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In the traditional attempt to find a new approach to reviewing sxsw, here’s an artist-by artist list of everyone we saw, in chronological order.

QUIET LIFE (Patagonia)

This was within 45 minutes of landing at Austin Bergstrom airport. Quiet Life, from Portland, Oregon, entertained a range of families in a clothes shop. Only in Austin …

SONS OF BILL (Red 7)

A typical Red River dive. Over the road, a huge queue was trying to get in to see local hero Gary Clark Jnr – and this was before the festival had even officially started.  SOB’s good songs were slightly blighted by a disinterested audience.

LAURA MARLING (Convention Center)

Major artists do little twenty minute shows for the media during the day in the plush Convention Center. It’s always hard to generate any atmosphere here but even taking that into account, this was a weak performance, characterised by mistakes and fluffs and a piss-poor band. What do people see in her?

AMERICAN AQUARIUM (Dogwood)

A slightly sub Springsteen performance by a hot new band from North Carolina. I spent most of the time trying to find some shade from the blazing sun.

FRANK TURNER (Cedar Street Courtyard)

I have a problem in that I am supposed to worship Frank Turner just like everyone else does. Of course I want to be proud that he allegedly comes from Winchester, but I just loathe his shouty-strummy style and I am ambivalent about his background, especially now I’ve read his autobiography. But in fairness, I thought I should give him another go. A mistake. One of the best venues in Austin, though.

MILKY CHANCE  (Cedar Door)

Not the sort of band I normally would go and see – German hip-hop. But they were great and we benefited from loads of promotional freebies – I walked away with eleven pairs of sunglasses.

THE CRIBS (Clive Bar)

This involved a long walk, but I had a hankering for some nice melodic post-Ash power pop. Why bands like The Cribs bother to come to events like this I’m not sure, but I’m glad they do.

THE LOST BROTHERS (Capital Cruises)

No sxsw would be complete without a river cruise, and this one featured this friendly Irish duo and also Will Sexton (brother of Charlie). Great way to spend breakfast.

SUZY BOGGUSS (Broken Spoke)

Would never miss the annual Twangfest, held in Austin’s most iconic venue. Straight country to two-step to.

AMY SPEACE (Broken Spoke)

She and her band had literally just arrived in Austin and were just getting going.

CHUCK PROPHET AND THE MISSION EXPRESS (Broken Spoke)

They just tore the place apart. This was the beginning of the slippery slope that led to us following Chuck around rather than actually reporting on other acts. They were so ridiculously good, it was impossible to resist.

JOSH SAVAGE (Driskill Hotel)

Now here’s a guy from Winchester I don’t mind bigging up. Young singer Josh acquitted himself admirably in the poshest of venues.

SKINNY LISTER (Lamberts)

I literally stuck a pin in the schedule and spotted a band name I recognised. Hugely impressed by their wildly uninhibited energy. And they’re British!

CHUCK PROPHET AND THE MISSION EXPRESS(Continental Club)

This was actually the least impressive Chuck show, because it was the official showcase and far too loud. However, the unexpected appearance of iconic rapper Bushwick Bill livened up proceedings.

BRONCHO (Hotel San José)

The heavy rain drove us to spend the whole afternoon here. It was a good decision. This was some New Orderish post-punk from Oklahoma.

HOUNDMOUTH (Hotel San José)

Had been hoping to see this stylish band and up they popped. They were on Letterman a week later.

THE ZOMBIES (Hotel San José)

Yes, you read that right. Sixties legends (especially in the States) sparked mass adulation in the drizzle. Who’d have thought that the best voice of sxsw 2015 would be Colin Blunstone? Totally fabulous singalong session.

SONS OF BILL (Lucky Lounge)

Thisis a super cool band but again, they suffered from a rowdy audience. One girl fell unconscious from her stool and crashed into me.

ANDREW COMBS (Lucky Lounge)

How sad that Ian McLagan wasn’t here to do his traditional Lucky Lounge shows. Andrew was fine but it’s a strangely laid-out venue and I was glad to see him properly the next day.

CHUCK PROPHET AND THEMISSION EXPRESS (Brooklyn Cantina)

Absolutely storming. Despite the cold and the rain and even a dud PA, they produced one of the most exciting shows I’ve ever seen. And you know, I’ve seen a lot.

DANIEL ROMANO (Brooklyn Cantina)

Laconic country stylings on the front porch of the same venue. They did cactus tacos and luscious beer there.

THE MASTERSONS (Brooklyn Cantina)

Officially the hardest-working duo of sxsw 2015, they are always cheerful and never flag.

DADDY LONGLEGS (Brooklyn Cantina)

If you have been missing the Legendary Shack*Shakers (I have), these are the guys for you.

ANDREW COMBS (Brooklyn Cantina)

This guy has a big future. I’m going to try and book him.

CHUCK PROPHET AND THEMISSION EXPRESS (Brooklyn Cantina)

I know it’s ridiculous, but we simply hailed an Uber cab and followed them!

ELLIOTT BROOD (Swan Dive)

Always lovely to met up with our friends from the great Canadian label Six Shooter. Although the Brood are strictly speaking now on another label, they were guesting here. Shall we say, a certain amount of alcohol was consumed.

