I'm going to be honest. Going into Texas all I could think of was gun totin' rednecks, steak, patriotism and bigotry. Years of immersion in stereotype riddled media had left me entirely prepared for the worst. As it was, Kip and Otto must have felt this to be the case even more-so, pushing, when we were in Las Vegas, to go north through Colorado than south through Texas en route to New Orleans.
I was unswerving, however, in my desire to go to Austin. I had no particularly good reason for this aside from the good word of B-rad and Cheesedick, but for me this was enough. Given then that I can be rather stubborn, to Austin it was, my faith in my advisors desperate for vindication.
Vindication, o what vindication would soon be had.
To begin, we arrived at 10:30 on a Saturday night and managed to make our way into downtown and 6th street by just after 11. Kings Cross traffic met Newtown sensibilities here as people awash in tattoos, ironic hats and beards traversed all directions. With a range of smoke filled bars, live music in almost every venue, the odd club and pedi-cabs to carry you home, it was an all-in hipster experience. Most pleasingly, however, was that unlike the pretense of Australia's hipster capital, Melbourne, Austin was far more laid back and far less ostentatious. Finally, high quality street dogs and pizza made the 2am Texan curfew much more palatable.
Given that Austin is known for its live music, Sunday saw us scanning The Chronicle, the gig guide to the city. As it was Easter it was a little bit quiet, but after cross-referencing ipods we found some high quality desert style stoner metal in Karma to Burn playing at Emo's that night. In what seemed to be a fairly prototypical Austin music show, the crowd was eclectic and eccentric. The first opener, Fur King (say it out loud) had to repeatedly stop to re-tune their instruments and fix their ancient amp, filling these transitional periods by bantering with the audience with such gems as, "I love boobies. Who doesn't love boobies?"
Honky, the second act, impressed me so much that I sit here writing wearing their band tee. Two guys in cowboy hats and big grey beards and a bear of a man behind the drums, the three piece appeared to be somewhat of a cult favourite and old as the scene itself. Suffice to say that they alone were well worth the price of admission, with the singer dedicating one song to himself and his two favourite things, "fishing and pussy".
For their last song people were jumping on stage to sing lines and they handed their instruments over to the Karma to Burn band members for passages. It was hypnotic. Karma to Burn, meanwhile, while commanding the headline position and a better sound, didn't seem to have quite the same charisma, despite an eccentric homeless looking drummer. Nonetheless, top stuff.
Earlier that day, meanwhile, while asking the hostel staff for vegetarian tips to better feed Otto, it was let slip that there existed a new and very popular barbecue joint in Austin. Hearing this all thoughts of considerate meat consumption were hurled aside in favor of pending plans for hedonistic gorging on animal flesh as Kip and I developed a slightly feverish look of carnivorous anticipation.
Making our first pilgrimage to the hallowed grounds of Franklin's Barbecue on the Monday only to discover it was closed, we unknowingly met the owner who told us to come back the next day before 10. Breakfast barbecue? Why, yes. This, however, is not the barbecue of Australia - that is just grilling here. American barbecue is an art form of smoke, slow cooking, rubs and marinades, and Franklin's Barbecue did it well enough to have a queue form outside an hour before it opened at 11am. At the front of this queue? Kip and Ryan.
As our fellow barbecue enthusiasts lined up behind us, we were introduced to Charles J. Lohrmann, editor of Texas Highways and Wyatt McSpadden, author of Texas BBQ. With one clad all in denim and the other describing his last visit to Franklin's for his book, it seemed we'd found some true Texans.
It was here we learnt the subtleties of Texan barbecue, specializing in beef and not sullied by additional saucing, although Franklin's was open minded regarding this. According to Charles, the brisket we were about to sample had been reviewed as "moist enough to bathe in", and with the promise of meltingly tender ribs and dense, beef-heart filled sausage links, drowning in drool we were finally allowed in to worship this church of beef. An hour later, a bloated, sweating, farting, gasping wreck of a man could be seen on a hostel couch. Meat sweats and shame, however, could not temper the deliciousness of that which I'd experienced.
Charles and Wyatt also informed us of some quality barbecue 30 miles south of Austin, so on the way to Lake Charles and having deceived Otto with the promise of civil war history, we went to Kreuz's barbecue in Lockhart in pursuit of the much vaunted and highly recommended pork chop. Suffice to say, the meat sweats appeared again, but I have no regrets. I did, however, make a point to embark upon a fibre dense diet for the foreseeable future.
While in Austin we also met up with one of Sleepmakeswaves' fan boys. Fan man might be a more appropriate term, however, given that Tom was a 48 year old soon-to-be radio DJ specialising in post-rock and IDM after growing tired of prog rock. After a fine Tex-mex dinner we caught the playoffs over fancy beers at a brew house (there's hope for American beer after all) as music was discussed ad nauseam.
All in all, Austin was not at all what I expect of Texas and every bit as good as I'd hoped. On to Louisiana for crawfish and gumbo, I say.
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