Latest Entries • 06/23 5:50 a.m. • 06/18 2:24 p.m. • 06/17 12:41 p.m. • 06/16 3:53 p.m. • 06/16 1:45 p.m. • 06/15 3:05 p.m. • 06/15 6:16 a.m. Past Weeks 06/14-06/18 06/07-06/11 | 05/31-06/04 05/24-05/28 | 05/17-05/21 05/10-05/14 | 05/03-05/07 04/26-04/30 | 04/19-04/23 04/12-04/16 | 04/05-04/09 • More XL Blog Archives Meet the Bloggers • Michael Barnes • Kathy Blackwell • Michael Corcoran • Omar Gallaga • Chris Garcia • Joe Gross • Sarah Lindner

04/05/04-04/09/04

04/09/04, 3:30 p.m.

From: Michael Barnes e-mail me

Honing the art of the blog

How does one edit a blog?

After 10 weeks on the arts and entertainment editing beat, I'm still not sure there's a ready answer. But I have learned a few things.

1. A blog is not an essay — at least not in the sense of a clear argument supported by credible analysis and evidence in a honed rhetorical style. Unfortunately — or not — most of the XL writers came to the newsroom as veteran essayists, so to blog, they bend and stretch the essay format to the subjects of random, daily reflections. (Example A: This blog.)

2. A blog is not just random, daily reflections — OK, I just contradicted myself, but if a blog is just a stream-of-consciousness blast of cultural associations, then it hardly serves a reader looking for insight into our city, society and culture. It may not be a thesis-based essay, but a worthwhile blog would not be mistaken for a journal entry from a middle-schooler contemplating the awfulness of existence.

3. A blog should tell the reader something about the writer, but also about the rest of the world — I'm no fan of the self-absorbed writing that infests not only online journals, but also the featured commentary in certain alternative weeklies. I want reporting about something new, something significant, perhaps useful, even if the subject is the latest Fox network fluff or an arcane Web site about European jazz recently unearthed by the writer.

Meta-blogging aside, we plan to shuffle some of our XL entries soon. Three writers — Chris Garcia, Joe Gross and Omar L. Gallaga — have cultivated not only flinty blog personas, but also a sense of what material works well in the online format. They will continue to file blogs on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, respectively, except when on vacation (such as Chris' upcoming march through the Middle Kingdom).

Next week, we welcome the stylish musings of Sarah Lindner to the XL blogs on Thursdays. Sarah, an American-Statesman copy editor by day, has written extensively on contemporary culture and should bring a fresh, thoughtful viewpoint to these Austin360 journals.

On Fridays, expect rotating contributions from current and past bloggers, such as Jeanne Claire van Ryzin, Jeff Salamon, Michael Corcoran and myself. These writers and editors have accepted new responsibilties in the newsroom and aren't blog-ready as often as Chris, Joe, Omar and Sarah.

So look for a daily stream of writing about our city and culture, not exactly essays, but also not thumb-sucking drivel.

-- back to top

04/08/04, 5:18 p.m.

From: Michael Corcoran e-mail me

More Bob Schneider than I could write

My recent XL cover story on Bob Schneider was running long so I cut out the part about me burning him a mixed CD after our golf game/interview. I was kind of amazed that this big fan of great songwriters knew almost nothing about Elvis Costello, Graham Parker, Richard Thompson and the like, so I made him a CD containing some of my all-time favorite songs. But, you know, it took too much space to list my choices, besides, let's face it, I looked a little too much like a fawning groupie. "Here you go, Bob. A CD made just for you."

And besides, doesn't it seem a little cruel to gift someone with a CD that could be called "21 Songs You Couldn't Have Written In Your Wild Dreams." That would be like someone e-mailing me the best writing of Lester Bangs, Nick Tosches and Nik Cohn.

Anyway, here's the CD tracks. "I hope you like it, Bob."

