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This was my first Music Awards.

Nearly three years in the city, and I've somehow managed to end up elsewhere on awards night, when the local luminaries roll out to collect their statues. The amateur optimist in me expected to show up and find Paul Wall lounging in the corner with six groupies, the Southern Backtones slamming six-ounce tequila shots and kicking out windows and everyone else crazy and wet like a romp of otters humping on a damp rock.

Lo and behold, everyone seemed to be minding their manners. I didn't even see anyone drinking heavily.

Although they took home the most statues at the 18th annual Houston Press Music Awards, announced Wednesday evening at Warehouse Live, the evening began somewhat ignominiously for the Dimes.

"Some guy hit me in the face when he was walking out," said guitarist Carlos Sanchez, visibly bleeding from a cut on his eyebrow as the Stratford High quartet accepted its award for Best New Act. "He didn't even say sorry."

They came, they saw, they got a lot of votes. We’ve got the complete list of winners after the jump, but here’s a hint: You don’t have to say no to drugs to be local musician of the year.

We counted the votes, ignoring the hanging chads and rolling our eyes at the wacky write-ins, and yes, yes, y’all, we have some winners. Almost 40 of them, actually.

Check back here at 10 p.m. tonight for the complete list of the winners and drop by tomorrow morning for in-depth, hung-over coverage of the awards ceremony. – Keith Plocek

Here’s what the Houston Press Music Awards must look like to downtown’s club owners and merchants: The most dreaded of plagues, a horde of drunk, smelly, and sweaty musicians and their fans heeding the call of beer and loud amplification. Let’s not kid ourselves; this really isn’t about who is going to win best Skiffle Band! Fuck that! It’s just an excuse for a party. You come out, you support your friends, listen to great music, drink like a horse and pay for it the next day with a raging hangover at your 9-to-5. In fact, recovering from the HPMA showcase has become an annual ritual for most of us. This year I’m opting to nurse my hangover with a Miller and Popul Vuh. (You handle it your way and I’ll handle it mine.)

While you were at home watching Hannah Montana in your air-conditioned comfort, we were busy getting our stink on in downtown’s steambath. One rule of thumb for this event is that the sooner you get over the fact that you would eventually be sweaty and stinky the better off you’d be.

Well, I have to say my first-ever Music Award Showcase was a good one, especially watching the youngsters on the Press street team - who deserve big ups for their media blitz on local musicians' behalf - grind on each other at the late-night DJ showcase, while a few staffers and I discussed who was a bigger Cure fan. (I'm old. Shoot me.) Relive even more memories with this slideshow from Press shutterbugs Dana Donovan and Mark C. Austin. -- Chris Gray

And the award for “Most Awesome Show Lasting Five Minutes” goes to Insect Warfare at Slainte. Not only did the set last five minutes, it featured noise-maven Austin from Concrete Violin. Glorious sounds of robots dying and various guttural sounds concluded with yours truly briefly thrown to the floor, as the sound guy shut down the show. Something about amp circuits being overloaded, and the monster Chthulu being summoned on Main Street. In a word: Bitchin’!

"I Don't Get Around Much Anymore." The Ellington tune is bouncing around my head as I take the train downtown (the A-Train?) for the 2007 Houston Press Music Awards Showcase. I just can't stay out ‘til two and work the next day like I used to. I was pretty sure this would never happen to me. Ya live, ya learn.

So, the Press showcase is like the Cliff Notes for a year of going out for me. I got off the train about 4:20 and headed to Grasshopper to start off with the Poor Dumb Bastards. I've seen 'em before but they're a great way to start anything. Grasshopper's stage was above the crowd and it looked sort of like an apartment balcony. The PDBs were powering through one of their hits like the well oiled machine they are when singer Byron Dean grabbed his crotch right above me. I immediately flashed back to the ‘80s in San Marcos, when I saw a man known to me only as "the Mule" pulled out his scrotum and swung it around like a mace from a very similar balcony. They say the best music sends you back. True dat, but I wasn't ready to go there, so I headed over to Live to catch a song by Allen Oldies and pick up my companions for the rest of my journey.