make-believe.org

Welcome to Texas, Mr Pearson

Austin concentrates its nightlife into two blocks around East 6th St. These are not dark, soft-lit nooks punctuating clothes shops, record shops and cafes -- in fact, every premises on the strip is a venue, from Iron Cactus at the north-east to Buffalo Billiards south-west. All broadcast their chatter, screeches and peals of laughter, bassy beats and chuggering guitars onto the street.

As we approached the corner of East 6th, a crowd of about twenty congregated, mostly white youths dressed for a night out. This was outside the restaurant where we, having just arrived in the city, intended to get some tucker. Virginia said, "Ugh, I hope that's not the queue."

We crossed the street and entered the crowd: it was not a queue. They were singing, tunefully and determinedly, led by a tall white frat-boy wearing sunglasses and a cowboy-hat. They were singing "Jesus is My Saviour", their voices rising as we threaded through the choir. Separately, seven or eight of them stood in a line on the road, arms locked and with red gaffer tape over their mouths. A young black woman filmed them, and her accomplice on the mic provided a running commentary.

We're in that film, because as slow-moving, bewildered tourists, we had moved right behind the line of self-made mutes, trying to figure out what was going on. As I circled around them, up next to the film crew, the line turned towards me, and quite pointedly let me read the word scrawled in black marker on their taped-up lips. It was "Purity".

Two floors up on the balcony of Maggie Mae's, scores catcalled and jeered.

Joseph | 7 Mar 2008