WHITEHORSE (Swan Dive)

Finished this year’s sxsw with the ever-excellent Luke Doucet and Melissa McClelland in their new electronic format, which is deservedly making them stars.

Of course, we also saw probably twenty more bands whose names we didn’t catch (for example, several more on the boat trip). The next day was spent on a swing on someone’s front porch in the sunshine. And then I flew home. I always say it, but this REALLY was the best one ever – mainly thanks to Chuck.

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Ian McLagan

The tributes to Ian McLagan that are flooding into the press and the internet mainly take two forms. There are the factual obituaries that set out his musical achievements, the stars he worked with and the hits he played on. And there are the others, which try, in a personal way, to explain why he was so loved. If you’’ll forgive me, this one fits firmly into the second category.

My most memorable Mac moment took place in late 1967. Of all things, an attempt on the Guinness World see-sawing record was talking place at the University of East Anglia. As the world record was approached, the DJ put on a song I’’d never heard before, a new single from the Small Faces. Those opening Wurlitzer chords hit me so hard that I can remember every detail of the moment to this day. Mac’’s riff, then Steve Marriott’’s coruscating vocals, PP Arnold’’s soulful backing singing and finally, the striking afterthought of Kenney Jones’’ drum roll at the end, which emphasizes the attitude that, while the song may be a recording, this was a LIVE band. Whenever that old chestnut crops up and I’’m asked to name my favourite single, it is “Tin Soldier”. Always was, always will be. Ian Mclagan’’s playing on that record established him as an intuitive genius.

Apart from modelling my hairstyle on his (even today), my relationship with Mac merely took the form of loving his contributions to the Small Faces, the Faces and The Stones. The Hammond + Leslie swish, as exemplified by Jimmy Smith, is my favourite sound, so I enjoyed, in tandem with my admiration for Mac, a love for the sounds of Steve Winwood and the Spencer Davis Group. But that was a musical thing; they would never have the style of the Small Faces. When I saw Mac playing with the Stones, it never crossed my mind that I’’d ever have anything to do with him personally. He seemed, then, to be operating in a rarified rock stratosphere to which mere mortals could never be admitted. How wrong can you be?

It was at the Womad Festival in 1999 that Mac reappeared on my personal radar. As a gig promoter, you never rest, and on that particular occasion we had a show coming up with Robyn Hitchcock. Ticket weren’’t going too well, so we went to the festival especially to hand out flyers. I’’m embarrassed now, because most of them went straight on the floor, causing awful litter. But Billy Bragg and his new band The Blokes were also playing, and as I watched, I could hear an unexpected but unmistakeable sound: It was that Hammond/Leslie swell, and … surely that little white dot behind the dark brown cabinet couldn’’t be … … ? When Billy introduced the band and revealed that it was Ian McLagan, the drunk bloke next to me almost had a heart attack. “What? That’’s Ian McLagan? Ian Fucking McLagan? Oh my God?” He lost it so much that security had to ask him to calm down. Hardly any of the assembled world music fans were interested at all, but I was transfixed by the fact that this huge star was so comfortable to be just another member of someone’’s backing band, and was obviously having such fun doing it.

I’’d read in a biography of Keith Moon the story of how Mac had rescued Kim Moon from her husband’’s excesses by effectively doing a midnight flit with her and ending up in LA, but more than that I didn’’t know, so, if I’’d given it any thought, I’’d have assumed that Mac was living the Hollywood high life. But around this time, a mate of mine who ran a pub in Burton Bradstock, Dorset, told me that Mac was often to be found propping up his bar, sipping Guinness and nattering with the locals. The reason? Billy Bragg lived round the corner and Mac would often visit. It seemed highly unlikely but, confession time, I twice travelled to the Three Horseshoes in the specific hope that I would meet, or maybe just catch a glimpse of, the hero of my youth. It didn’’t happen, of course, but the locals all assured me that Adrian the landlord had been telling the truth.

Round about then, also, I started going to Austin, Texas on a regular basis. You can’’t help but make friends there, and all of them said the same. Mac and Kim had moved there and Mac had rapidly become a local mascot, unpretentiously playing all the local bars on a regular basis with his Bump Band. Nobody had a bad word to say about him. By now, I’’d started to put Americana shows on in Winchester and one of our earliest bands was The Resentments, featuring Austin guitarist “Scrappy” Jud Newcomb, who I knew was also in the Bump Band. Would it ever be possible to get them to play for us, I asked? Scrappy looked around the classic UK boozer he’’d just played in and replied, “I think he’’d love it here”.

I didn’’t give it a further thought, as the whole idea was ridiculous, but lo and behold, in mid-2008 I received an email from one of my most trusted agents: Would you like to book the Bump Band? Well, they were a lot more expensive than any band I’’d booked before and I’’d been spooked by a Mac solo show I’’d attended at the Brook in Southampton some years before, where there were very few people. What if I was wrong, and no one else shared my excitement? But it was impossible to refuse, and so the Bump Band was booked for the tiny Railway.

