Stolen from Rocks Off. So awesome. Someone help me out here: I was at a show in the last few months with a similarly awesome ASL interpreter. Was it Lollapalooza, or something at Scottrade?
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(RFT freelancer Roy Kasten is attending the Austin City Limits Festival in Texas this weekend, and kindly offered to blog about it for us. Here's his first dispatch; all photos by Dana Plonka.)
At past ACLs, I’ve had some of the finest musical moments early on in the day, before the waves of humanity and crushing sun. On Saturday I played it safe, and bet on Jesus. The gospel tent featured Shields of Faith, an established touring band from San Antonio, Texas, who testified like there really were a few sinners needing saving, instead of a small group checking over their schedules. I loved the Shields, easily the best singing of the day, at least until Robert Plant and Alison Krauss at the end of the night.
(Alison Krauss)
(RFT freelancer Roy Kasten is attending the Austin City Limits Festival in Texas this weekend, and kindly offered to blog about it for us. Here's his first dispatch; all photos by Dana Plonka.)
My fourth year at the Austin City Limits Festival started out inauspiciously, nearly depressingly. I couldn’t blame the weather. Now in its seventh year, the three days of bands, beer and blazing sun began a week later than usual, a move the wisdom of which is written in the predicted temperatures: Highs of 92 and lows in the 60s. What the hell? I never thought I’d worry about which sweater to jam in my backpack.
No, I was in a funk because of Dan Dyer. Under blue skies and on the dewy grass of Zilker Park, I sat with my Flipnotics coffee and cigarettes giving Dyer a chance with his early slot, but he just pissed me off. He has a voice, but word to his publicists and the MSM: He’s not a blue-eyed soul singer, mostly because he doesn’t sing soul, which is more demanding than the semi-groove, semi-jam, semi-reggae, semi-self-important brother-keeperisms he lays down. A few turns on the electric piano nearly made me believe he aspired to more than the artistic heights of Donavan Frankenreiter, but if you can’t even get the hippie kids to dance, a dozen fretless bass riffs later, it’s time for a career makeover.
(Dan Dyer)
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