1. "All That's Left Between You and Me" — Graham Parker
2. "Galveston Bay" — Bruce Springsteen
3. "Withered On the Vine" — Nick Lowe
4. "Ellis Unit One" — Steve Earle
5. "Watch Your Step" — Elvis Costello
6. "Chiseled In Stone" — Vern Gosdin
7. "Louise" — Bonnie Raitt (written by Paul Seibel)
8. "Hallelujah" — Rufus Wainwright (written by Leonard Cohen)
9. "Dark Was the Night" — Blind Willie Johnson
10. "Blowin' In the Wind" — Sam Cooke (written by Bob Dylan)
11. "I Got What I Wanted (But Lost What I Had)" — Ted Hawkins
12. "Time" — T-Bone Burnett (written by Tom Waits)
13. "Feel So Good" — Richard Thompson
14. "Blue Railroad Train" — Doc Watson
15. "Ain't Leavin' Your Love" — Townes Van Zandt
16. "Blind Willie McTell" — Bob Dylan
17. "Dagger Through the Heart" — Sinead O'Connor (written by Dolly Parton)
18. "New Madrid" — Uncle Tupelo
19. "Wrapping Paper" — Graham Parker
20. "Down Where the Drunkards Roll" — Richard Thompson
21. "Take Me Back" — Randy Newman

Another thing I left out of the Schneider piece, because I couldn't figure out a way to convey the info without Schneider coming off like a wacko, is that when his bands played Steamboat, he would always spend the set breaks in the ladies restroom. He'd sit on the sink that didn't work and talk to his female fans while they went to the bathroom. "It was all very innocent," Steamboat owner Danny Crooks told me. "Not a single female customer complained."

-- back to top

04/07/04, 4:12 p.m.

From: Omar Gallaga e-mail me

San Antonio will remember this premiere

In Austin, when you want to have a glitzy movie premiere, you book the Paramount Theatre, lay out a little red carpet in the front, block off the street-side curb and invite Sandra Bullock and Robert Rodriguez.

In San Antonio, where premieres happen about as often as San Antonio films are actually made (oh, once every 20 years or so), a movie event is blown up to Tyco Personal Party dimensions.

For the recent "Alamo" premiere, the town (with help from the studio, I'm sure) created the Caligula of film screenings, an event that was so obscene in its excess that I had to try the quail on a stick not once, but twice to fully comprehend its size and scale.

But, hey, you can't blame San Antonio. The last time they had a big movie set in the River City, it was "Cloak & Dagger" with Dabney Coleman. They have a right to get a little excited here.

The screening, which attracted politicians like Rick Perry and San Antonio mayor Ed Garza (who seemed to be trying out for the part of Tonto in a high-school production of "The Lone Ranger"), writers who write about politics (Molly Ivins), men who have married Angelina Jolie (Billy Bob Thornton), men who haven't (Jason Patric) and Tim McGraw, was flanked by a yellow carpet that stretched about four city blocks. All along that line, barricades were placed to keep the teeming masses (I'm not kidding; there were thousands of people waiting to catch a glimpse of a celebrity, or failing that, Governor Perry: "Mr. Governor! Sign my forehead!") away from the invited guests.

Before the event, everyone had been prompted to wear "Texas Black Tie" wear, but nobody seemed to agree what that meant so you ended up with people dressed in tuxedos with coonskin caps. Because when San Antonio puts on a premiere, it's classy. Everyone else wore tan leather jackets (Patrick Wilson), Dickies plaid shirts (Thornton) or the aforementioned Tonto costume.

Photographers, reporters from "Entertainment Tonight" and local news crews made even the most lowly of invitees (er, me) feel like a star. And if the flashbulbs didn't convince you, there were T-shirted gawkers holding camcorders.

"Smile! You're at a movie premiere!" one lady shouted at me as I walked wearily down the endless carpet. I smiled for her.

The head of Disney Studios introduced all the actors from the film one by one and then the San Antonio Symphony roused those who weren't already blown away by the combined star power of Jason Patric and John Lee Hancock with a Texas song medley that made the out-of-towners behind me groan.