I got off to a terrible start with Mac. I knew that the Bump Band had a residency at the Saxon Pub in Austin and I had an idea to make him feel welcome and at home. I ordered a banner saying Saxon Pub and went in early to hang it up as a stage backdrop. When he arrived, his first words were, “I ain’’t going on till that banner comes down. I fuckin’’ hate that place”.” Mortified, and cringing with embarrassment, I took down the banner. Shit, I thought. I must have been wrong about Mac. He’’s obviously a diva. But I set about helping him, the band and the crew to address a more pressing problem: the Hammond B3 wouldn’’t fit though the stage door. In the end, the door had to come off its hinges and the instrument slid in with a millimetre to spare, the entire operation being supervised, hands-on, with great good humour, by Mac himself. It was okay, this was no diva.

I’’d always thought of the Railway as being like a Texas roadhouse, so as the Bump Band rocked out to a sold-out crowd, I was in seventh heaven, still in disbelief that this was actually happening. A fan letter and autograph request arrived from the deputy director general of the BBC, for goodness sake! And after the show, far from slipping off to their hotel, the band made a bee-line for the front bar, where Mac hitched up a stool and spent a good hour quaffing Guinness and chewing the fat with the landlord, Fred Eynon, sadly also no longer with us. It was a pattern to be repeated every time he came. “”I love this place”, “ he would beam. ““It’’s a proper boozer, not a bleedin’’ arts centre””. Meantime, most of the audience would stay behind, either to join in the conversation or watch in awe. There was no sense of a star “holding court”. Mac was simply a born communicator, someone who loved life and other humans. Needless to say, he was also incredibly funny, natural, humble and exploding with tales of an extraordinary life.

I’’m no amateur psychologist, but I have always assumed that Mac’’s dedication to gigging in the last few years must have been his way of dealing with the grief caused by the sudden and awful death of Kim in a car accident in Austin. Throwing yourself into work is a way of holding dark thoughts at bay, and no one from that generation of rock stars has toured so hard into their late sixties. That’’s why we were privileged to have Mac playing twice more for us, the last time being just a few months ago, in July. In each case, it was touring in a really hard way, driving around the UK as a duo with the wonderful Mr Jon Notarthomas, who not many people may realise was Mac’’s “rock”, quietly acting as his tour manager, minder, protector and bassist. The pair of them caused hearts to flutter as they shared breakfast in Twyford’’s village café in August 2011, trying to procrastinate before their trip to the next gig in Bristol. It was the summer of the riots and they were spooked with anxiety. Burning cities were the antithesis of the laid-back, friendly atmosphere of Austin, Texas.

Everyone knows how badly the Small Faces were ripped off as a band, and that the Faces will have spent much of their income on having fun, but it’’s still shocking that a man who has contributed to the music of Springsteen, Dylan and the Stones (the riff on “Miss You” for goodness’ sake) was clearly strapped for cash. These tours were done on a shoestring, with Jon and Mac driving themselves and staying in Travelodges. On July 7, the morning after the last Railway show, they came over to our place for breakfast and, as I cooked their fry-up, Mac’’s preoccupation was that they hadn’’t sold as much merch as they’’d hoped (merch, as any band will tell you, subsidises such tours). Had the table been set up in the wrong place? How could they do better next time? But one thing, above all, was troubling Mac more, and it just sums up the man.

As support, I had booked an artist from Sunderland called Antonio Lulic. I had done this because Antonio has a very moving song about Austin, and I thought it would be appropriate. Now Mac was worried because Antonio had had to slip off to catch a train and Mac hadn’’t managed to include a shout-out for him because, quite understandably, he’’d forgotten his name. But now Mac was wracked with guilt, fearing that Antonio would think he hadn’’t been appreciated. It is so typical that Mac’’s only concern was to encourage and acknowledge a young musician.

At that same show, a friend of mine was trying to pluck up courage to ask Mac for an autograph and a chat. In her youth in the sixties, she’’d been a massive Small Faces fan. “Come on, I’’ll introduce you”, I offered, but she was too shy. “I’’ll do it next time he comes,” she said. Now there won’’t be a next time. I close my eyes and try to remember his mannerisms, his tone of voice, the lightness and frailty you felt when doing a Texan bear hug with him. I don’’t envy obituary writers; no matter how you try, you can’t put a feeling into words.

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At the tender age of 66, this summer has seen me going to more music festivals than ever before. It just worked out like that. The first trip was to deepest Suffolk, where the Maverick Festival was taking place on a rather sweet petting farm. I wasn’’t actually there for the festival but rather for the annual conference of the UK Americana Music Association, which was tagged on to the festival. It was a beautiful sunny day and the expedition involved a delightful train journey via Ipswich and getting off at a station that doubled as a boatyard – – just sweet. A meticulously polite taxi driver took me to Easton Park Farm, where I found the conference rather intimidating. I expected a load of scruffy oiks like me boozing and nattering about music (which was actually true) but the formality of the occasion, complete with a programme of keynote speeches, seminars and workshops was giving me panic attacks as it reminded me so much of the horrors of Inset days. Anyway, I had a couple of beers and before I knew it was joining in and heckling with alacrity, although I was rather offended not to be approached by more people in the “speed dating” section. I stood in a corner feeling embarrassed and the only people who spoke to me were aspiring artists keen to press their latest CD on anyone who would take one. Truth to tell, it was a fun day and I was able to stay long enough to catch the first few acts of the festival, which looked to be gearing up to be an excellent event. I’’d always shied away from Maverick on the basis that it was too “straight country” for me, but it seems to be in a state of transition and I may well give it a go next year.

