies of the Texas Librarians Association Calendar.

I shit you not, this thing is 12 hot months of naughty 50-something librarians from Abiliene showing off blurry dolphin and fairy tattoos.

Believe the hype, chubies.

----------------------------------------------------------As the End Live Music campaign continues to burn an unforgiving swath across Austin, outside of city limits people clearly aren't getting the message. Take, for example, the city of Cedar Park, who, with funds from a voter-passed referendum, just opened an 8700-capacity venue for fans of big, nationally touring acts who hate being around those bothersome "weird Austin people and their marijuana and dumb bikes."

Christening the place is George Strait, followed by perpetual snooze-rockers Wilco to lend it some "cred." Honestly, it like seems a pretty natural fit.

Now it's easy to slam some Chipotle Cripsersâ&#x201E;˘ at Chili's, stock up on diapers and non-explicit CDs at the SuperWalmart and hit up a Wilco show without worrying about getting on a toll road!

After Wilco, looks like they've already booked Kelly Clarkson and some minor league hockey.

Smells like a winner, bros. Best thing to happen to Austin since Qua. h