Birth of SXSW, Death of Aqua Fest
"Monster of Mid-March" wasn't Austin's biggest annual music event until the '90s
When my son Jack was eight, I gave his mother a break one day by taking him with me on my SXSW party rounds. We walked down the alley behind Yard Dog to see two winos urinating against a wall that had “fuck” written on it. The place was jampacked, loud and rowdy, with Hank Williams being butchered onstage with glee. Jack alternated between pinching his nostrils and plugging his ears. We didn’t last 10 minutes. When we walked back to the car, Jack said, “When you decided to become a music critic, did you know about South by Southwest?”
Hell, kid, I was there from the very beginning, when SXSW moved into the spare downstairs office of the Austin Chronicle at 28th and Rio Grande. It was the room where we used to go and sit on old Chron bundles and smoke joints.
I actually go back even further when SXSW was called the New Music Seminar and held in New York City each July. NMS was the model for the music conference former band manager Roland Swenson and booking agent Louis Meyers wanted to bring to their hometown. With the support of the Austin Chamber of Commerce, Swenson talked the NMS owners into producing an Austin spinoff- the Southwest Music Conference- in March 1987.
The Austin music scene was hot circa ‘86, with big spreads in Rolling Stone and Spin and a devoted hour on MTV. The Fabulous Thunderbirds, Timbuk3 and Charlie Sexton all had Top 20 hits. Austin beat out Athens, GA for the first expansion.
Showing NMS owners around town, though, Swenson was disappointed that "it became obvious that we were not going to play any part" in the new venture. It would still be a good thing for the Austin club scene, but SWC would be New York-owned and operated.
Just a few months before the maiden event, NMS pulled out of its Austin offshoot. Not enough time. That was great news for Swenson, who worked at the Chronicle in a distribution and marketing capacity (he got the paper into HEB). He went to publisher Nick Barbaro and editor Louis Black and convinced them that the Chronicle could do this without New York. Spring Break- the third week in March- was chosen because the students were out of town and the clubs would be welcome to any business this “South by Southwest” (reflecting Black’s Hitchcock affinity) could throw their way.
One day in late ’86 I heard something I thought I’d never hear in the Chronicle offices: “We need the room.” What movie is that from? “C’mon, guys, clear out,” Roland said in my direction. Shit, that meant me, too.
Especially me. I had- have- a big mouth and they didn’t want any of this shit to get out until it was all set. I called those first meetings “reindeer games” because I was Rudolph, the red-nosed Irishman they wouldn’t let play. What did I care? Nobody thought SXSW would draw much more than the best up-and-coming bands from Oklahoma, Arkansas and Louisiana- plus Giant Sand.
Almost 40 years later SXSW is still a regional conference, but the region is Planet Earth. With conference organizers actively pursuing registrants and musicians from previously underrepresented continents such as South America, Asia and Africa, SXSW is the world’s most diverse annual event.
The Burning Brand Festival
Austin isn’t really Austin during SXSW. It’s a dead buffalo, and all the people who come are the Indians who use every piece of the animal. Every building, every parking lot, every side street, every park. They dance to tribal beats and go a little crazy in the spirit of celebration. And when they go home there are always a few braves and squaws left behind.
Every March, except the pandemic years of 2020 and 2021, our town becomes an almost unrecognizable Super Austin, but one thing hasn’t changed since the 1987 debut: SXSW brings out the best and the worst in us. The humble become entitled, but they do work their asses off. It’s game on, Austin!
Organizers didn't know what to expect that first year and were delighted when 700 people registered, at $35 a badge. There were 15 panels during the day, and 15 showcase venues at night. Wristbands to see the 170-act lineup were $10.
SXSW Music added about 600 registrants each year, but topped out when Internet streaming started killing much of the music business. SXSW Interactive, added in 1994 as a way to figure out CD-ROMs and give Hugh Forrest something to do, passed Music in number of badges in 2010, and has been the dominant component since.
AQUAFEST: DEATH OF THE AUGUST GODZILLA
During the first couple years of South by Southwest, if you were in a bar and said that “one day this is going to be bigger than Aqua Fest,” you’d be cut off. That was as overserved a prognostication as saying that one day rooms at the San Jose Motel would be more than $100 a night. Can I call you a cab, sir?
During its ‘80s heyday, Aqua Fest was the biggest annual music event in town by far. Every August it would squat on the shores of Town Lake like Godzilla in a white sailor suit, swatting at local club business, sending big growls of sound up the hills of South Austin, overloading the streets with cars parked like tossed magnets. In its biggest year, 1985, Aqua Fest attracted 252,000 during a nine-day run. Most club owners would schedule their vacations to coincide with “Aqua Pest,” with Liberty Lunch open only the night of the fireworks because they had the best view.
