Well, the Crocodile’s bar was well stocked last night, unlike on Thursday’s pre-opening debut. Trouble was, you needed the fortitude of a guerrilla to get to it.

It’s great that the Croc sold out for its official opening night featuring the not-at-all hip Hot Buttered Rum and the Everyone Orchestra (I didn’t know these bands till the Crocodile’s schedule alerted me to them)—especially in These Tough Economic Times®. However, the capacity crowd—99.9 % well-fed white folks, many in tie-dyed attire, some in silver-glitter capes, many graying, none of whom I’d ever seen at a show in my six-plus years of Seattle gig-going—made maneuvering ridiculously difficult. “A lot of people here look like my father’s friends,” noted Croc talent booker Eli Anderson. One oldster wore a shirt emblazoned with the unforgettable axiom THERE’S NO NEED TO WORRY OR BE IN A HURRY. Sound advice, if you don't need to relieve yourself or purchase a drink at a capacity show here.
I initially secured a spot near the front left stage area. There I became intimately familiar with a fiftysomething guy’s body odor and booze breath. When nature called, the trek to the men’s room became a marathon ordeal involving dozens of instances of frottage and “excuse me”s and drink-jostling and millimeter-by-millimeter sideways shuffling (that’s the throng and short of it).

Those simply watching the show were smashed up against the main-floor bar, so if you wanted to order, you had to physically displace someone to belly up. If you have issues/neuroses about personal space invasion and/or claustrophobia, you will hate sold-out shows here.
As for the music, Portland/San Francisco octet the Everyone Orchestra were ingratiating, and genuinely proud to send the first official sound waves out into the atmosphere from the Croc V.02’s stage. Led by conductor Matt Butler who magic-markered directions on a dry-erase board, the EO—whose lineup apparently is always rotating—include a keyboardist, sax/flute player, two guitarists, a stand-up bassist, a drummer, and a violinist. They’re all fantastic players who can jam and get seriously funky, like a country/folk-inflected Medeski Martin + Wood or Average White Band. Bonnaroobs will surely love ’em.
Butler gleefully chewed scenery, and also served as EO’s hype man and crowd motivator. At one point, he held up a sign that read HEY and instructed the audience to shout that word when he flashed the sign. We obeyed. After one incredible, ever-accelerating piece of funk, he said, “One never knows when one wants to pull off the unison 16th-note trick.” Then the band proceeded to reprise it twice. It was music-nerdily endearing, really.
I had to leave the venue after the first set to get some relief, so I headed to the Rob Roy down the street on Second. I met a couple of friends there who said they could smell patchouli on my person. Damned frottage…
Back at the Croc for Hot Buttered Rum’s set, the house was still cheek-by-jowl/haunch-by-paunch packed. Butler had moved to drums and the sax/flute player had moved to acoustic guitar and four of the EO dudes had taken to singing and the music had shifted to bluegrass, country music’s super-swift, more raucous kin. HBR executed a sped-up cover of the Band’s country-funk classic “Up on Cripple Creek,” then downshifted into some cornier country territory that good-naturedly pushed me out of the club. The fans were eating it up, though, and dancing of the sort that you rarely see at rock shows broke out everywhere. One HBR member’s proclamation to “start a petition to allow musicians to drink onstage” drew hearty cheers from the clearly inebriated masses.
One odd observation: Even though the Croc was rammed, you could feel a really cold draft if you stood near the bar where it connects to the corridor that leads to the entrance. Frequent door openings leading out to the smoking area also sent blasts of frigid air into the room. This may be nitpicking, but it seems like something that should be addressed.
But, yeah: sold-out first night in this crap economy, beaucoup feel-good sounds, and sufficient bar supply. Well-played, Crocodile.
(Photos by Jackie Canchola; more pics after the cut.)
Just found out this bad news: All-time great New Orleans funk-soul pianist/vocalist Eddie Bo suffered a fatal heart attack March 18. KEXP DJ Johnny Horn played a Bo tribute set on his Preachin' the Blues show this morning; you can listen via the station's archives here.
Also check out this strong career overview: In the Pocket With Eddie Bo: New Orleans Rock&Roll, R&B, Soul & Funk Goodies 1955-2007 (Vampi Soul).
This happened last year, too: Saturday, the last full day of music at SXSW, rolled around and the law of diminishing returns began to kick in. You can only fill yourself with so much music, booze, and street food before there's just no more room. Coincidentally, though, the official offerings on this final day of SXSW struck me as pretty lackluster with the exception of the reunited Six Finger Satellite (who—spoiler alert—I didn't manage to see anyway). So I took the day relatively easy, but still caught a few notable shows.
First up was the SXSeattle showcase. I arrived late, after an unusual full night's sleep and the usual morning blog post, to find the place at capacity for Natalie Portman's Shaved Head (and this after the free beer had run out, leaving only the regular cash bar). The door guy was only letting people in as people left, and I got in just as they played the last note of their set. Bummer, because I wanted to see them, as everybody here at the paper seems to think I'm far too hard on this band—although, if they're going to be opening for Lily Allen (?!) they're rather opening themselves to a whole wide world of criticism. Hey Marseilles manager told me the band's early noon set had started with like 30 people in the room but filled up to 300 within the first few songs. New Faces' tour manager told me they'd had a great show and sold out all their CDs, keeping just the last one for themselves as a souvenir. Dave Meinert said the Blue Scholars' shows that week had all been packed, and that they had a really good talk with a marketing company. Barcelona played a set of tepid, watered-down Death Cab mope rock; not a band I would've chosen to rep Seattle. Past Lives played a relatively mellow set to a slightly thinned but receptive crowd.
