“That’ll be $7.67,” I said while scribbling the order with one hand and swigging some Shiner from the Solo cup I kept on a shelf under the bar with the other. I had worked the lunch rush enough times to know the price of any combo on the menu, but I punched a few keys on the register so the customer could see confirmation in neon green block letters. I wasn’t scheduled to work, but I’d agreed to cover for Megan for a few hours, and I needed every dollar I could scrounge.
There were typically two types of people who came to the Icehouse on a Saturday: those that just finished shopping at Waterloo Records, or those taking advantage of our ninety-nine cent Red Dog longnecks. The current customer was one of the first types, and he was studying the menu like I was going to quiz him on it later.
“Can I look at these?” I asked, picking up the stack of CDs he’d left on the counter. The most interesting was Yankee Hotel Foxtrot by Wilco. They were playing the festival in a few hours, and it reminded me that if Megan didn’t get back soon I was going to miss the Asleep at the Wheel set. After three more readings of the menu, the customer decided on loaded chicken nachos, and I decided to put his CD on the loudspeakers.
We were halfway through “Jesus, etc” when Matt shuffled through the door. He was a buyer at the record store, and the Icehouse served as a de facto break room for those guys —same for the bookstore across the street. We had an unspoken agreement with all the neighborhood merchants: a one-dollar tip bought a day’s worth of fountain soda. We took the rest of their money through beer and burger sales. He looked crestfallen when he saw me behind the register.
“I thought Megan was working today,” he mumbled to his dirty Chuck Taylors. Megan had blonde hair, blue eyes, and always looked like she was on her way to a casting call for an all-American cheerleader. Matt found excuses to loiter longer than usual when she was working.
“Cheer up,” I replied, draining the rest of my beer and filling a new one from the tap. “I’m just covering the bar for a few more minutes, then heading to the festival.”
“Oh,” he said, his demeanor visibly improving. “It’s just that she was talking about The Strokes the other day, and I wanted to tell her that someone just unloaded their album to me. We never have it in the used section, so I set it aside in case she was interested.” He smiled like a proud cat that just dropped a dead squirrel on the welcome mat. I made a mental note to ask Meg to name-drop a few bands for me.
“The festival is nothing more than a corporate money grab,” someone growled from the back booth. The voice belonged to the chairman of the Red Dog Club. He lived in an Airstream at the Shady Grove RV Park on Barton Springs Road and was disgruntled that the bustle of the festival was happening in his backyard. Sound check woke him up this morning and he was signaling his displeasure by pounding Red Dogs for breakfast. His tab indicated that he already owed us seven dollars.
“Jesus Christ! Come off it, Doug,” I hollered good-naturedly. “ Nobody wants to hear that nothing good has happened in this town since Aquafest ended.” I was still trying to figure Aquafest out, there were old-timers like Doug who wouldn’t shut up about it, but I had some friends from the East side who didn’t remember it as fondly. But, I had to admit it sounded pretty cool, and I wished I had been around to see one.
“It’s true,” he replied. “They had boat races, carnival rides, and real goddamn music. You missed it,” he added. “This city ain’t what it used to be. Should’ve been here five years ago. The best days are behind us.” He paused his rant to stare lustfully out the window at a young co-ed in the parking lot.
“He’s right,” Paul said from the adjacent booth, looking up from the book he had been quietly reading. “Might be off by ten or fifteen years, but he’s right.” Despite me calling him Red Dog Paul, he was only Red Dog Club-adjacent. He came in daily after his shift at BookPeople and ordered two beers that he sipped while reading a novel, today it was The Life of Pi. If it was a particularly good book, he might get two more beers before catching the bus home. He rarely participated in the banter going on around him, but when he spoke, it commanded the respect of the room. He was the closest we had to Yoda.
Doug raised a beer in salute to Paul’s confirmation without letting his eyes stray from the parking lot. He let out a low, long whistle as the poor girl leaned over to unload her shopping bags into the trunk. The rest of us pretended to ignore him.
“The town is changing,” Paul continued sadly. “I won’t have a job in a year; nobody wants to come into an actual bookstore anymore, and we’re just counting the days until Amazon puts us under. Same for you,” he said, nodding to Matt. “Waterloo’s putting up a good fight, but we all see the writing on the wall. Mark my words, a year from now this Icehouse and the Whole Foods will be the only things left on this corner.”
I didn’t like to think of the record store closing, I’d been going there since I was a child and considered it the coolest place on the planet. I almost felt guilty for giving Meg a burned copy of Is This It.
“Maybe the festival is a good thing though,” he continued after contemplating the label on his Red Dog. “Twenty-eight years is a good run for a TV show, but they’re dying too. They need something to breathe new life into them. Modernize or die, that’s the way it works.” He returned to The Life of Pi.
“It’s not actually being put on by the folks at Austin City Limits,” Matt chimed in. He’d gotten over the initial disappointment of missing Megan and could not resist a conversation that touched on music. “It’s a project from Lance Armstrong’s management group. They’re the same ones who did the Y2K party downtown—the free show where Robert Earl Keen played on one end of Congress Avenue and Lyle Lovett played on the other. They just borrowed the ACL name.”
“They borrowed it?” I asked incredulously. Matt was always right when it came to music, but I needed him to explain this.
“Leased would be a better term,” he said. “They paid for it. They have a three-year agreement to use the name. The management group put up all the money, booked the bands, and organized the festival. The folks at ACL are just spiritual advisors. I heard Terry Lickona had veto power over the lineup, but I don’t know if that’s true or not.”
“That makes sense,” Paul said as he digested the new information. “The ACL name gives authenticity to the festival, but it’s risky for everyone. Austin City Limits might not have to put money up, but without their brand, they’re not shit. Tarnish that, and they’re done.” He took a swig from his Red Dog and darted an inconspicuous glance out the window to see what Doug was whistling about. “Modernize or die… who knows, maybe it will work. One day this festival could mean as much to the city as SXSW does.”
I hoped he was right with the last part. I understood the potential risk – getting thirty thousand people together in a field during a Texas summer carried some danger. Some would succumb to the heat, we all knew that, but it wasn’t likely to be worse than one of Willie’s picnics in July. I was excited. The Warped Tour didn’t travel through the small town I grew up in and attending a music festival was on my short bucket list.
“You’re going to the festival?” Matt turned his attention back to me.
“Sure am,” I replied. The forty-five-dollar wristband was pricey for my financial situation, but there was no way I was going to miss this. I was convinced that combining the Austin vibe with the ACL name could build into something that rivaled Lollapalooza. I hoped to still be going when I was Doug’s age.
“I’d head that way soon,” he said, walking toward the exit. “I’ve been talking to some folks at the gates, and they say lines are already starting to build up. They’re getting more people than they planned for.”
End of part one. Continue to Part Two.
