“You may all go to hell,
And I will go to Texas.”
-Davy Crockett

By all geographical accounts, the Austin city limits lie just over 500 miles from those of New Orleans. Tonight it feels much farther.

We’ve been driving for what seems like forever, pulling out of the Big Easy at 2:00 PM on Tuesday, September 14th, after accepting a friend’s offer of refuge from Hurricane Ivan, the Great White squall slowly stalking our unsuspecting Gulf Coast. But nearly nine hours in, we’re not yet to Lafayette – the western Louisiana town that is, under normal circumstances, a scant two-hour scamper up I-10.

These circumstances, we soon realized, staring out at a river of red taillights from the 45,000 or so cars directly ahead of us, were anything but normal: Over 1.2 million people evacuated the metro New Orleans area in flight from the Category 4 killer, the majority leaving sometime between 12:00 and 4:00 Tuesday afternoon and heading in the general direction of Houston. Somewhere outside of Houma, LA – mile 44, hour 4 – we stopped moving for a solid 45 minutes, and an ATV carrying three ne’er-do-well youths strafed alongside our row of cars on the neutral ground, one rider whistling Dixie on a recorder, the other having a good laugh at our expense. The sun, thus far a bright, burning compass high in the sky, was slowly beginning to dip below the horizon. This was going to be a long trip.

Britt Daniel, you say? Playing opposite the Drive-By Truckers on the final day of this year’s bloated schedule, sandwiched between Calexico, Ben Kweller, Wilco and some dude named Elvis Costello? Our decision, like Dubya at a MENSA convention, proved to be simple.

“And if the Devil is six, then God is seven.
This monkey’s gone to heaven.”
-The Pixies

The expression “Texas-sized” has come to describe many things, some fitting and some faking its clichéd, colloquial application. Calling the 44oz iced tea from Pok-E-Jo’s Barbecue “Texas-sized” is, despite our host John’s valiant objections to the contrary, merely a metaphor for marketing. Speak this of the Austin City Limits Music Festival however – a beastly endeavor featuring 130 acts jam-packed into 72 CST hours on 8 high-tech stages, each replete with its own fancy lighting and stellar sound – and you’re being downright pragmatic.

Austin City Limits was conceived in 2002 as a fan-centric answer to South by Southwest, the biz-driven spring event scattered across the city’s plentiful Red River and Sixth Street music venues. Two years later, ACL is threatening Tennessee’s Bonnaroo, California’s Coachella and New Orleans’ own Jazz and Heritage Festival for the title of nation’s best. Located in hilly Zilker Park, at the heart of a gorgeous city on the verdant waters of the Colorado River, the Fest has just about everything going for it – strong local support, growing national buzz, a dedicated staff, wealthy sponsors and, in case we forgot what this was all about, the best damn lineup $80 can buy.

Not content with just a headliner for every taste, ACL offers entire daily tracks for your musical fancies, whatever they may be. Jam-band loonies can look forward to Particle, G. Love and Special Sauce, The North Mississippi All Stars, Medeski, Martin & Wood and a double-set, Saturday night closeout from lead Phish farmer Trey Anastasio. (John’s quip: “What, only three songs?”) TRL junkies and college chart-watchers get Los Lonely Boys, Howie Day, Big Head Todd & the Monsters, Cake, Dashboard Confessional and Jack Johnson, plus a 90-minute Sunday sendoff from Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals. And jazz and blues lovers will flip for Henry Butler, Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown, the Legendary Soul Stirrers and the Dirty Dozen and Rebirth Brass Bands.

Indie rockers? Face east and kneel. Roll call (chronological, y’know, for kicks): Louque, The Killers, Neko Case, Broken Social Scene, Ryan Adams, Franz Ferdinand, Gomez, Mason Jennings, Cat Power, Modest Mouse, My Morning Jacket, The Pixies, American Analog Set, Calexico, Ben Kweller, Spoon and – fresh off the pressing of the year’s most anticipated album – a little band called Wilco.

And that’s not including the headliners. Have we mentioned Sheryl Crow? (There’s a reason.) The Neville Brothers or The Wailers? They do battle at 8:00 on Saturday night. Ubiquitous Philly hip-hop collective The Roots provide a paradoxical lead-in to the Festival’s coup-de-grace move, the booking of Elvis Costello for a Sunday afternoon performance, while the Drive-By Truckers will empty many a can of Lone Star that same evening. Finally, perhaps the greatest soul singer of all time (all apologies Sam, Ray and Otis), the inimitable Solomon Burke, anchors down the luscious opening-day lineup.

