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In three hours before the show, a two-mile line of cars parked beside the highway shoulder and dumped roughly 5,000 observers outside the speedway gates. It was a thoroughly mixed crowd -- new primitives with Armageddon tattoos and pierced foreheads stood in line alongside suburban families revved up for an evening of slightly demented group entertainment. Groups were dressed both up and down in everything from evening wear to paramilitary fatigues, drawn by outlandish rumors and promises of flaming destruction -- all for the low price of twenty American dollars. Originally scheduled for 10PM, the show started late as mysterious logistical problems delayed the line's progress. Backlit SRL "crowd control" volunteers paced along the track's ridge, visible only as silhouettes behind the caution-taped hurricane fence. Gradually, the crowd crept forward -- along the caution fence, through a septic field, and finally into the speedway. Once inside the gates, the edgy mob settled into three sets of bleachers strategically placed around the asphalt oval, inserted their complimentary earplugs and listened to the evening's soundtrack -- recordings of high-performance engines grinding through a 500-mile endurance race. |
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eaded south on Highway 183, you could spot the Speedway from a mile up the road. The 70-foot UT tower, an everyday sight closer to the city center, rose above the speedway bleachers, glowing in traditional orange victory lights.
 he warped plank stands offered a commanding view of the evening's combatants and the soon-to-be-battlefield. About twenty evil-looking machines sat on the banked track, tended by about sixty roving volunteers clad in all manner of ear, eye, and lung protection. Mark Pauline paced around purposefully, overseeing last-minute testing and tinkering.
At 11:30, just as a three-quarter moon rose red through distant cloud cover, the preparations were completed. Within minutes, the crew had taken "ready" positions as diesel engines roared and turbines whined into the night. The loudspeakers fell dead. A single parachute flare streaked above the track and slowly drifted to the earth. A rocket-powered go cart with tailpipe glowing orange in the night howled around the track. |
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 n the next few seconds, the entire infield exploded to life as the machines launched into a bizarre industrial feeding frenzy. The V1 rocket shook the stands with a roar before attacking various props. Rita the Meter Maid rattled around looking for trouble -- her flaming mace swinging at anything standing. The diesel-powered FlameBlower sent huge plumes of fire into the night sky, while the monst rous Tesla Coil happily crackled and hissed away. Intermittent flare barrages criss-crossed the field, adding an airborne dimension to the show and keeping the audience guessing.
Audience members expecting an orderly series of machine battles soon became aquainted with SRL's anarchic performance style, akin to a five-ring circus with no center stage. The action at SRL performances happens ALL AT ONCE, with no separation between events. Interactions, confrontations, and battles among machines and props occur spontaneously, generated by the whim of the operators and preceding events. Each spectator's experience depends on where they focus their attention; it's impossible to catch ALL the action. Those wanting a more structured "Transformers on Ice" show were bound to be a bit disappointed. The three-clawed Subjugator wasted little time before tearing apart the good ship Entropy. With a few deft snaps and well-placed bursts of fire, the boat had been disemboweled, reduced to planks and fiberglass shards, and finally set aflame. In between sonic blasts from the Shockwave Cannon, the Subjugator twirled its claw over the wreckage in a maniacal victory dance. Several of the machines only lasted a short time before malfunctioning or being taken out of the action. The Walking Machine, a metal mastodon on four heavy feet, crashed into the demonic Clown Box and became entangled before toppling over for the night. |
 or the first part of the show, most of the audience kept at least one eye glued to the an imposing replica of the UT tower. SRL catered the show to the Austin audience by reenacting the Charles Whitman shooting of 1966. The "Randy Weaver" robot perched on the structure's upper rim, playing the part of Charles Whitman by repeatedly firing faux gun blasts onto the field. Meanwhile, the V1 slowly danced around the tower, blowing smaller props downfield before turning its attention to the plywood-and-steel foundation. Blasts of fire rattled the audience's dental work as the rocket pointed its snout into the tower.
Continuous rocket blasts quickly ignited the wood at ground level, and the audience cheered as sparks rose through the replica's inner cavity. This was the logical climax of the evening for many in the stands, and the V1 seemed the perfect tool for the job. Throaty booms from the rocket set more flame and a steady spring wind soon turned the tower into a 70-foot inferno of blazing wood, twisting metal, and liquefied robot parts. As the structure became engulfed with bright flame, the crowd's reaction turned from loudly triumphant to strangely silent. Rather than cheering the Tower's demise, they quietly watched embers shoot upward as more combustibles burned to ash. With a series of creaks, the tower slowly twisted and crashed to the ground, and after a short cheer, some searched for the next spectacle while others quietly stared into the crumpled pyre. |
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orty-five minutes into the performance, the infield was fully transformed into SRL's trademark war zone. Chaos ruled as the props burned, machines lay wounded on the track, and standing robots went after anything still standing. The rocket go cart sped through the obstacle course left by the wounded and dead mechanical participants.
The smell of smoke, burning petroleum, and bleeding machines filled the air as parts of the stands began to empty. Families were generally the first to leave, followed by the sound-sensitive, and then those racing Austin's 2AM bar curfew. Whether the audience left disturbed, disgruntled, or delirious with joy, they'd have plenty to discuss over breakfast the next day. Back inside, the FlameBlower inched toward the huge tripod as the SRL crew kept looking for one last thing to burn....
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