Speaking of style, the Chronicle’s own Style Editor and rapacious socialite Anne Harris played gracious host for the evening, opening her beautiful Hyde Park home to an eclectic menagerie of Austin music lovers. Harris’ living room created an intimate performance space that allowed listeners to interact with the musicians on a personal level. As the John-Pauls’ sonic tsunami washed over the audience, blowing back untethered hair and rippling facial skin in rhythmic, tear-streaked undulations, rose-cheeked, sweaty toddlers gyrated across the hardwood floor in a euphoric, trancelike daze that resembled either Club Foot, circa 1981, or an epileptic ward on angel dust. Hearts were broken. Memories were made.
Fortunately just a few yards away in Harris’ lovely, spacious kitchen, mnemonic equilibrium was being maintained by an obscenely overstocked bar – exactly the type of happy hunting grounds where good memories go to die. We killed a few by alternating shots of Jameson whiskey and Herradura tequila with Chronicle proofreaders Josh Kupecki and Danielle White, after which we stumbled out to the party’s secondary attraction, Harris’ above-ground pool, which was quietly nestled behind a wooden privacy fence and guarded closely by a vicious hedge of Ligustrum and well-hidden sprinkler head.
The pool itself had a brilliant emerald hue due to a recent algae bloom and perhaps the lingering effects of a couple of bong hits, and though we were appropriately outfitted in a pair of Desert Storm camo swim trunks that we stole (metaphorically, at least) from the Salvation Army for only $2.49, we made an uncharacteristically responsible decision not to sully the splendor of that aqueous art piece with a drunken, chubby, middle-aged cannonball, so we went back inside and finished off the Jameson. A perfect evening.