We arrive at John’s crowded house midday Wednesday. No depression, indeed.

“Park that car, drop that phone,
Sleep on the floor, dream about me.”
-Broken Social Scene

After two days of absorbing Austin and its sideshow of myriad night shows – highlighted by Festival non-roster invitee The Futureheads at Stubbs – we were ready to begin. We bailed on AM openers The Killers (it’s okay, somebody told me they’re overrated), opting for the Love Migas breakfast at Magnolia Café instead, but arrived just in time for Neko Case to provide us with a perfect slide-guitar welcome-to-Texas, her short set bolstered by a brassy swing through the best moments of her brilliant album Blacklisted.

If you haven’t already heard, Case’s throat houses some of the most otherworldly vocal chords ever bestowed upon man; think Etta James’s range bred into Patsy Cline’s torch-bearing style. When she effortlessly spans three octaves in two measures on her mesmerizing second number, “Deep Red Bells,” everyone in the audience – a smallish gathering considering her 1:00 schedule slot – goes completely silent. My crew, most of whom had never heard her before, looked at me in disbelief. Eyebrows high and hair on end, I could only nod.

A short discussion later on where Case ranks among the current crop of female vocalists – to summarize, at the top – we were off to catch Solomon Burke do his thing on the SBC Stage at the other end of the park. This would become a common theme for the rest of the Festival: Since no travel time is allotted between scheduled performances, we literally had to run the length of Zilker Park every time an hour set ended to catch the next act, often a quarter-mile sprint away. This wouldn’t be as much of a problem if we weren’t in Texas, it wasn’t 96 degrees, and there wasn’t something to see every hour of the day.

Arriving panting and drenched in sweat, we found the legend already sitting center stage in a king’s throne, flanked by an impressive entourage and cloaked in a regal, fur-lined robe. Ditching his cover to reveal a purple-sequined three-piece suit – something only he (and maybe Prince) could get away with – Burke gave a shout out to the Soul Clan, playing tributes to Percy Sledge and Otis Redding before belting through a familiar medley of his own classics, from “Cry to Me” to “Goodbye Baby (Baby Goodbye).”

“I wish you could open up these gates and let all the beautiful ladies in,” pleaded Burke at one point to his security guards, clutching several dozen long-stemmed roses at his ready. In an unrelated story, we find out that Solomon Burke has 21 children – 7 sons, 14 daughters – as well as 71(!) grandchildren and 13 great-grandchildren. As we discussed how a 70-year-old great-grandfather could perform that intensely in that heat with that much clothing on, someone from his posse stepped forward with a towel and blotted Burke’s big, beautiful bald head. This would continue every few minutes for the rest of set, a different member taking their turn with the towel each time. By the big finish, the guards had heeded his call; a hundred nubile females surrounded Burke’s throne for his showstopper, shakin’ it to the sounds of “Got to Get You Off My Mind.” It’s good to be king, we all agreed.

Alive with the good vibes from Burke’s babymakin’ music, we trekked back across the park to hear Broken Social Scene play the Bank of America Stage. A loose collective of Toronto musicians, Broken Social Scene is a sort of indie super-group comprised of members of the bands Do Make Say Think, Stars and Metric, and they fully live up to their pedigree live: No less than seven guitars are being played at the same time during this set, along with two primary vocalists and a ridiculously talented percussionist. These primaries are supported by a five-piece horn section – two trombones and three trumpets providing a sweet brass backing to the spacious orchestral rock of the band’s 2003 tour-de-force, You Forgot It In People.

We arrived five minutes late, missing in the meantime my favorite cut from that album, the bass-driven hand-clap extravaganza “Stars and Sons” that is the band’s show-starter of choice. But the band put on a generous set; lead Kevin Drew bounded around the stage, interacting with his many players while providing a center of gravity to the mass of musicians constantly threatening to spin out of control. The crowd responded the greatest when Emily Haines joined Drew for their many harmonic numbers, from “Looks Just Like the Sun” to “Almost Crimes.” When Haines broke out solo on the slow-building stunner “Anthems For A Seventeen Year-Old Girl,” singing alone center stage while the rest of the band just stood silently waiting, the swaying audience was eating from her hand, transfixed by the song’s simple repetitious beauty. It was an awesome thing to witness.

