SXSW DAY 2: Damon Albarn, Sohn, Dum Dum Girls and Angel Olsen

14 March 2014 | 12:56 pm | Simone Ubaldi

Plus Angel Olsen, PANGEA, Dum Dum Girls and Sohn

Jerry from The Bulemics, who won Best of SXSW punk act this week, is driving our morning taxi. He'll be signing off at 10pm today and hitting the live circuit, playing nine shows with his band over the weekend and watching dozens more. He's jacked off with South-By, all the road closures and arsehole tourists, but he's pumped for the music.

At the Convention Centre, (SXSW 2014 icon) Jarvis Cocker kicks off a day of special guest appearances with a lecture that is loosely about songwriting and finding inspiration in the ordinary, but is mostly about Jarvis being hilarious, kind, thoughtful and preternaturally sexy. The room empties, the refills for an audience with P. Diddy (notably, it is a largely white audience trading for a mostly black one, whatever that tells you.)

At the Hype Hotel, Strokes' guitarist Albert Hammond Jr. pounds his way through pop rock of a 'meh' persuasion, twangy, jagged guitars draped in bellowing, emo vocals. A guy in the front row offers to show his man boobs. Albert politely declines.

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Mohawks crowd

Charlie XCX is covering I Want Candy at the Spin day party at Mohawk. At 4pm, the teeming crowd in this clusterfuck of a venue pushes as one towards the small indoor stage in a fruitless bid to get a view of Angel Olsen. The crowd spills into the adjoining bar room, listening to the Missouri native through the bleeding sound of the act outside. SXSW hacks complain wryly to each other about the crowds, the queue, the pointless endeavour that SXSW often turns out to be – an hour waiting in line for a half hour set in a room too small to hold one-eight of the people who got into the venue, but by the end of Olsen's set they are mesmerised. She plays her shitty afternoon slot at Mohawk like it's her one and only gig this week, with the bleeding heart of Emmy Lou Harris in dirty rock underwear. Such a perfect face, framed beneath perfect bangs, with the provocative stare of a femme fatale and a voice that whips and whispers on command.

Outside on the main stage, The Dum Dum Girls play to packed balconies. One of the hyper-hyped 2014 acts, the seasoned quintet sulk through a psych-tinged power rock set, dressed to kill in black fringe and PVC, the only splash of colour in the candy red stain on Dee Dee Penny's lips. She twitches her shoulders like a latter day Joan Jett, and the crowd screams their delight – all except for the teenage boy who is hunched next to the bass speaker, playing a game on his phone while he waits for Pusha T.

Dum, Dum and Dummer?

Meanwhile, at Red 7, LA outfit together PANGEA open with a song about apathy, with the unforgettable lyrical motif 'my dick is soft'. They are playing to a sparse crowd, looking like the ageing cast of Dogtown And Z-Boys, bleeding violent indie punk sound. If you dig that sort of thing, they are amazing. Later in the set, they agonise over the white man's burden. They don't know what to do about it. Their four hardcore fans, singing along front of the stage, are equally perplexed. Their single Snakedog belies a wry pop sensibility that has massive chart potential.

Walking down East 6th for an early evening meal break, we try hopelessly to escape the constant, belting sound that assails you from every doorway, rooftop and street corner. But the endless party continues on the other side of the I35, in the hipster neighbourhood of inner East Austin. Tectonic bass shudders boom from the south, where two streets away the legendary Fader Fort has opened its doors for the first of four epic day parties. A cutthroat guest list gives punters access to rivers of free booze and the latest in ice cool talent, which today includes The Orwells, London Grammar and Little Dragon in the headline slot.

We refuel, then head out into the dwindling light. What follows next is an account of one night at one venue amongst dozens, where the best and newest of the music industry's shiny objects come to play. At Stubb's, NPR courts a brain-numbing queue for their ever-popular annual showcase, where Damon Albarn will preview his new solo material. SXSW breakthrough Kendrick Lamar headlines night two of the iTunes Festival at Moody Theatre, supported by his heir apparent, Schoolboy Q. Somewhere close by, Lucinda Williams is bringing SXSW a touch of country class, while Kanye West and Jay-Z perform at a concert exclusive to Samsung mobile device users. But the heat and the blood, where trembling young acts feel the first loving glow of the spotlight, is happening tonight at the Hype Hotel.