But by 1998 it was a floater, done in by greed, cluelessness and ridiculous sound limits. And by SXSW, which made Aquafest look like the glorified carnival it was.
When Austin Aqua Festival began in 1962, water was the star, as the Chamber of Commerce created the event to celebrate the recent completion of Longhorn Dam, and also to counter the stereotype of Texas as a scorched prairie of cattle drives and oil rigs. It was held at Fiesta Gardens’ Festival Beach, where thousands would stake their square of the shore to watch speedboats roar down Town Lake. Bikini-clad water-skiers waved as they sliced the water, and there were kiddie fishing derbies, Boy Scout canoe races, and the unveiling of the Aqua Fest Queen and her court.
In the evenings, couples two-stepped on a concrete dancefloor to local country bands, or they danced the polka on “Czech Night,” one of several ethnic heritage nights. The neighborhood came out on “Noche Mexicana,” but it took the 1964 passing of the Civil Rights Act before “Soul Night” came to be.
Aqua Fest got the whole city involved, with Bergstrom AFB opening up to civilians for its AeroFest sky ballet and Rod Kennedy presenting the Festival Teen Hop at Municipal Auditorium, with such local bands as Babycakes, Emeralds, Sweetarts and the Wig battling the best from San Antonio and Corpus.
The nationally-significant boat drag races were the biggest draw, with 30,000 rubber-neckers crowding Festival Beach (not a beach). But since speedboats sound like lawn mowers on the porch, the predominantly-Latino neighborhood protested hard. The Brown Berets stepped in, and the controversy was covered in the Statesman for a year before Mayor Carole McClelland cast the deciding vote to ban speedboats in 1978. That year Aqua Fest moved to the more spacious Auditorium Shores and live music became the big attraction.
The Fest’s best years, musically, were ‘86- ‘90 when attorney Cindi Lazzari and Eric Johnson’s manager Joe Priestnitz booked it. The married music industry veterans put Jimmie and Stevie Ray Vaughan back together in 1987. They booked a magnificent performance by Roy Orbison in 1988, just four months before he passed away. But 1989 was untoppable, with a lineup that included George Jones, Dwight Yoakam, NRBQ, Ray Price, the Reivers, Clint Black, Guadalcanal Diary, Patty Loveless and Chuck Berry. For $8 a night.
In 1988, the nine-member staff, led by Fest president Newt Youngblood, decided to give themselves nice salaries (Youngblood's was $130,000 a year) to run the whole show. This didn’t sit well with the “Commodores,” the higher-ranked volunteers, many of whom had worked on Aqua Fest for more than 20 years.
Since the staff's bonus incentives were tied to net profits, they decided to up the ante, getting bigger names and charging more money for admission. But when the cost went up, as high as $12 per night, the attendance plummeted. Expensive acts like Kenny Loggins, Three Dog Night and Damn Yankees lost money. As they should have.
Aqua Fest used to hit paydirt by booking bands months before they broke out, like George Strait in 1981 and Billy Joe Cyrus in ‘92. They paid Cyrus $7,500 and drew 17,000. The same year Dolly Parton got $80,000 and drew only 7,000. That’s show biz.
When 1992 booker French Smith didn’t have his contract renewed, he ran a competing festival on Sixth Street the next year. Only 44,000 came through the turnstiles at Auditorium Shores in ‘93 and Aquafest lost $600,000. During the next three years the fest would lose the rest of the $2 million reserve they’d spent 30 years accumulating.
Aquafest was never cool, just something to do if you lived in Austin. SXSW, on the other hand, grew from the national music scene's best-kept secret into the world's largest - and wildest - music conference and festival. Added in 1995 was SXSW Film (also known as “Friends of Louis Black Festival”).
In 1996, after NMS went badge-up, SXSW was alone at the top. The only thing louder than the music was the sound of the NMS guys kicking themselves. They were Wally Pipp, who took himself out of a game with a headache, and Southby was Lou Gehrig.
The foliage has overgrown base camp. The afterparty now goes on before, during and after the main event, and “influencers” are as important as people who’ve worked hard to actually create something. RSVP service? In the old days, you just slipped the guy at the door a couple joints.
Living in Austin when SXSW was new was something special. It was like young love. Did you think the euphoria was going to last forever?
Eek. This is so spot on, Michael. I remember every minute of this history. Those freakin skipper pins. The first 25-30 Southbys…that was my run and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Michael, do you still have your “Skipper Pins”?