Oklahoma Tailgate

Waxahatchee and Case Oats in Texas

Some stranger’s spit sailed into my eye at Antone’s in Austin and gave me a cold that rivals any I’ve ever had. At least that’s my theory. I can’t prove it. But I did ingest a lot of foreign saliva that night. Aerosoluly and eyeballularly.

Case Oats traveled to SXSW for the first time. We prudently drove our expectations down into the floor, into the dirt and limestone of Texas, and came out grinning like a tenth-seed team who won the championship. People took our picture (not the point, but good for business). People said nice things to Casey. We took our first real steps out of Chicago since signing with Merge this winter.

Photo credit: Mac McCaughan

We rolled into town and into one of the most Larry David moments of my life. I’m either very bad at reading instruction emails from festival organizers, or the supervisor of the artist check-in table at SXSW woke up expecting violence from every human she would see that day. It turns out that politely asking whether you’re parked in the right spot can be taken as an insult upon somebody’s entire family, ancestors, and future kin. We escaped and headed to our show.

So much of life revolves around food. That’s true on the road, too. On the way down there, we tailgated every meal because we had Basil, and Basil, a dog, is not allowed inside restaurants. (Casey and I are so grateful to our sweet bandmates for tolerating this situation, crouching on the concrete like it was just as comfortable as a diner booth.) In Austin we ate street tacos and shawarma. The truck I ordered from got shut down by cops moments after I paid, for not having a permit. The magnanimous taco authorities let them finish my order before fully shuttering the kitchen. Everyone else in line groaned. Can we sign a waiver? I’ll eat an unpermitted taco.

On Wednesday, Casey and I played in Kevin Morby’s “All Star Sandlot” baseball game slash show. It’s been years since I’ve played an organized sport… When the rest of the team—musicians, ringers, and all—jogged over to a shaded area to start doing serious pre-baseball stretches, we realized we were in over our heads. Our opponents, the classy Texas Playboys, struck the perfect balance of going easy on our inexperienced asses versus respectfully clobbering us, and won in the end. But Kevin pitched and batted like a pro. And Casey almost got on base with a hit that jammed her finger. (Thankfully not on her guitar fretting hand.) I got to sit in with Kevin for a few songs when he switched from sport to art mode, and narrowly avoided getting rained out.

When I was standing in the right field, resisting the primordial urge to crouch down and play with the grass, like I did during every little league game of my childhood, I felt total bliss. A new understanding of why baseball occupies a sacred place in American culture. It’s because the players out there are experiencing monk-like peace and serenity. We have built an industry, a media empire, a national pastime, around the ten minutes of quiet that an outfielder gets when they’re on defense. I’m telling you.

Photo credit: Eliana Athayde

At Luck Ranch outside Austin, Case Oats recorded for the “Luck Sessions” series in Willie Nelson’s Pedernales studio … pausing to let that sentence sink in to myself. While we recorded the first of two songs, a Willie cover, I got the sense that the friendly old-timers and hip new-timers in the control room were impressed with our approach, full of tons of space, relaxed and in no hurry. I don’t know what they were used to hearing but it didn’t seem to be this. And they told us as much afterward.

At the Luck Reunion festival, I played two shows with Waxahatchee. It was Liam’s first show with the band, my brother, my all-the-time bandmate. (Our friend Clay is getting off the road, focusing on his own Hazel City records, and we love him a lot.) It was one of the best shows I’ve experienced with Katie, since starting touring for Tigers Blood last year, which is saying something, because we’ve had a lot of great nights. I don’t know exactly why, maybe the air of Willie’s ranch, maybe spring fever. Whatever the reason, it felt extra great.

After the show, Casey and I ran across the festival grounds to watch Taj Mahal play so joyfully and beautifully under a circus-style tent. He cracked jokes at his bandmates’ expense. Consultants and wooks grinded in front of us. He gave a show worthy of someone a quarter his age.

Last show. Case Oats played the Line of Best Fit showcase at 1AM on Friday night. Our booking agent, Dave, warned us it might be empty, because people have been known to like to sleep at or before 1AM. But it was pretty packed. And we felt the raucous club energy that sort of only exists in dives at night. (Read that in Spongebob’s voice: “at night.”) It also helped that we saw a few minutes of Man/Woman/Chainsaw right before our set. They were vicious, hugely loud, had amazing camaraderie and inspired us with their weird blend of emo, post-rock, and Japanese neo-metal. So we were fired up to play.

I was minimally functioning on the two-day drive home. We stopped in St. Louis at Casey’s parents’ house. The aforementioned crowdfunded cold set in. We made it back safely, thank god. And we went back to work.