(A quick note about the venue. Hype Hotel is one of the premiere SXSW venues, run by a conglomerate of high profile American music blogs and, per the title, showcasing some of most hyped acts of the conference. This year, Tito's vodka is the alcohol sponsor and the bartenders pour long.)

The first truly goosebump-inducing discovery of SXSW happens back at Hype Hotel, where North Carolina's Sylvan Esso send a shockwave through the early-arriving crowd with their epic indie house music. Frontwoman Amelia Meath is a picture of post-millennial incongruity with her skinny jeans, platform sneakers, nose ring and Threadbare Police t-shirt. Her acrobatic vocals are like Fiona Apple fronting a suped-up The xx, and her dance moves are just spectacular. The vibe is Ellie Goulding or Grimes, with fearless winding hips – for a retro grunge kid, she gives the nu-soul set a pretty good run for their money. She is raw and mesmerising, a nascent star.

Up next at Hype, UK's Bipolar Sunshine come on sly, a clear winner for triple j with their pop hooks and shoulder-hunching electro backbone, but too easy on the ears to take seriously. Except actually, they are phenomenal. Hit single after hit single, their soulful, TV On The Radio-influenced vocal slides are just... wow. Every tune is bankable, beautiful, high gloss and filled with heart. The lads, with their Jazzy Jeff flattops and floral print shorts, will have a very short climb to the international spotlight.

Mutual Benefit take to the stage just after 11pm, which is a weird slot for their seven-piece, string-driven Americana, but whatever, the are lovely. Over the babbling, drunken crowd, they channel The Head & The Heart – a swelling, naive sound. One of the violinists looks like Harry Potter crossed with Ronald Weasley. The band leader, with a sigh of late night resignation, says that hype is a fickle thing, which is why it lives in a hotel.

Sohn, a soul/electro boy from London, is late off the plane and late to the venue; too long setting up and too brief on the stage. He must set some kind of record, clocking just one and a half songs after thirty minutes plugging in his samplers, pedals and various other electronic accoutrements. He is clearly frustrated, tired and tetchy – he landed in Austin just minutes before the gig. He looks like a precise kind of cat, decked out in high-end fashion and quasi-Comme Des Garçons boots, and the scene is obviously infuriating. But one song and a half, however hasty and irritated, speaks volumes. Sohn has nu-soul and epic bass, a sound so lush and on trend he barely has to play it. Have to catch a full set at some point. Chromeo is up next but we're done for the night.

Crawling out onto Red River and 7th Street, the scene in familiar chaos; people everywhere, barricaded streets, cars pushing through the crowd, food trucks still serving long lines of punters, and music still bleeding from every quarter. Up at Stubbs, there is no queue, but security is still working the gate. “Damon Albarn hasn't played yet, has he?” we ask. The woman on the door shakes her head. Flushed with the thrill of absurd luck, we don't stop to wonder why.

The venue inside is half empty. Damon takes to the stage almost an hour late, around 1.30am, and with his touring band runs us through a raft of wry, meandering art pop tunes. There are shades of Gorillaz when he pulls out the melodica, misguided chugs of rock'n'roll, bittersweet ballads. It doesn't sound great, but his presence is entertaining enough. He's still beautiful, if a little grumpy when the performance gets cut short. He apologises. “We got messed about this evening, I'm sorry,” he offers. “It happens sometimes.”

Stubbs clears out in a matter of minutes, with a strange kind of urgency. And it is only as we're leaving that we notice the flashing lights. There are police cars on the street outside, ambulances and fire trucks. There are helicopters flying overhead. There is a different note to the scene, as though the game has stopped and things have suddenly careened out of control. Something has happened here. Too late, we realise something awful has happened.