- There is a certain amount of truth in the cliché that music in Houston moves to a slightly slower, more relaxed tempo. Obvious to many now through the prominence of Houston rap, it's also true (though in slightly less dramatic fashion) of our indie rock, our noise, our DJs and so on. Events start later, bands rock out a bit more loosely and in general things are hazy, chilled-out and sometimes sloppy. Why? It's pretty simple. Anyone who's been here more than a week will be quick to tell you it's because, most days, it's too fucking hot to do much of anything.
Houston's first outdoor rock and dance festival certainly sounded like a novel exercise in cheek, emphasizing as it did the sweltering conditions of a Texas summer. Arriving with precious little fanfare (we found out about it by coming across a discarded flyer on a night walk), the affair promised a bang-for-bucks lineup, with weekend passes running a mere $25. The prospect of seeing a mix of local bands and DJs usually relegated to the overcrowded (Boondocks) or overpriced (Rudyards) Houston bars, alongside RJD2, 2020 Soundsystem, Drop the Lime and The Rapture, it looked to be a rare highlight in the barren summer social calendar.
Photo credit: Adrian Gonzales
However, as June progressed, it became obvious that the irony of the festival's name could become more painful than funny. As record highs and almost zero rainfall two-fisted our town into submission, the notion of doing anything at all outside went from dubious to appalling. There was even talk of canceling the fireworks show on Saturday, booked to be one of the nation's biggest, unless some sort of fluid at least wet the surface of Eleanor Tinsley Park.
So it was with much apprehension that we made the trek out to Jones Plaza on the afternoon of the 4th. The gauge was predicted to peak at a nausea-inducing 107, the air was thick enough to eat with a spoon and there wasn't a single cloud on the horizon. By the time we reached the festival grounds, it became clear that there was something else missing: festival attendees. The cops, blue-shirted event organizers, energy drink girls and ticket-takers easily outnumbered the handful of people present. All of whom seemed to be engaged in staying as far as possible from ground zero, which was nothing more than a spot of baking pavement with local band Bolt suffering heroically onstage.
Photo credit: Adrian Gonzales
The second stage, also for the most part vacant of revelers, was a small one set up on the next block, meaning you had to walk out of the main stage area and cross two (very narrow) streets. This was totally fine, as the traffic in that area is beyond minimal. However, once folks started gathering for the fireworks which were going off a short distance to the west, things got a little more interesting. Families pushing balloon-laden strollers and hauling coolers on dollies moving in the opposite direction as the occasional festivalgoer (meaning mainly us) made for some nice sidelong glances. This charming bit of planning seemed in keeping with the ad hoc, easy-going nature of the event. The festival staff were laid back and the wristband-access entry and re-entry was a really great idea, worlds beyond the headaches inherent in a large event like Miami's Ultra. Even the bathrooms were roomy, pleasant and odor-free. (Of course, this could have been because no one was using them.)
The local artists seemed the most affected by the minimal attendance. Houston DJs Dayta and Ceeplus Bad Knives, accustomed to rocking out full houses, sported rueful smiles and played mostly laid-back classics, Ceeplus turning in a fine set of electro staples I'd not heard him dip into before. The out-of-towners, though I'm sure disappointed in the turnout, turned in fine performances. Drop the Lime's set was surprisingly buoyant and uplifting, but the definite highlight of day one was the Rapture DJ set. Vito and Jordan seemed almost to play against the absence of people, jamming out a tight mix of sweltering beats.
Photo credit: Adrian Gonzales
As the sun set slowly in the haze and the massive (non-festival related) crowd filtered around the grounds, headed towards the park to watch the fireworks and shit-kicker Clay Walker, it only served to accentuate the sadness of the event. For a city with indie and dance scenes that complains so often and so loudly about what little is on offer, the Texas Heat festival was a well-organized event with a great collection of artists both homegrown and imported, and only one looming flaw. Unfortunately, that flaw ended up being a fatal one.
This time, it really was too fucking hot.