Now, we had planned to head back to the SBC Stage for Ryan Adams – and, to their credit, a couple from our group actually went – but the consensus was that we’d rather wait in line to get ourselves drunk than walk the half-mile round trip across Zilker to watch Ryan Adams get himself drunk. (As it turns out, we chose wisely; Adams stumbled through his entire set, telling bad jokes and asking the crowd repeatedly if they were as high as he was. Good times.) Plus, the sun was setting, shading the sky in brilliant watercolor hues of orange and red, and Franz Ferdinand would be storming the Bank of America Stage in just under 50 minutes. We wanted to get nice and close. It was a good plan. How naïve we turned out to be.

Heads – all we can see, in every direction out to the dark horizons on all sides, are heads. Each show until now, from soul icon to hot buzz band, has been comfortably attended. Not this one. Apparently, thousands of people shelled out the $40 per diem just to see these four Scottish lads in their dapper ‘dos and soigné suits shake, rattle, roll, and make coy eyes at us and at each other. I can’t blame them. Franz Ferdinand blew every other weekend act completely out of the water.

“And that dirty boy in the back on the drums is PAUL THOMMMPSON!” yelled suave lead Alex Kapranos, calling out each of his mates lovingly in a flirting introduction (“…and this devilishly handsome chap on my left…”). Really, how can you not love this band? They started with “Cheating on You,” a rollicking number from their eponymous smash debut that sounds like early John Lennon exhumed and remixed for the Glasgow club crowd, and finished with a second encore, “This Fire,” which shook the crowd to its unbelievably cramped foundations. In between, they played every three-minute thrashing from their fantastic first record, leaping from their equipment, splashing in a bath of red and blue light, and generally leaving everyone wowed, breathless and exhilarated. The feeling among our crew was that it was worth the $80 admission alone.

Walking on air and nearly festivaled out, we found the perfect spot in the middle of the park to cancel out the competing acoustics of Friday’s populist headliners, Los Lonely Boys and Sheryl Crow. The open-air dynamics of Zilker’s narrow layout had made for some very interesting sound clashes throughout the day: Neko Case’s golden pipes paired with the haunting harmonics of the Blind Boys of Alabama; Alex Kapranos crooning over the jah-mon reggae beats of Toots and the Maytals. But nothing beat the supreme mash-up we got to hear, laying on our backs in the grass, at the end of Day 1: Lance Armstrong’s lady-friend cooing about having some fun and soaking up the sun while her bilingual, preternaturally forlorn backing band churned out cheesy lyrics and recycled Santana-spun guitar riffs nearly 400 yards away.

Danger Mouse and Beatallica, make room for the year’s newest cut-up craze: Los Lonely Crows.

“Good news for people who love bad news,
We’ve lost the plot, and we just can’t choose.”
-Modest Mouse

With Saturday came word that Hurricane Ivan, impetuous meteorological antagonist and the impetus for our trip, had overnight taken the eastward turn expected of it days earlier – our altitude-challenged homeland had been spared. Unfortunately, it also meant we would be heading back Sunday morning, our excuse for skipping out on work and school heading northward with the storm. Saturday would be our final day in Austin.

We got to the park as the Old 97’s were finishing their Cingular Stage set, the already thick crowd giving the appearance of a Fest-wide Franz Ferdinand encore performance. For the first time in ACL history, “sold out” signs prefaced the 75,000-strong sea of people awaiting us at the entrance gates. Following the Old 97’s was a date with Modest Mouse, who’d had as good a year as anyone booked for the weekend: Sunny crossover smash Good News For People Who Love Bad News proffered the band its first ever commercial success, despite lackluster press from indie critics who had lapped up every disaffected word out of Isaac Brock’s mouth over the last ten years.