But time waits for no one (truth to tell, I was too stingey to book a B and B, so had to go home), and anyway, the very next day was Blissfields. It was like stepping into a different world. At Maverick, I felt completely at home, whereas at Blissfields, I was a good three times the age of almost everyone else. Set deep in the Hampshire countryside, this is a very successful enterprise which has been going for a number of years now, building up a strong following. It’’s true to say that I am deeply jealous of them, because my little festival in September has stubbornly refused to attract more than a hundred punters, while theirs has risen steadily to several thousand, despite having, – in my opinion, of course, – a weaker line-up. The answer is to position yourself as an ideal place for students to celebrate the beginning of their summer holidays, and to provide loads of non-musical things to do, such as sit in a jacuzzi. I was surprised to see some tribute bands playing here, and also disappointed to find that Chloë Howl, who I expected to be edgy, was bland and backed by session musos. There were more drunk people in evidence here than at any of the other festivals I went to this year. But it was worth it for the gorgeous drive through the charming picture postcard villages of Hampshire.

The following weekend was the best of the summer. It wasn’’t really a festival; but I had an incredible feast of music in Hyde Park, where I went not so much particularly for Neil Young but more for the underbill of Phosphorescent, Caitlin Rose and Midlake, all favourites of mine, and all playing on the second stage, which was a sort of Spiegeltent affair. We set up camp there and stayed for the afternoon, this niftily avoiding the likes of Tom Odell and Lucy Rose. And missing the rain. We emerged blinking into the sunlight in time for a classic Neil Young set which was so good I was able to overlook the extraordinary segregated auditorium and the £25 T-shirts. The plebs’’ section was far from sold out, so we enjoyed the show in conditions of spacious comfort.

Next up was Truck. I was at the famous one a couple of years back where it went all Americana and also went bust. I know a few musicians who didn’’t get paid that time but somehow Truck has resurrected itself and I thought I’’d give it another try. A convoluted bus journey took me there to find that its fortunes have really been revived; it had a sold-out feel to it. The bill was full of people I really like such as Steven Adams, Chris T-T and Co-Pilgrim. There was a fantastic atmosphere throughout the site, particularly at a den of iniquity called The Saloon. Luckily, I was able to get the last bus back to Oxford and thus avoid any late-night carousing that would undoubtedly have taken place. And the next day, I got picked up and taken home by my daughter, very rock and roll.

In stark contrast to Blissfields, at Wickham Festival I felt almost like one of the younger audience members. The number of punters struggling through the mud on zimmer frames was shocking. – I kid you not, – but fair play to them for getting out and about. I’’ve always said I’’d do the same. Birgit and I went one night and came home after one band because the line-up was so shocking, but the next day we had the privilege of seeing Steve Earle at his best, and were also unexpectedly impressed by Hazel O’’Connor. Wickham has a very confused musical identity (it’’s basically a folk festival but one headliner was James Blunt). On the other hand, it is well organised and extremely popular.

End Of The Road was a total blast. I took the shuttle bus there (like everything else at EOTR, it is super efficient and excellent value). My friend Phil The Thatcher was doing a craft demonstration near the Tipi Tent, which allowed me to use it as a HQ and also to camp in the relatively luxurious crew field. It was also dangerously near the cider bus but I managed to resist its attractions on the grounds that you feel like shit the next day. The music was out of this world, so many highlights such as Deer Tick, the Felice Brothers, Sean Lennon, Jenny Lewis and,– oh god, the Flaming Lips being simply exquisite. It was a musical paradise.

Unlike last year, my own sc4m Festival was relatively uneventful. I say relatively. One band was ill and had to be replaced, oh, and we didn’’t actually know whether the venue was still going to be open or, if it was, whether there would be any beer. But supplies were brought in and lasted for most of the day. The whole thing went like clockwork and was appreciated, I think, by all present. But, even though I was convinced I had put together a great bill, we only sold the hundredth ticket at midnight on the eve of the festival. That was a tense experience, since I had budgeted on selling a hundred tickets to break even. The reason for the lack of popularity? I guess we’’re just not cool, because virtually none of the media that I spent many hours informing about it chose to give us a mention, and a good number of people who I expected to support the event, based on the type of music they like, simply didn’’t. Was it a thankless task? Not at all, because I was surrounded and helped by my beautiful family, the artists were all uniformly wonderful (it would be wrong to single out individual acts). They played their hearts out and the warm-hearted music lovers present loved every minute. Will I do another one? Not sure actually.

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No one else will let me drone on for pages about the ups and downs of sxsw, but this is my blog and no one can stop me. …

It started well, because the new direct flight to Austin means you can arrive not exhausted and head straight out on the Tuesday (each year it seems to start earlier). We caught Kelley Stoltz at Bar 96 (it had been less than a week since we saw him in the UK). By the time we’’d sorted out the badges, it was time for bed, in an attempt to be fresh in the morning. This was foiled by the hotel turning out to be next to a liquor store.

By the way, references to “”we”” in this mean me and my friend Paul, who lives in Oklahoma and comes over to Austin once a year to meet up and enjoy music.

