Friday, April 04, 2008
Sxsw: Best People-watching Since Airports
A punk band thrashes around on the farthest stage in Waterloo Park. People swarm in front, and spread out over the remaining space, while some weave in and out of the crowd in a line.
A woman, skinny, blond, late-30s, in an all pink jumpsuit is stage-diving, and each time, she surfs safely over the sea of hands in the air, only to get back up and jump in again.
Away from the action, way back on the left, another couple stands: she, with fushia, black and blond streaked, cropped hair, he in a black faded t-shirt, torn jean shorts just past the knee, a pair of black Chuck Taylors worn and faded, tattoo sleeves in a ray of colors streaming down his arms, plugs in both ears, hair a wild mess.
He is holding a baby girl, dressed in separate shades of pink: pink corduroy skirt, pink knit tee, pink ruffled socks and shoes. She has a giddy, bright smile, and is no older than two or three.
The mother leans down and takes something out of a bag. She opens the bottle, and smooths sunscreen carefully and gently on the little girl’s face, arms and legs.
Then, the father bounces her up and down in his arms to the band’s beat, and she laughs hysterically, just beaming at him.
Then, he sets her down and she starts to dance. She taps her feet and sways her arms, happily and clumsily. And they cheer her on.
A little while later, at the stage to the left of the first, an older man, closer to 40, in a polo shirt, and balding, stands up straight and stares far away to the stage where another band is playing.
Three children stand by his sides:
The oldest is barely a teenager, but she’s got the attitude and sense of self down, when she is not standing awkwardly. She looks around with a perfectly practiced aloof face, with interest to everything going on in the park outside of those standing closest to her. She observes, but does not speak.
The youngest is a boy, five years old and terrified. Too much going on for him. He desires more than anything to be at home, or in his room, or at his grandmother’s house, someplace familiar. The noise is bothering him, and he is starting to cry. He covers his ears. The father pays no attention, or is oblivious. Most likely, sensitized. The little boy hides his face in the back of his father’s shirt, and leans into it, hands still over his ears.
The third child is a girl 10 years old, long brown hair, alert, watching everything in a sort of amazement. Her mind is reeling. You can see it the way she turns around, scanning her eyes in space in sync with her body. She sees her brother, still buried in the man. She comes up from behind, wraps her arms around him, hugs him, and whispers something in his ear. His face still hidden. She braces herself, then picks him up, leans back and bends, raising him high. Suddenly they are laughing together, and he’s not afraid anymore.
A punk band thrashes around on the farthest stage in Waterloo Park. People swarm in front, and spread out over the remaining space, while some weave in and out of the crowd in a line.
A woman, skinny, blond, late-30s, in an all pink jumpsuit is stage-diving, and each time, she surfs safely over the sea of hands in the air, only to get back up and jump in again.
Away from the action, way back on the left, another couple stands: she, with fushia, black and blond streaked, cropped hair, he in a black faded t-shirt, torn jean shorts just past the knee, a pair of black Chuck Taylors worn and faded, tattoo sleeves in a ray of colors streaming down his arms, plugs in both ears, hair a wild mess.
He is holding a baby girl, dressed in separate shades of pink: pink corduroy skirt, pink knit tee, pink ruffled socks and shoes. She has a giddy, bright smile, and is no older than two or three.
The mother leans down and takes something out of a bag. She opens the bottle, and smooths sunscreen carefully and gently on the little girl’s face, arms and legs.
Then, the father bounces her up and down in his arms to the band’s beat, and she laughs hysterically, just beaming at him.
Then, he sets her down and she starts to dance. She taps her feet and sways her arms, happily and clumsily. And they cheer her on.
A little while later, at the stage to the left of the first, an older man, closer to 40, in a polo shirt, and balding, stands up straight and stares far away to the stage where another band is playing.
Three children stand by his sides:
The oldest is barely a teenager, but she’s got the attitude and sense of self down, when she is not standing awkwardly. She looks around with a perfectly practiced aloof face, with interest to everything going on in the park outside of those standing closest to her. She observes, but does not speak.
The youngest is a boy, five years old and terrified. Too much going on for him. He desires more than anything to be at home, or in his room, or at his grandmother’s house, someplace familiar. The noise is bothering him, and he is starting to cry. He covers his ears. The father pays no attention, or is oblivious. Most likely, sensitized. The little boy hides his face in the back of his father’s shirt, and leans into it, hands still over his ears.
The third child is a girl 10 years old, long brown hair, alert, watching everything in a sort of amazement. Her mind is reeling. You can see it the way she turns around, scanning her eyes in space in sync with her body. She sees her brother, still buried in the man. She comes up from behind, wraps her arms around him, hugs him, and whispers something in his ear. His face still hidden. She braces herself, then picks him up, leans back and bends, raising him high. Suddenly they are laughing together, and he’s not afraid anymore.
Labels: People-watching, SWSW
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