The fact that Audible Mainframe isn't one of the most propped bands in America has always aggravated me. Not just because they sound great - that can be said of every act and artist I endorse (if I do say so myself) - but because they write hits that I want to sing along with beside thousands of fellow fans in dope venues across the country.

For the sake of striking up a much-needed conversation, let’s imagine that a team of big dick swinging promoters was exploring the possibility of hosting a major South by Southwest-esque music festival in Boston. For the sake of second references, let’s speculatively call it North by Northeast (NXNE) – even though that’s corny and should never be repeated outside the context of this article (and because, as my homeboy Trees notes below, because it already exists in Toronto). While we’re thinking happy thoughts, let’s also imagine that it would be a massive week-long donkey punch designed to consume Boston the way that only sports and liberalism do now (and that no current music fest comes even close to).

Faraone, Brodeur, and Thompson are just now plowing through SXSW's final night -- but we're just getting started with the weekend wrap up. We've got new videos going up hourly, Faraone is still Twittering his face off (and we don't expect him to shut up anytime soon), and there are some epic blog updates coming tomorrow morning. In the meantime, we bring you some of what's been going up on the site over the last 24 hours. First up, THE MAE SHI get it done under a parachute. Make sure you join us AFTER THE JUMP for Japanese punks PEELANDER-Z risking life, limb, and traffic accidents by setting up their instruments (and crazy-ass alien costumes) in the middle of a busy Austin street; Talib Kweli and Hi-Tek performing as REFLECTION ETERNAL; the first performance by Fugees producer JOHN FORTE since his release from prison; and a bone-rattling assault by the DEATH SET. That's just the beginning -- there's already more video up live at thephoenix.com/sxsw. 

As foreshadowed by Brodeur yesterday, Metallica did indeed show up for a semi-secret gig at Stubbs BBQ. Below: video from PHX HQ, overlooking the mayhem. After the jump: video from inside Stubbs. 

ThePhoenix.com/SXSW: Daily video, Twittering, blog overload

Imagine your favorite artist of all-time performing his or her best material that you’ve never seen live before. That’s what I got last night when Talib Kweli and Hi-Tek nearly tore through the entire Reflection Eternal disc, Train of Thought; I had more blood rushing through me than when I got my debut blow job back in eighth grade.

It was a long day before I got to Kweli at the Scoot Inn – and to the afterparty at the Red Bull Moon Tower in the middle of absolutely nowhere. I ate lots of barbecue and even nearly shat my pants; but it was beyond worth it – I’m considering adopting grandchildren just so I can tell them about my adventures.

As it turns out, brisket goes well with junky music. I won’t call anyone out (though I bet Brodeur will), but the sounds penetrating my skull while I grubbed baked beans and free potato salad at the SoHo Lounge nearly forced the barbecue right out the other side.

If you have a minute, shed a tear for lonely guys who strum guitars on corners and belt heartfelt lyrics; they’re the only ones who care about their feelings – kind of like Britney Spears . . .  YAK BALLZ, LADY SOV, AND MORE AFTER THE JUMP

Faraone is still out at that ungodly Red Bull Moon Tower party 10 taxi minutes away (an epic distance in SXSW terms). Whoever was on the mic in the background was hollering state fair style, and a heavy throb beat the fuck out of every other syllable he said. I’ve just returned from an unsuccessful attempt to jockey a cab to hustle over to the suddenly announced (or belatedly realized) 2:30 a.m. Monotonix show at the Ballet across Congress. (That puts CMJ on the board with one point.)

Heart-mincing stuff, guitar-lust-wise—especially considering the last thing I’ll hear before laying my pretty head to rest tonight will be the (admittedly satisfying, but still) wanktastic stylings of Ben Harper, booming from the Stubb’s amphi-tent-thing across the street from PHXxSxSWHQ. (Trans: An apartment we blog and pass out in.)

Until then, this video from an earlier show in Austin will have to do. Oh I just ha-ate myself right now.

A busy Wednesday by our three correspondents found 'em club-hopping from old-school indie to new-school crust punk. Here's the Wednesday video dump, with more pouring in as fast as their shitty hotel wireless can upload it. You can keep tabs on Brodeur, Faraone, and Thompson -- not to mention all your hometown faves -- at our ultra-ridiculous SXSW Headquarters page, with daily blog posts, hourly video, and moment-by-moment twitter retorts, only at ThePhoenix.com/SXSW. First up: chiptune mayhem with Anamanaguchi at the DataPop show, then tons more after the jump . . . 

Austin's a fucking meh-ess this morning: the asphalt's all sticky with spilled Shiner Bock; Red Bull cans are stubbed out like butts all over the place; and the gutters are alive with the sound of psyched grackles pecking up dew-damp pizza crusts. One thing that's not all over the streets: people. For a few scant hours each morning, South-by makes a ghost town out of Austin--albeit one with plenty of trash cans. It's a little stretch of calm between big boozy storm systems--and last night's was a doozy.

I might not always land on my feet, but face first in a pile of fine ass ain’t a bad place to be.

You can call it dumb luck. While my flight from Palm Beach was supposed to layover in Houston before re-routing to the heart of SXSW, there was too much fog to touch down. So we stopped in Austin, and some dude with one of those sweet moving staircases helped me off.

Destination: Austin

I’m writing this South by Southwest intro from a poolside table at my mother’s crib in Florida. I came here to chill before diving into the hedonistic abyss known as SXSW, but wound up chasing painkillers with Bud bottles and banging on my laptop for three days.

I’m not packing clothes for this year’s CMJ Marathon in New York City. In fact, I’m not even bringing down a laptop. Instead of spending five straight days inhaling various poisons, feverishly blogging on the same nonsense that everyone else is covering, and ransacking my weathered eardrums with out-of-tune guitar shreds and swollen bass lines, I’m limiting my trip to one day and two nights, and seeing how much I can cram in.