Daylight revealed that on the other side of the hotel was a Mexican breakfast joint, so you can take it for granted that every morning consisted of a long lie-in followed by a blow-out of omelettes and such. I won’’t mention food again.

A bus into town (you can ride the buses all day for two dollars, now there’’s a public transport system) took us to one of Austin’’s more quaint venues, Mellow Johnny’’s Bike Shop, where I promptly bought a branded hat (it actually is Lance Armstrong’s bike shop). Hurray For The Riff Raff were playing here. I was interested to see the effect of their signing to the Alabama Shakes’ label ATO.  Well, there are no musical changes but an almost complete line-up change, with only Alynda Lee Segarra and Yosi Pearlstein remaining. Then it was on to the lovely suntrap that is the Ginger Man Pub for The Autumn Defense, sounding less like Wilco and more like Crowded House, which was just fine. It then took a while to find Capital Cruises, the take-off point for a riverboat ride starring, again, the Kelley Stoltz Band. It’s been said before, these guys really know how to have fun. They duly warmed the cockles (it was bloody freezing) and we managed to drink the boat dry. By the end, all they had left was vodka and water. Staggering into nearby Threadgills, we briefly encountered Austin stalwart James McMurtry and friends.

Paul then inexplicably wanted to see Spandau Ballet (apparently they were great) so I nipped into the ever-intimate Cedar Street Courtyard for the Felice Brothers. They can occasionally be a bit flaky, but not today. They tore the place up. It’’s easy to nip round the side and bag the front row, too. But now the infuriating side of sxsw kicked in. I wanted to see young UK singer Chloë Howl at Latitude. This rather unpleasant venue becomes the headquarters of “British Music” for the week, i.e. it is packed with UK music biz types (anyone ever read “Kill Your Friends”?). The bands think the Texans love them, but actually no Texans are there. Anyway, I’’d heard a rumour that Chloë had failed to get a work permit but thought I’’d risk it anyway. What a disaster. She was replaced by one of the most ghastly pretentious loads of tosh it has ever been my misfortune to experience. High As A Kite, they were called. Droning and warbling and groaning under the weight of their mountains of expensive equipment, their stodgy music made me almost lose the will to live. I was in a bad mood, I can tell you, and it soon got worse as I fought my way through the crowds of Sixth Street and headed for Stubbs, where St Vincent was similarly pompous and embarrassingly over the top. She used to be quite good, now she’s a poor person’’s Lady Gaga. Oh well, better hang on for Damon Albarn. No chance. After forty minutes of watching roadies set up and check gear, I had to head off to the Flamingo Cantina where Angelo Moore was due to play (members of Chuck Prophet’’s band were in there, so it could have been interesting). But they, too, were running very late. There were loads of people (too many) in the band, plus a bloody theramin (hate those things). As the clock ticked towards an hour after they were due to start, I gave up. That made over ninety minutes of listening to sound checks. It was a shit end to the first day.

You’’d think I’’d learn, but I never seem to. For months, I have been desperate to see London Grammar, since a friend of mine told me about them last Autumn. I was slightly put off them on learning that they are managed by Jazz Summers, whose terrible (obviously dictated) autobiography I had just finished, but still, … Filter magazine organizes superb showcases at the Cedar Street Courtyard, a perfect place to see them, as they were one of this year’’s buzz bands and playing much bigger venues. I’’d gone through an advance rigmarole of RSVPing for this showcase and guess what? When I arrived, all the posters had been changed and London Grammar were nowhere to be seen. Sub-strokes Skaters, from New York, and nondescript waif-like songstress Nina Nesbitt were not adequate substitutes. If the Strypes don’’t turn up, I’’m catching the next plane home, I thought. Oh me of little faith. Those nippers blew the place apart, their music like a mash-up of the Who and Dr Feelgood. My heart melted and I was transported back to my teens. Music ain’’t dead after all. They later proceeded to triumph at a series of bigger showcases and entrance the likes of David Fricke. Don’’t mess up, guys.

Because I cover the festival for the Hampshire Chronicle, I need to find Hampshire bands. No problem there, as Southampton’’s Band Of Skulls were kicking off a high-profile US tour and had promotional posters on every Austin lamppost. So off I trekked (a really major one this, probably a couple of miles) to Bar 96, where I’’d again got onto the guest list for yet another Filter showcase. And bloody hell, yet again the posters had been changed and they weren’’t there. It is so infuriating when you make such detailed plans, merely to be thwarted for what I can only assume must be business reasons. Still, I did get to see Deap Vally, two Courtney Love-style scantily-clad rock chicks with spelling issues.

Thank goodness Public Service Broadcasting actually did appear in their scheduled slot at Latitude. They are a lorra fun –- my only worry is that there’’s potential for them to be a one trick pony. If you see them a few times, the amusement wears off.

I really fancied the idea of seeing Gary Numan, so it was important to get to Brazos Hall (a new venue) early. Once again, this was a mistake, as the opening act (I don’’t know their name and I don’’t want to) was sub-operatic nonsense played at such ludicrous volume that people were literally running for the exits clutching their ears. I nearly had a fight with the sound engineer when I pointed out what was happening. He said I was too old to understand.

