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It’s probably safe to say that nobody’s South By Southwest experience this year was as comprehensive as that of Paul Ford, an editor at Harper’s and a blogger at the Themorningnews.org.

And here’s the thing – Ford never left New York City. Instead, he downloaded the SXSW 2008 Torrent File, which included single mp3s from 763 of the bands that went to Austin. (Just under half the total acts that appeared there.) And then he listened to every single one of them and wrote a six-word review of and assigned a rating to each one.

Here are a few Houston examples:

The JonBenet’s “Black Lion”: “One admires such remarkably vigorous stupidity.” (Two stars.)

Fatal Flying Guilloteens “Reveal the Rats”: “Should people from Houston sound British?” (One star.)

Chingo Bling’s “Do It”: “Chingo’s shit here is utterly ridiculous.” (Four stars.)

My mind boggled at this towering achievement, as did many others. I had to talk to this guy. – John Nova Lomax

Houstoned Rocks: So your piece is the talk of my little [rock critic] world.

Paul Ford: (Laughs) I, uh, you know, I guess that’s good.

HR: So you didn’t even go to South By?

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As everybody knows, South By Southwest has gotten huge. Overwhelmingly so, if you let it. Every hour, from about noon to two a.m., across a swath of Austin from Cicon in the East Side barrio through downtown and then way down South Congress, there are probably several hundred bands playing. It’s all too easy to get lost in the shuffle, to spend more time walking to and from shows and waiting in lines to actually have an amazing music experience.

I know, because it’s happened to me in the past. Not this year. Monotonix took care of that.

Monotonix is an Israeli trio, purveyors of balls-to-the-wall blues-derived MC-5 / Stooges punk-metal, tinged by occasional hints of Zeppelin. And yes, there are lots of band that fit that general description. But exactly none of them can bring it live the way Monotonix does.

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As I set out Saturday night for the last of this year’s SXSW, little was set in stone. My assigned bands were at venues unlikely to be merciful to rock journo trash with only a wristband adorning his arm. Meaning that this night would be one of grazing the land, seeing what sustenance the wild and wooly capital city had to offer.

I declared to no one in particular that I would see as many bands as I could, in the least amount of time. Some shows would garner full stays, some would only warrant maybe one beer. The sighting of the Talking Heads’ Jerry Harrison in my hotel’s Starbucks gave me hope.

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If I could only make it through the night in one piece, they swore they’d give me my papers and finally ship me home. So after refueling at an East Austin Mexican spot and something we’ll only refer to as the Taco Incident of 2008, I jumped into the back of a truck with only my trusty pen, paper and ear plugs. They were taking me back to the front line and I thought to myself, just one more night of this and I can go back home and see my girl.

The truck came to a screeching halt just west of I-35 and the driver yelled, “Koshkin! This is you!” So I attempted to jump out the back but before I could get one foot over the side, the truck started rolling. The driver hit the brakes and yelled at me to get out again, and this time I made it. Damn editors, I mumbled to myself as the truck sped away.

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Entering The Habana Annex on 6th, I could have as well been traveling back to a cruise ship in the 70s thanks to White Shoes and The Couples Company. Clad in matching attire, the Indonesian outfit looked like it stepped straight out of a scene from The Love Boat and the music followed suit. White Shoes’ blend of retro pop and jazz makes for one of coolest takes on lounge since Esquivel.

The tunes are as polished as the band members’ style and it’s not surprising, seeing as the sextet (who were only five strong last night because of work visa woes – damn you, government!) met and formed at an Indonesian art school. A majority of the audience couldn’t sing along (the band sings in its native tongue), but lucky for us you don’t need to know the words to dance along.

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So my dad hooked up with his network of old hippie buddies, and Armadillo World Headquarters poster artist Jim Franklin turned him on to this place called The Enchanted Forest. Dad went over there on Wednesday night and was thunderstruck by it. So much so that he difficulty explaining what is was. "It's five acres of folk art...flames are everywhere, people sleeping in tents, everybody smoking pot. You have to bring your own beer."

