It’s almost 8pm on Sunday night, 10 March. In about 12 hours I’ll be boarding an early flight to Texas for SXSW.
An annual music festival/industry event that pretty much takes over the entirety of Austin – and certainly all its bars, clubs and venues – it’ll be my fourth time going. And although I’ll be working out there, reviewing bands and doing the odd interview here or there, this year, my motivation is different.
Because, being the huge schmoozefest that it is, it means a whole bunch of my friends from the UK will be there. Don’t get me wrong, I hate schmoozefests with a terrible passion, but having moved across the Atlantic means that access to my friends back home has been drastically reduced. So this is a great excuse to watch a bunch of bands and have some (or perhaps a lot of) drinks with friends that I haven’t seen for far too long.
Trying to count them on my fingers now, there’s going to be at least 10 good friends that I used to hang out a lot with in London. So while we’ll all be working hard – honestly! – I’m really looking forward to the series of reunions that will mark the 6 day extravaganza. I’m already exhausted thinking about it. And then, after all that’s over, I fly back at 6am – 6AM! – the morning of my birthday. I think I get back about 1.30pm New York time, so will have time for a brief nap and convalescing period before heading into the city to celebrate with some more friends.
Okay, some of them going to SXSW will be there, because they’re heading back via a few days in New York, but my self-destructive self-indulgence is more the result of my inherent sentimentality – this is going to be the first time since leaving that I will be in the same place as a whole group of my friends at the same time, so I’m going to make the most of it.
Of course, there’s a whole host of bands to watch, too. My buddies Tall Ships are playing SXSW, and a couple of gigs in New York, too, so I can’t wait to see them in action again. But more than anyone, I’m really excited to see Charles Bradley. He’s a 64-year-old soul singer who I interviewed recently, who’s had the most extraordinary life – kidnapped from his grandmother’s house by his mother at seven years old and taken to New York, he ran away from home at 14 and spent a few years on the streets, sleeping on the subway, before avoiding the draft and heading to California.
He spent some 20 years there, then returned to New York, where he moved into the projects. After nearly dying in hospital because of a penicillin allergy, he was recovering at his mother’s house when his brother was shot dead. But now, he’s finally being noticed for the extraordinary talent he is. I can’t wait to see him, and his talent, in person.
Having spent six and a half years living in London, but dreaming of New York, Mischa Pearlman has finally made the jump across the Atlantic. Now, you can find him drifting between the venues and late night bars of Manhattan and Brooklyn and grinning manically while gazing at the skyline. He writes about music for various magazines and, just to complete the cliché, is writing a novel. Email him, if you like: [email protected]
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