Luckily, Gary Numan was on top form, debuting strong new material (of course in the old style) and generally being a super-cool rock star. And after that, Blondie blasted out their greatest hits and some nice new songs too. Clem Burke is an absolutely incredible drummer. On the way home, we caught John Doe of X at the Continental, pretty much a Blondie contemporary, I guess. So that was what you might call a day of mixed fortunes.

One thing that’’s always nice to do is head to the day stage at Waterloo Records. It’s a fabulous shop and great bands play there. I found myself absolutely loving Turin Brakes, of whom I knew nothing. They managed to produce the guitar solo of the week, and there’’s some pretty hot competition for that, I can tell you. Afterwards, Cate Le Bon charmed too, in quite a different way. But it was soon time to hit the annual Bloodshot Records party at the Yard Dog Gallery on South Congress. Ha Ha Tonka were just giving way to Lydia Loveless, who was excellent, like a punked-up Kathleen Edwards. It was a ridiculously crowded, wild and beer-soaked event, culminating in a soul/rock tour de force by Barrence Whitfield and the Savages, featuring a massive mosh pit and some failed crowd surfing (the bloke just fell flat on his back onto the concrete floor – ouch). Remember there was hardly a person there under fifty.

I planned to spend the entire evening at the Lou Reed tribute concert at the Paramount Theatre, but something wasn’’t quite right about it. It was extremely well-meant but somehow it didn’’t seem to be working. A really poor version of Perfect Day made the decision for us. Yes, one more attempt at seeing London Grammar, this time at Stubbs. And it worked. They are rather sweet, very English and natural, in a slightly Portisheady kind of way. Their longevity will depend on how much more material they can come up with.

Saturday was going to be real Austin, a country rock day and nothing was going to stop me. No more chasing buzz acts. No entering of lotteries to see Coldplay, Jay-Z or Lady Gaga. It was off to the outskirts for the real thing. And what a treat at the Broken Spoke. Singer-songwriter John Fullbright, performing to an attentive and packed front room, was my pick for the best solo performer of the week, with his beautiful songs and friendly wit. It’’s so nice when someone can spring a surprise like that.

The back room at the Broken Spoke belongs to its regular clintèle of western swing dancers, and they aren’’t about to let sxsw or Twangfest get in their way, determinedly dancing along to whatever gets thrown at them. Thus we witnessed local superstar Hayes Carll performing a gorgeously touching acoustic homage to his young son, called “The Magic Boy” –- and yes, they danced along to it. Probably more to the dancers’’ taste was new Loose signing Sturgill Simpson, a bit straight country for my personal taste, but with a hot band and really good.

I’’m never going to miss Alejandro Escovedo’’s annual Saturday party at Maria’’s Taco Express, where the beer is cool, the salsa is hot and the margaritas are lethal. But even by his own standards, he excelled himself with this bill. The Mastersons (effectively Steve Earle’’s backing band) have really tightened into a storming outfit with fine songs, while Garland Jefferies indulged his pleasure of marching into the crowd and barking into people’’s faces. It’’s more fun than it sounds. I absolutely adored the amazingly resilient BP Fallon, intoning poems rather than singing and backed by an amazing Austin electric duo called The Ghost Wolves. Things like this you do not experience every day, and it feels such a privilege.

Okay, I love Jesse Malin. He seems to have been a bit quiet lately but I think that’’s about to change. Certainly, his electrifying set at Maria’’s, complete with a hot band and a bunch of very affecting new songs, indicated that a major comeback is on the cards. You could almost touch the excitement (so much so that I actually went back for more of him and BP Fallon the next evening at the Continental, after sxsw was theoretically over).

And so to the journey home. A lovely, smooth and punctual flight. A seamless transfer to the National Express coach. Onto the 69 bus to Twyford and …it broke down. Back to reality with a bump. Bed time.

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Thinking of writing a novel? Read this first.

What now?

You know that old cliché about everyone believing they have a novel in them? Well, I’’m a writer of educational resources but I’’d always wanted to have a go at a novel.  Faced with a very daunting birthday, I suddenly realised I’’d better get on with it before it was too late. But how do you write a novel? I had no ideas for plot, genre or style.

Luckily, I have a friend who is a successful author. “Write about something you know about”, he advised. This was problematic. Would a novel set in the world of French teaching be likely to take off? But I do have a hobby, which is live music promotion. Maybe I could set it in the environment of small-time gigs. But how do you start? Should you have a plot in mind or just start writing? “Just start and see what happens”, advised my friend.

The first idea was to do a completely fictional rock biography (a bit like a serious Spinal Tap), but after a while, I realised that readers buy biographies of people they are interested in. Why would they buy a biography of someone who’’d never existed? It would, therefore, have to be incorporated in some kind of page-turning plot.

So off I went to Eastleigh library (to rid myself of any home distractions) and, as advised, just started writing. Each day I would scribble twenty or so pages of longhand and then, in the evenings, read it aloud into one of those clever computer programmes that convert voice into print. It was a lazy approach, but necessary in order to fit the project into the small available window.

