Nerf Broadswords and Texas

About a mile or so from my house is a huge park where once a month a group of dweeby-twenty-somethings take a break from their jobs at The Comic Book Exchange to don medieval costumes and beat the shit out of each other with foam rubber weaponry. I’ve pulled into that parking lot on more than one occasion to watch as grown men and women in tights, tunics and chainmail attempt to cleave each other in twain with Nerf broadswords and claymores.

The eccentricity of this pastime is easy to see, but one thing that has always struck me about it is the price these people must have to pay in order to pursue Middle Earth reenactments as a hobby.

Forget the hours these men have spent convincing their mothers to sew royal crests onto their pajama tops. Forget the amount of time it takes to carve a realistic looking quarterstaff out of a push-broom handle. That’s nothing compared to the social repercussions of wearing a hooded cloak or joking with your best friends in Elvin while in public. You can bet your 20-sided dice that these were the kids that were stuffed in lockers and logged countless frequent flier miles on the wedgy nail.

And yet, they persevere. Month after month. Year after year. They light the fires of Gondor and gather at public parks around these United States to do battle. And, you know? You have to respect that.

It’s their gig. Understand it or not, somewhere along the way they made a choice. A choice between what might have been more socially expedient and what they really loved. Sure these guys might not have the normal trappings of the adult life (like a home address that is not the same as their parents), but they know their passion, have weighed the cost (one would hope) and live it out. And that’s cool.

Last week I was at South By Southwest (SXSW), Austin, Texas’ annual music festival. This is the biggest industry wide event in the world and every singer/songwriter, butt-rocker and industry type alive packed onto 6th street to sing their songs, swap business cards and be seen.

I’ve always disliked music festivals. They tended to be depressing reminders of just how hard the music business really is. The thousands of attendees were a physical representation of the odds against making it. They were a reminder that success was not a fore drawn conclusion, that pursuing your dreams of rock stardom didn’t make you special and that most people just don’t give a damn about your new record. Going to a music festival was like being on a high-wire and looking down.

But what always bothered me the most was the idea that these festivals were about discovering and breaking new acts. That you could be playing on some forgotten stage in a dark corner somewhere and Rick Ruben would pop out and hand you a million dollar record deal. That I quickly discovered was utter and complete nonsense.

SXSW is spring break for A&R guys, lawyers and music execs. It is an opportunity to flex expense accounts, see some buddies and cast the impression that you knew something about saving the music business from itself. I’ve been doing this for 13 years and I have never seen or even heard of a band that went to SXSW without some pre-existing mojo that came out with any real, new traction in their career. But last week in Austin I was giving a new perspective.

I was walking against the flow of people on 6th street at midnight and stopped dead in my tracks. I watched the throngs of white guys with dread locks, pink haired scrawnies in skinny jeans , heavy metal hair-farmers, and bed headed emo kids move past me. The scene reminded of the people dressed like pixies in the park back home.

Music was a hard life. It was a tough choice. It had consequences. People didn’t choose this path for the easy money. Most at SXSW didn’t have a huge record deal or a sugar daddy in the wings. They were songwriters and musicians that had jumped headlong into this career because they loved the music. The consequences were just the cost of doing business. SXSW, however, was one of the few opportunities these musicians had to come together with other people that shared a common experience.

It was a time to be with others that understood what driving across state to play for a disinterested crowd and a tip jar full of change felt like. It was a place to meet people that didn’t look at you like you had just peed on the carpet when you told them you slept in your car in between gigs. They new all about the emergency change bucket you’d cash in at Coinstar when the Ramen noodles were gone and money was tight. They knew about the hours of entering email addresses into a data base to keep fans current (the older ones remember sticking the stamps on the post cards). They knew about the shows where you played to a room packed to the walls and the ones where you just played to the walls. Most had or knew somebody that had sold a body fluid for extra money. They had weighed the cost and made their choices. SXSW was a place they didn’t have to apologize.

I don’t care what you do, everybody has their version of chainmail in the park. Yours might be cooler (God help you if it is not), but you still do it. It is easy (even when you are part of a specific culture) to snipe at people from the sidelines. Most people, however, don’t go into the music because it is a place they will find respect. They don’t do it because they make a ton of money. They don’t do it for the job security, 401k or great medical benefits. They do it because they love the music.

SXSW is a chance to remind ourselves that we aren’t crazy for picking this life…and if we are, at least we aren’t the only ones. It is a chance to rub shoulders with people that speak the same language. SXSW is our version of strapping on embroidered tights, raising a goblet of frothy ale and listening to the dulcet clash of steel blades engaged in the pitch of battle…at least until our mom’s come to pick us up.

(This blog also appears on www.briteentertainment.com. Be sure to check out Billy's new music on www.briterevolution.com)