1. Chunks of ice mixed with beer spat
2. A Flying V guitar
3. A very sweaty 140-pound drummer, who, upon destroying his drum kit, lost control of his limbs and flailed off stage
And I wasn't even up front. I was standing behind two security guards to the left of the stage, near neatly stacked equipment. At one point, a female audience member, much bigger than I, leaned up and shouted in my ear, "Thanks for protecting me!" Protect? Hell, I didn't even know she was back there. I was just trying to hide behind Guard Number Two.
Here it was, only nine on Friday night, and these four Austin boys were going at it like it was 2 a.m. in Detroit. In 1974, or maybe 2034. Thing is, despite the danger quotient, there wasn't a mean or snarling mood attached to any of it. It was pure, burning adrenaline that propelled this set--the kind of numb youthful impulse that drives kids to spin in circles until they fall down and puke, or to talk way too loud because they can't monitor their volume. Sure, the guitarist might hurl his second broken-stringed instrument at the crowd (which politely returned it to the stage even after several such absent-minded assaults), and yeah, the drummer may push his kick drum right into the amp stacks before crawling on the floor, grabbing the now-broken pedal and throwing it toward the bass player with matter-of-fact abandon.
And maybe the band's dark sonic throttle held the promise of violence. But not once did the band members look angry, or verbally insult the audience, or for that matter seem at all aware that the onlookers were real people instead of plaster walls. Like small kids, ...and you will know us by the trail of dead aren't that interested in people, unless you count their dressing in all black (including jet-dyed hair, Izods, and socks) and posturing a bit as a nod toward professionalism. The band seemed very interested, however, in reaching a state of seizure therapy, in letting their bodies and minds rip through appropriateness toward something far more hypnotic. Their potential for rock-star pretension was constantly drowned in blank-faced guilelessness. The stage may be destroyed in the process, the audience bruised and wet, but at least the four performers would get a hell of a creative workout.
And through the chaos, the songs held together. Swirling, chortling screeches and booms threatened to shatter into incoherent shards, yet never did. These were real songs, glued together with powerful pop hooks and sophisticated arrangements and even provocative lyrics (or so the words sounded, given the dual frontmen's sincerity). It seemed as though the songs were fueled by body spasms the way a perpetual-movement watch depends on the jerking arm of its owner. Plenty of minor-key clamor would, on occasion, evaporate into surprisingly poetic instrumental musings. Only, the nap wouldn't last, or it would just barely cover someone's half-assed tuning break before lashing out again. And how any band can finish a tune with all members falling to their knees or tumbling off stage--a given when straps are broken, eyes are closed, and a drum stool is lost--is miraculous, a symptom of some collective trance. The band never spoke to the audience. They charged from song to song with mission-like determination. After all, the kid wants to spin till he pukes.
Not punk, not Big Guitar, not completely serious but then again maybe too earnest, ...and you will know us by the trail of dead could be the young cousins of the bratty, explosive Stooges, though art-school black and borderline art-rock leanings, the members would likely take more kindly to Birthday Party comparisons. In 1997, trail of dead was on the now-defunct Trance Syndicate label, alongside the far more sedate sounds of Bedhead. A shell-shocked Austin was listening. But once the label folded last year, it seemed the band was coasting with its engine dropped on the gravel behind it--destined to slow to an unremarkable halt.
Not so. Co-frontmen-guitarists Jason Reece and Conrad Keely--they switch off on the drums--show no sign of calming down or growing up. Though the Buffalo Club was far from packed (and what SXSW venue is at 9 p.m.?), the swarm of fascinated journalists and musicians at the stage bespoke a rejuvenated buzz, and the band gripped every minute of it with a reckless air of entitlement. This was the kind of debacle that would make the hundreds of other SXSW indie-rock acts look tired, shabby, uninventive. Refreshing is too weak a definition for trail of dead--try unnerving, in an affable, expensive sort of way. (How much, oh lordy, how much to replace and repair all that equipment?) And while nothing's confirmed, the newest rumor has it that Touch and Go is sniffing at their threshold.
As the quartet wound to a close, another band loading in for its upcoming set looked on in bewilderment and dread. The whole stage was soaking wet, the monitors askew, the audience joyous and confounded. ...and you will know us by the trail of dead pounded out the few last notes, threw down what was left of their instruments, and bounded off stage--exhausted and expressionless--past that waiting band. How do you follow that? The lull was tangible, and it was only 9:30.
--Christina Rees