What emerged was a strange book, commercially unattractive because it was neither a thriller, a love story or a travelogue, but a bit of each. Actually, I was quite pleased with it. My author friend, who has no reason to patronise me, said he liked it and would recommend it to his (big) publisher. I showed a dummy to a few friends, and they seemed to like it too. I had initially only contemplated self-publishing, or not publishing at all (merely having done it being sufficient), but now I was wondering about sending it to publishers.

Well, my friend’’s publisher never replied to any of my communications, and another expert I approached told me it was essential to go through an agent. Someone who works for an educational publisher I write for was very enthusiastic, saying she’’d pass it on to some bigwigs in the fiction department, but nothing happened there, or indeed, with any of the agents I approached. Maybe it was because of their tradition of only accepting the “first three chapters”. My murder inconveniently takes place at the beginning of chapter 4. Self-publishing  it would have to be, then.

It couldn’’t have been simpler, really. The son of a friend designed a lovely cover and another friend converted it into a print-friendly format, and within a couple of weeks, a few hundred books arrived at my house. I had a distributor who put it on Amazon and made it theoretically available in bookshops. Yet another friend published it in a Kindle version, and several five-star reviews promptly appeared. As to whether they were all written by friends and family, I couldn’’t possibly comment.

A launch party at Waterstones (“local author”) went very well, and the local paper did a big article (“local author” again), but then … a void. People kept saying, “”It’’s great, it’’s bound to sell loads””. But how do you make people aware of its existence? It needs reviews, but I couldn’’t find anyone, not even the music press, willing to review it. All emails remained unanswered and already, it seems, the tiny “buzz” has disappeared.

I was aware that it would be a vanity project anyway. After the huge cut taken by everyone en route to a sale, and the high cost of producing a small print run, I’’m definitely operating at a loss, even if I do sell some. But just to have done it is enough, and a certain sense of achievement has been attained. To those many people who have asked, “”When’’s the next one?””, the answer is, no way. I have to get back to earning a living.

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The 2013 sxsc Festival was to be the last under that name, following a surreal series of email exchanges with lawyers representing the South By South West Festival in Texas. I tried to respond with levity but was always flat-batted back with stern, unresponsive legalese, so in the end gave in. From now, we’’ll be known as SC4M – South Central For Music, chosen largely because of its availability as a domain name.

We planned to go out with a bang, because as well as being the last festival, it also marked my 65^th birthday and ten years of putting on shows as sxsc.  For that reason, I set out to try and put together a bill containing artists that mean a great deal to us. It was a lot of hard work, because my friend and promoting partner Richard had moved to Spain and wasn’’t available to help. So I set out to call in some favours from old friends. The first thing to slip into place was a headliner: John Murry had played a storming show at the Railway earlier in the year and promised to return for the festival. I trusted him entirely and so it proved. John made himself unpopular with booking agents by his insistence that he would play this show no matter what other, more lucrative offers he might have to turn down.

Encouraged by this kindness, I then set about chasing Andy Burrows, Winchester’’s most successful musical export ever and another true friend. Again, music business politics were in play, as he was just changing agents and similarly had to arrange this rare solo appearance as a private agreement between the two of us. With those two main artists in place, I was confident of a quick sell-out (the capacity of the Railway is only 110) without the nail-biting agony of previous festivals, most of which struggled with ticket sales. Budgeting for a break-even point of selling all the tickets (our aim is to pay all the artists properly and not make a profit), I felt able to relax.

As it turned out, this was premature. Every artist on the bill has a following and most of them sell out far bigger venues, but tickets stubbornly failed to start selling at anything like the rate they needed to. The reason, I had to accept, was my lack of a marketing budget. I was confident that press and radio would be amazed by the “”big artists in a little venue”” story and get on board; otherwise, how else would anyone find out about it? We tweeted and Facebooked like crazy but it wasn’’t enough; we needed press support and we didn’’t get it. I personally emailed, phoned and sent handwritten letters to all the presenters and producers on Radios 2 and 6, and I did the same with the main listings agencies and the music writers of all the national newspapers and music magazines. The result? Despite the line-up being one of the most impressive and credible of the entire summer offering, not one single mention, apart from in our much-loved local paper, the Hampshire Chronicle. Even Uncut magazine, which had been supportive of us in the past, did’n’t help and transferred its allegiance to the much bigger End Of The Road Festival.

With a week to go, we managed to get hold of tickets to End Of The Road and stood around at the end of John Murry’’s set there, handing out flyers. That did the trick, as the performance was so sensational, and the last tickets went with two days to spare.

So then it was down to making the final preparations. We gave much thought to every aspect, so that all would run smoothly and in the best interests of both artists and audience. We were confident (when I say we, I mean me and my wife Birgit, the sole organisers) that we had thought of everything. At one stage, I found myself walking cagily along Eastleigh High Street with £2500 in cash in my inside pocket.  On that day I found out, too, that the beautifully designed booklets a kind friend had donated had been printed with the pages in the wrong order, and it was too late to do anything about it. On the eve of the festival, I was hoping for some relaxation, following my wild and inebriated birthday party the night before, when I got a message from Chris T-T, explaining that he wouldn’’t be able to perform with his band for some personal reasons to do with band members. This panicked me. In itself, it wasn’’t a big problem, but I feared for what other unexpected developments might occur.