We all love Modest Mouse, but the set they turned in qualified as the most anticlimactic we witnessed: Brock lisped lackadaisically through a mostly current set of songs, thrilling the throng mouthing every other word to “Float On” but disappointing the hardcore fans hoping for a nostalgic trip down Interstate 8. Compared with the raw energy of their albums, the band’s live gigs have always seemed a bit flat, but at this show it was clear the boys had yet to warm up to the arena circuit summoned by their Top 40 presence; their ensuing hit “Ocean Breathes Salty” came across as tinny and disorganized, its falsetto vocal breaks totally lost in the growing din of the crowd. By the time Brock finally Did The Cockroach – eliciting his second largest cheer of the day – it was too little, too late; they didn’t say a word between songs and finished up fifteen minutes early, ignoring the crowd calling for an encore. Bummer.

Looking for a remedy, a friend and I ventured next door to the Bank of America Stage to catch My Morning Jacket, who had drawn raves for their live shows. No false advertising: The boys from Louisville look something like the Allman Brothers, sound almost like them, and rocked exactly like Gregg and Duane would have circa 1972. While Modest Mouse played like they were back in Calvin Johnson’s shed, My Morning Jacket made like it was Woodstock: Fists flew through the air throughout the harder-than-expected set, the band’s energy evident from the opening rabid guitar stomp of “One Big Holiday” and on to the double encore that threatened to delay the Neville Brothers’ set-up.

It Still Moves is a pleasant album – all soft, somewhat spooky country-tinged rock – but its music takes on an entirely different dimension when played at maximum volume in front of thousands of screaming fans. Frontman Jim James led his boys through much of the 2003 record, hair flinging this way and that as he injected life into slower tunes like “Master Plan” and got everyone jumping with the anthem “Dancefloors.” (On a side note, MMJ is the hairiest band in rock since Axl Rose started work on Chinese Democracy; we soaked up every note of this show less than thirty feet from the stage and still have no idea what any of these guys look like.) After the rejuvenating finale, we were more appreciative of this set than any other we saw – My Morning Jacket’s live brand of melodic hard-rock driven slowly down a bluegrass back-road proved just the medicine for our Brock-brought blues. I guess some bands just dig the spotlight more than others.

We roamed back to the Cingular Stage where we found our friends, dutifully sitting through Dashboard Confessional to maintain our frontline position for the Pixies, starting directly after. Thousands of preteen girls swooned in unison to Chris Carrabba’s monochrome tome, succumbing to his squeamish emo while screams of “It’s my song!” rained out over tatted Matchbox Twenty ballads. Young couples in love shamelessly made out in the crowd, paused to whisper lyrics to each other, then locked lips again. We couldn’t help but smile.

Finally it was Frank Black’s time. What can you say about the Pixies? They were neither effusive nor particularly energetic, but they didn’t have to be, not with their catalog to cull from. One familiar favorite bled right into the next: Kim Deal chain-smoked as she laid down throbbing bass lines for Black’s hoots and hollers on “Crackity Jones,” while “Hey” drew a sing-along so loud that Black’s voice was relegated to background duty. The diehard crowd gave the band their loudest ovation (and backing chorus) for “Where Is My Mind,” “Debaser” and “Gigantic.” Close your eyes and Kurt Cobain was still alive, squealing about the smell of our teen spirit; Michael Stipe still had his religion, and Bill Clinton was sporting a saxophone, ready to triumphantly take back the White House. 1992 never seemed so near and, at the same time, so far away.

As the once-fragmented gang finished their final song of the night, they all walked to the front of the stage and actually applauded us, marveling for several long moments at the supreme reception they were receiving, surely one duplicated at every large venue during this most special of reunion tours. The huge TV screen hanging to the side then flashed for us a view of what they were seeing: Thousands upon thousands of adoring fans showing their loud appreciation for one of our era’s greatest and most influential outfits, many for the last time. It was a fitting denouement for our fantastic weekend in Austin – lo-fi rock perfected in la-la land. We left as soon as possible so as not to spoil it.

“So come on home,
But don’t forget to leave.”
-Franz Ferdinand

Because of our good fortune with the weather, we lost out on an entire day of music driving back to New Orleans on Sunday.

On I-10, somewhere near Beaumont, TX, we pulled out that day’s schedule to look plaintively at what we were missing. We would not see Spoon, nor Calexico; not Ben Kweller, nor the Drive-By Truckers. Most regrettably, we would not be there to see Wilco support their new album A Ghost is Born later that evening; someone was clearly trying to break our hearts. And somebody please tell Elvis we had left the building. We would not be around to hear Costello give Alison the business.