Shortly before one o’clock on Thursday morning, a car turned onto Red River in Austin—a street lined with rock clubs and music venues, and one that was barricaded off for five blocks to allow pedestrians and cyclists to move freely—and struck and killed two people who were getting onto a moped. Before the car stopped, it had driven through the crowd, leaving the total number of injured at 23.
Pretty much everyone in Austin this week is either doing SXSW things, or really, really tired of hearing about SXSW things. Either way, there’s a question about the festival that’s gotten harder and harder to answer over the past few years: What exactly is SXSW?
Wes Anderson is a Texan, but he belongs to the world. At least, he spends more time making movies about far-flung locales (say Budapest) than Houston, the city in which he was born and raised; Austin, where he was educated; or Dallas, where he launched his career.
Bad news, Little Monsters: You’re not going to be able to crash down onto a parking lot on 5th Street in Austin to catch Lady Gaga perform a free show from within the confines of a 56-foot-tall Doritos vending machine.
Bryce Gilmore’s fabled trailer (which was shuttered a year after he opened Barley Swine) is back. Version 2.0 occupies swanky new digs, with an open kitchen surrounded by a reclaimed-wood bar, to keep things casual. Mix-and-match plates and platters hold predictably delicious dishes (roasted-fennel-and-turnip salad in a metal bowl, pickled shrimp on coarse-ground grits in a canning jar). Cow’s tongue, simultaneously tender and crispy, was brightened by arcs of beets.