Sunday dawned with a sense of anticipation but also nervousness. At 9.30, for some reason, I decided to check my emails. There it was, an email from someone whose name I wasn’’t sure I recognised. It was a message from the festival caterer: Sorry, I’’ve hurt my back and we’’re not coming. My heart leapt into my mouth. What? Why had he emailed and not rung? It was only by chance that I’’d looked at my emails. We could have been waiting there all day for him and been humiliated. So what could we do?

I rang a series of other caterers, none of whom were available. At one stage, I entered negotiations with Domino’’s Pizza for a series of staged deliveries. But then, someone had an idea. The hotplates from my birthday party had’n’t yet been returned to the restaurant. There was nothing for it: – we’’d have to improvise and do the catering ourselves. My daughter Annabel and her boyfriend Gaz would be in charge, so off we went to Sainsburys, dropping off Gaz to buy baguettes and the ingredients for vegetable chilli, while I took the hotplates in to the Railway and tried to set them up. I have to tell you, as I haplessly attempted to get those hotplates working, plugged into a socket that was clearly dead, as torrential rain teemed around me and the clock ticked ever onwards towards opening time, my head was filled with the mantra of every gig promoter: “Why the hell do I do this to myself?”

Well, the reason is the music, and that was what made the day, eventually, everything we could have dreamed of and more. In a strange sort of synergy with Chris T-T, Ryan O’Reilly, whom I had booked solo, turned up with a band, much to the horror of sound engineer Ben, who had to reconfigure the tiny stage in the acoustic room with his usual consummate professionalism. On their way to Paris, Ryan and band got things off to a lovely start, before Chris T-T gave a performance that couldn’’t possibly have been topped had he had his band with him. As he debuted a new song about a dolphin, the rapt audience was sniffling with moist eyes, which, for me, turned into full-scale tears as Annabel jumped up to sing a special birthday song.

Back up in the Attic, I entered a day-long battle with chairs. It was clear all the chairs would have to be folded up and put aside if everyone was to cram into the room, but every time I did that and went away for five minutes, some naughty audience members simply got them out and sat back down. Meanwhile, others were queuing down the stairs, unable to get in for Ben Folke-Thomas giving one of his finest-ever performances.

In the Barn, it was the turn of Peter Bruntnell, a matter of great importance for us, since Pete played our first ever show in 2003. He and his band delivered in the way only they can, pulling the largest crowd of the day. My detailed preparation had failed to throw up the fact that Dave Little, from Peter’’s band, would also be playing with Small Town Jones ten minutes later in the Attic, and would need to schlep all his equipment upstairs and set it up in a matter of moments. Meanwhile, downstairs, John Parish’’s drummer declared that he needed to use his own kit, which entailed removing the onstage kit and replacing it in time to sound check. Engineer Joe Marsh dealt with this with his usual aplomb and helped attain a magnificent sound for the atmospheric film music, while Emily Barker (who’’d already sold out the much bigger Winchester Discovery Centre for November) performed in the Attic.

Then it was time for Andy Burrows, and the emotion was tangible as the rammed Attic came to terms with sharing a tiny room with a major star. Members of Andy’’s family were present too and the whole event had a real “Winchester “ feel to it.

And so to the headliners. I knew John Murry would never let us down, and he and his trio almost blew the roof off the Barn in a lengthy and bruising set culminating in his masterpiece “Little Colored Balloons” and an encore with Dave Little on guitar that would have had Neil Young and Crazy Horse shaking in their boots. The feeling all around was of supreme happiness, as most people hung around after the end for a few more drinks and to chat with the stars. The Railway is unique in the whole UK in its atmosphere and its perfect layout for an event like this; please, please may it never die.

Back at home, it was a late and fuzzy night, with fifteen people staying over. In the morning, I awoke with a feeling of calm contentment and the sense of a job well done. But it didn’’t last. When Dave Little returned to the Railway, he was distressed to find that a valuable effects pedal had been stolen overnight. Even now, we haven’’t been able to work out how this could have happened and who might have done it, but it took the shine off the day. Never mind, I thought, I’’ll go on the internet and see what people are saying about the event which, after all, had gone spectacularly well. And guess what, my blood ran cold as the only comment I could find on Facebook was a COMPLAINT. I was speechless.

It was from a person who was complaining about something I was completely unaware of and still don’’t really understand. According to the correspondent, Peter Bruntnell and Jim Jones had been horsing around at the back of the room during John Murry’’s set, allegedly spoiling it. She said it was unprofessional of them.  I immediately consulted Birgit, as no one else had said a word. She puts up with nonsense from no one, and said they’’d just been a bit exuberant. But I don’’t like anyone to be less than satisfied, and my first instinct was to reply, apologising for what the complainant said had happened.

But then I thought about it properly. Those guys had just played their hearts out for very little money, as they have consistently done for us for years. The audience had loved both of them.   They are good friends with John Murry and there’’s a mutual admiration society going on there. Their best mate Dave was on stage with John Murry and thrilling the audience with his virtuosity. They were excited and proud and they have a tradition of joshing with each other in a light-hearted manner. Everyone had been as good as gold all day and this was the climax. No one was going to spoil it for me now.

“”I know whose side I’’m on””, I thought. And I deleted the message.

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