Dream a little dream

But he carries himself like a pro. Cracking jokes between songs, he was eager but relaxed. He smiled a lot. He looked just like John Lennon...no, Yoko...no, John. With his horn-rimmed glasses, bleach-tipped scruffy black hair, and stooped shoulders, he came off like a guy whose Manhattan upbringing never wound him too tightly--an articulate jokester as interested in the scoop on the next warehouse party as he is in the contents of the White Album or the influence of early Fluxus art. By the third song, the audience was thoroughly smitten.

A bit later he introduced the one cover of the set, the Beach Boys' "God Only Knows," and while he half-apologized to those who wouldn't "get it," he respectfully dedicated the song to the recently deceased Carl Wilson. Embellished with less techno texture than the other tunes, this rendition's strength was in the simple grace of Lennon's vocal harmonies blending with his bassist's--no ugly, flat bellowing here. The members of the audience who knew about the mutual admiration between Brian Wilson and John Lennon looked on happily. Oh, this is cool. John would've dug this. And even without the historic context, it was cool. Not presumptuous or precious or obtuse. Just thoughtful and pretty.

As the set and his test rolled toward a close, the normally distracted industry audience continued to watch the boy like mesmerized children looking in on a baby chimp exhibit at a zoo. So what was the actual attraction? The music was sometimes better than decent, promising though never mind-blowing, and not nearly as powerful as the set that Austin's own Sixteen Deluxe had played on the same stage 30 minutes earlier. Did the younger Lennon inherit his dad's charisma? Or was the audience giving Sean that power because of the mystique of his circumstance? His father was shot to death when the boy was five years old. He was raised by his mother in the most stimulating, culture-dense city on the planet. He was born into the cult of celebrity, and won't escape it. But young Sean has a chunk of the patrilineal, and perhaps matrilineal, gift built right into his system. His performance on Saturday night showed a slice of it, and the audience felt it.

To his credit, he's taken some wise steps on this path to rock stardom. He's kept his profile low and stuck by the New York musicians he befriended early; his solo record, Into the Sun, is due out soon on the Beastie Boys' Grand Royal label; he chose an opening slot on a stage at SXSW as the place to try out his live-show chops. But he'll never make an appearance without his parents' legacy hung heavy round his neck, making his own trek all the more precarious. Boy, you're gonna carry that weight a long time. So far, so good.

--Christina Rees

Shoving room only
Standing in the middle of the tiny stage at Maggie Mae's, Stereophonics drummer Stuart Cable let loose a stream of garbled Welsh insults that ended with the unmistakable phrase "fuckin' wanker." Singer-guitarist Kelly Jones simply shrugged and said, "Blame him," pointing at the nearby stage manager. As the audience looked at one another in confusion, the band was shooed off the stage, and the vilified stage manager meekly offered, "We have to keep a schedule." That's how one of the best--and most frustrating--shows at South by Southwest ended.

About an hour earlier, the city fire marshal had interrupted the proceedings by demanding that at least 100 people exit the club. Naturally, not that many people were keen on leaving, but that didn't matter to the security team working the club, a group of beefy, slow-witted goons who practically began ejecting unwilling members. As the stage manager continually begged people to leave, Maggie Mae's Gestapo shoved and berated the audience until a sufficient number had been evacuated, some 30 minutes after the band's announced start time.

The band took the stage as though nothing had happened (Limeys) and showed the club personnel why so few were willing to leave. Creating a rock sound that has less to do with bands of the past (although they do give a strong nod to the Kinks), Stereophonics are one of the best new bands to come out of the U.K. since the heyday of Britpop in 1995. All the right elements were there: the anthemic chorus of "A Thousand Trees," the hold-your-lighter-in-the-air balladry of "Traffic," the sly humor of "Too Many Sandwiches." For 20 minutes, Stereophonics transformed the erstwhile frat bar into Wembley Arena. And then they had the plug pulled.

Of course, it should also be noted that the band only needed 20 minutes to squeeze in all of its radio singles, even though the show was unexpectedly cut short, but read nothing into that: Stereophonics proved it is every bit as good as the hype surrounding it. Sounding like Oasis if Noel Gallagher grew up idolizing the Davies brothers instead of Lennon and McCartney, Stereophonics have an arena-ready sound that could make them the band that alternarock radio has been looking for ever since Oasis stopped selling records.