Patrick Wilson blew the crowd away with a seriously fantastic rendition of "God Bless America" and then the film started. A little more than two hours later, the crowd was cheering, seemingly unoffended by a potentially divisive film. It was now safe to party.

And party San Antonio did. Attendees were herded out of the theater slowly to walk back across the yellow carpet ("Governor! Could you sign my other forehead?") and head to the pavilion area set up in front of the actual Alamo Tourist Attraction.

Four tents. San Antonio's best and brightest turned out to remember the Alamo. Asleep at the Wheel played for hours as clumps gathered around Thornton (who, with his entourage and date, quickly found his way over to the VIPs-only tent) and Patric, who was about 28 hours away from being arrested in Austin for public intoxication.

My fiancée, who was starstruck in a way that made me jealous in a wholly unenjoyable way, got her picture taken with both Patric and Wilson. The former was happy to have the photo over and done with. The latter was eager, friendly and, as my fiancée said later, very attractive with his "Golden Boy" tan. We told him about the reporter who looked an awful lot like him who was going around telling people he was Patrick Wilson and posing for photos with gullible guests.

Party extras in period costumes stood outside the Alamo and tour guides inside gave visitors a look back at Texas history. A flaming "Alamo" sign greeted partygoers at the entrance and a fireworks display completely obscured by surrounding trees underwhelmed guests.

About an hour later, road crews rolled up yellow carpet and began taking down barricades as San Antonio natives waited for the party to die down and to catch one last photo of a passing Quaid or Thornton.

For one night, San Antonio was Los Angeles, with all its attendant glitz, glamour and excess.

Stars and paparazzi are great, but I think I'll always remember the quail.

-- back to top

04/06/04, 1:22 p.m.

From: Joe Gross e-mail me

All that jazz

I've been listening to an insane amount of jazz the past week. Sound on Sound Records, that new place over on North Loop, has taken a great deal of my money but in turn yielded up some monstrously great music from a handful of Marion Brown albums to a near complete set of Revolutionary Ensemble records and a bunch of Anthony Braxton albums, including his epic "The Montreux/Berlin Concerts."

It wasn't cheap, but none of these records were overpriced either. I cleaned up. Instant 1970s jazz collection. I proceeded to listen nonstop.

Did OK at the semiannual Austin Record Convention this past weekend as well.

I have a somewhat dysfunctional relationship with the convention. The emotional combinations I go through at such events are just breathtaking, and probably familiar to anyone who has ever collected anything: disgust, delight, despair (all the D's, really), mixed in with healthy hunks of self-loathing at why I'm wasting a perfectly nice day inside a convention center and the insouciant joy at finding an album I've been looking for. And then there's all that money I might accidentally spend.

In fact, my favorite thing about the record convention is the influx of Japanese tourists that show up for the weekend. Stopped by Waterloo Friday evening before the Air show and saw one of them loading up on stuffed armadillos. Perfect.

Anyway, art may be long — and that includes good music — but life is short, so I decided to limit myself to one half-hour there. I went at the very end of the day on Saturday, after the seriously crowded shopping was over. My plan: I would make the fastest trip I could through the aisles of records, CD and posters, and then go home.

So I'm looking through the jazz at one stand when I see it. Cecil Taylor's "Too Many Salty Swift and Not Goodbye" (heck of a title, that), a magnificent three-LP box I was looking at the last time. In fact, I think it was the same copy I was looking at last time.

I flipped it over.

Same price, just out of range.

I looked at my watch. Ten minutes left. I flipped open the box. It was a little beat up, but the records looked fine. And then, gold: Someone had written their name on the inside of the box.

I held up the box top and looked at the guy behind the table.

"You have this listed at X. Will you take ( 2/3 X) for it, what with the signature and all?"

He looked back at me, glanced at the clock on the wall. He looked bone-tired, like he had had a hard day of dealing with record collectors from many lands. Maybe someone had worked him over with a stuffed armadillo.

"Yeah, sure. It didn't sell last time."

I handed him my money, thanked him and headed straight for the door. It wasn't going to get any better than this.

-- back to top