After waking at 4:30 to make a 6:30 flight, I was already exhausted by the time I touched down in Austin at 10:30. So it was decided to christen the day with my first, of possibly dozens of Psychedelic Horseshit shows. This is what they call jumping in head first, the Can’t Stop the Bleeding party at Beerland gave those attendees still wiping the sleep from their eyes reason to start drinking. Psychedelic Horseshit caught fire early rambling in dope-found bohemian passion through a set of entirely new songs that employed the presence of Ryan Jewell on tablas and circuit-fuck, and Michael dueling in guitar squall with Matt Horseshit. The best moments of this clicking unit occur when the two find a perfect melody together, such as on the pop-trash of “Babe Jam.” Even Rich Horseshit has expanded his role blurting on sax, traipsing over the synth, looking disheveled early-on in his homeade “Wavves Suxx” t-shirt. Prophesy? They did similar things an hour later, a block down the street, at Emo’s, getting hips to dance to the broken reggae workouts. By playing so many shows, they tend to be making a statement. It’s imperative you see them at least once.

Same goes for Eat Skull, who sound nothing like the Horseshit anymore, but tangle in similar fuzz-blast and catchy detritus. Here they dug a little on nostalgia, instead tending to songs from Wild and Inside like the electric “Stick to the Formula” and a revved version of “Oregon Dreaming.” Each have their own distinct character on the record, but live all exist in a plane of disorientation—even if guitarist Rod Meyer is beginning to remind me of Tobin Sprout’s lilting lines for Guided by Voices just filtered through psych garble and infinite flange. OR punk rock. These are the new punks.

One song with Brazil’s Garota’s Suecas was enough. I believe it was a cover of “Satisfaction.” Though the infinite press releases compare them to Os Mutantes, all I saw was my worst fear, and first assumption, of this band. They’re trying mighty hard to be the South American Hives, unaware that no one really wants the S.A. Hives.

Onto to my first experience with Nathan William’s Wavves extravaganza. His virgin SXSW show was already packed, everyone actually sang along, shouted, hooted, and hollered. You’d expect the powers that be to crown him King Shit before he’d even played a note. Don’t get me wrong, I love the recordings, love the songs, but didn’t expect much live considering their only a duo (guitars and drums), and do little to affect the tones and vocals that are infinitely damaged on record. What I witnessed was something different that those songs, like he was covering tracks from Incesticide, kind of growling like Cobain. The next moment he was aping White Stripes, really. I was beginning to think Williams has an agenda—he didn’t look like he was having much fun, but was there on a mission to get the kids to adore him. I suppose Nirvana worship is a way to go. It was when he started doing his own back-up harmonies—those “waa-hooos and oooos”—that it got tired. He should hire some alt-girls off the street to do this for him the rest of his stay. What he’s doing is nothing new, nor is it from the past, it’s just not filled-out yet. Contact high, with little nutrition.

Somewhere along the way I caught L.A.‘s Fol Chen, a more artsy than musical quartet that soothed with textures instead of over-doing the theatrics. They were clad in similarly matching jumpsuits, painted in the face like raccoons (a common trend, like wayfarers and v-necks this year), had horns, but did not cause a quick exit. Reminiscent of Man Man, cleaned and proper, never getting too in touch with their gnarly tendencies.

In that same tent I got my first glimpse of the Pains of Being Pure at Heart from Brooklyn. I’ll have more to say on them later in the week, as I intend to make them a continuous treat in the balmy afternoons here. Not as pure as I had thought, but bursting in jangle as anticipated. This loud though, it’s hard to discern all those intricacies of the guitar that make the record indispensable.

Venturing out into the night, after a paper plate of bad (overpriced) sushi, I decided to see a band that (gasp!) I’d never heard of. The first of those was the Coathangers. The all-girl Black Lips (yup, from Atlanta) would be too easy, they play rankled garage pop but prickly with abject screams and cutesy infant voices, so they could also easily come from Olympia, as more than once I was reminded of Bikini Kill’s Kathleen Hanna. Even when in this crusty Nuggets mode they exhibited shades of post-punk, or better yet dropping in hints at ESG with their rhythm section. The heavily tattooed and obvious rock-star qualities of the singing drummer tipped the balance even more, especially when she instantly became front-woman and growled through the last song. Watch this space.

My abbreviated night ended with Cotton Jones, much better than the huckster name implies. They’re a well-textured treatment of the My Morning Jacket big-sky psych, a little bit of country, a little bit of East Coast tough. I was dozing off, which is better than actually leaving. But finally I did, only to find the line to see the Circle Jerks was not worth the wait. I trailed off to bed early as Wednesday, while with some surprises, is usually amateur night. The fun begins today.