Common Market and Blue Scholars brought some more people out. Both played solid, short sets, but Blue Scholars's was especially good. Geologic told the crowd he had "a little voice left; I saved it just for you—I don't wanna sound like Screech" (indeed, there were a few folks at this party with no voice left whatsoever). He rapped about turning SXSW into SXNW (he also kept calling the party South by South Seattle). They played a couple new songs, one with a line about how they "used to listen to 2pac" and how some new shit is "cool/it's cool/but it's not what I'm used to." They played another, "808 Love," dedicated to Hawaii, where Geo grew up, whose area code just also happens to be the make of hiphop's favorite old drum machine, making for the chorus about "808 love" and "808 kick/so thick it makes your heartbeat skip." Sabzi programmed a rimshot and woodblock heavy beat on his phone over the sound-system and Geo rapped some bars over it about that "new new people," the beat eventually erupting with some shimmering cymbals.
Caught Olympia trio Gun Outfit, a band who I discovered thanks to Dave Segal's raves for their album Dim Light, but who I maybe should've known, as I used to live with singer/guitarist Dylan Sharp down in Oly. In any case, the band played an abbreviated set at a non-SXSW bar, Sharp's vocals sounding decidedly less Calvin Johnson-y than they do on record (something about his drawling mono/bari-tone just reminds me of Johnson; also, and I may be misremembering this, but I think dude used to do a pretty good Johnson impersonation just for yuks). Their songs are short and driving, with dual guitars sounding alternately sharp and murky, with enough hints of bass to keep a steady groove. The set was abbreviated because after one song the drummer suddenly kicked his kit over and walked off the stage. (Saturday is tough for everybody; earlier that day, according to Sharp, Gun Outfit blew their slot at Todd P's party as Ms Bea's, getting into an argument in which Todd P told them "no one gives a shit about your band" and one of their extended entourage called Todd P some unfortunate names—so much for playing any Brooklyn warehouses, dudes.) Hopefully the band will be playing Seattle soon; they'll be well worth checking out when they do.
Speaking of Ms Bea's, caught a minute of Crystal Stilts over there, just long enough to get the gist—reverb-heavy garage rock with hints of Velvet Underground drone—but not to be too terribly impressed. Of the handful of new bands on Slumberland Records, this one may be the least appealing to my tastes (you know which one I like best). Next up was Wavves, whose voice was also a bit blown-out by Saturday night, a fact done no favors by this PA's lack of reverb or echo, which left his ragged, off-key voice bare and ugly against his insanely catchy punk guitar romps. Still, it was an energetic set. There was enough of a crowd onstage that somebody crowd surfed there, almost knocking over the PA. "So Bored" remains an awesome ear-worm; I could barely stop myself from humming/whistling it all night. After the set, Todd P got on the mic and asked, "Did anyone here go to Yale? A lot of Ivy Leaguers are losing their shit tonight." This was not figurative but literal: A Yale ID card had been found, as well as a wallet belonging to someone from Cornell. For such lowbrow rock and roll, Wavves apparently has some highfalutin academic fans.
Met up with the Pharmacy, who report that they're doing well in New Orleans (except for the time Scottie got a gun pulled on him at his new burrito-rolling gig by a robber), and piled into their party van to hit up a house party where the Intelligence was playing. (Another Seattle band update: Lelah from TacocaT said their van broke down in Phoenix, though they obviously managed to make it to Austin.) I've seen the Intelligence a few times in Seattle, but I've never seen them do a show this fun—possibly I've had the dumb luck to always catch them playing stale bars instead of raucous kitchens. In any case, their bashed-out garage rock sounded perfect in that kitchen, with someone flashing the overhead lights on and off to the beat while the band wailed "woooo woooo." They played one song whose guitar riff seemed lifted straight from Rocket From the Crypt's "On a Rope," although I guess that's just where I personally recognize it from, as it's not a terribly unusual riff. They played "Like Like Like Like Like Like Like," and it sounded great. They said they wouldn't be doing any A-Frames covers nor any new shit for SXSW. I'm not sure how the set ended exactly, and there's nothing more in my notes, so.
(Here's where I feel like I'm supposed to draw some big picture conclusions from this year's SXSW. Well, last year I stayed in a hotel downtown, this year I slept on some incredibly nice folk's couch on the east side of town, and I get the impression that lots of folks have similarly dialed down their expenses for the fest. More bands than ever registered to perform this year, but attendee registration was down, not that you'd get that impression from the lines or the many packed showcases. You might conclude that creativity flourishes no matter what the economy, an essential part of the human condition whether it can make money or not, and that people will still want to see live music even in tough times—but that all seems pretty pat, if not still encouraging. I could also conclude that SXSW is a fucking blast, way different than any festival that Seattle throws down, but again, that seems like pretty conventional wisdom at this point. In any case, I'm excited to head home, as I'm going to sleep like a motherfucking rock tonight.)