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The American Poster Institute's Flatstock show sets up shop at the Austin Convention Center each year during South by Southwest. Photographer Mark C. Austin went shopping, and came back with this slideshow, just for you.

Forgive me, but I'm currently mentally and physically unable to write anything longer than a photo caption. So today I headed south of the river to a couple of parties far from the SXSW madding crowd...

Welcome to South Austin, y'all.

Your entertainment for this afternoon. And entertaining it was.

Austin's Secret Weapons, fronted by party organizer Ashleigh Daniel, rip the best song ever about front-yard commerce, "Yard Sale."

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I've seen so many conversion vans driving around Austin this week, I'm starting to wonder if there's a child molester convention going on. Things are getting pretty hectic around here and it's seriously starting to take its toll on me and everyone else. Maybe it's the fact that I've not used a fork since Tuesday. There just has not been enough time for anyone to eat a decent meal; pizza by the slice is the official food of SXSW and I'd swear this week is sponsored by taco stands.

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Mojitos are proof that God loves the hungover and the weary.

She was totally not into me taking her picture. Especially after like the sixteenth one. I feel I may have been crossing a line.

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"He's stick a dynamite in her booty ho. I think he's a pedophile, he probably pees on her, too."

"Whoa, the smell is intoxicating."

"That's a stance that may get more kids on Barack's side."

"You almost poked him right in the eye."

"We are so broken up right now."

-- BK, KP and DR

Last night at Fado's Patio, I caught Louisville's Black Diamond Heavies. Saying "caught" sounds like I sat at an intimate show and quietly took notes. This wasn't one of the shows. This was a trip into the heart of the Dirty South. And not the South of the medicated syrup and extremely ostentatious jewelry variety. This was one of burned out cars driven by burned men, fueled by the treachery of sordid women.

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Recorded live at the Village Voice Media Party at Zona Rosa, this clip offers an exclusive chance to hear new material from the band.

No, but with everyone bird dogging celebs, these three dudes were turning mad heads. Granted, the Will Ferrel guy was playing it to the max.

Is it Sunday yet? My lungs are killing me, my feet are simply not speaking to me and if I never have to deal with wireless Internet again it’ll be too soon. You guessed it, I’m ready to go home. Frankly, this all-everything-all-the-time mentality that serves as SXSW’s power plant is for the birds. I don’t know how (or why) people on the other two coasts do it, but to paraphrase John Denver – too bad he’s not still around to launch a big SXSW “comeback” a la Darryl Hall – thank God I’m a Gulf Coast boy.

Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying myself. It’s a beautiful day, and as soon as I file this I’m going to a party where a bunch of old friends are playing. That’s been the nicest part of this whole thing, catching up with old friends (there’s never really enough time for that) and making new ones, particularly a handful of my fellow Village Voice Media music eds. Speaking of catching up, since my listening habits lately have been dominated by Tom Petty, the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Wilco and other bands people playing SXSW wish they were, I figured I’d spend Friday getting up to speed on some more recent musical developments.

Carbon/Silicon: SXSW has a weird karma to it. Thursday night I spent half an hour in line hoping to get into former Clash co-frontman Mick Jones’ new band Carbon/Silicon’s showcase and moved all of about five feet. (Who books a punk-rock legend into a storefront Sixth St. bar? Guess.) Turns out I probably made the right decision when I said “fuck this” and walked on down the street, but this is still the closest I’ve ever come to seeing the Clash live, or ever will. C/S played a brief afternoon set tinged with country and pub-rock at the Free Yr Radio parking lot, and the effect was the Clash without the fangs. (R.I.P. Joe Strummer; we miss you.) Still, Jones’ first post-Clash band Big Audio Dynamite is one of the most underrated groups of the ‘80s.

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