Try as we might, Zach and I just couldn't quite make our Southby schedules jibe. A flurry of text message found us trailing one another around Sixth Street on the last night of the festival. As I was watching Los Campesinos! crowd the state at the Parrish, Zach was lining up to see the Autumns, whom he says are most excellent. He stuck around to see British Sea Power play, and though I wanted to join, the line was far too impressive by the time Campesinos! let out. BSP might have been one of the last big shows playing late on SXSW.

I wasn't too pleased with my decision to see Los Campesinos!—in fact, for the sake of this brief report, I'm going to drop that exclamation point. The Welsh eleventy-or-so piece was tight, I'll admit. But that's practically their whole shtick: A ton of kids playing a ton of instruments on songs that are, at root, three-chord songs that could be done as well by a four-piece rock band. It's a pop band with all the frills. When Aleksandra Campesinos steps to the mic, Gareth Campesinos steps back, picking up a xylophone or a keyboard or whatever else is handy.

If the band name as last name isn't indication enough, the band is twee. Off-the-charts twee. Los Campesinos makes Belle and Sebastian sound like a drone metal band doing a tribute to the Kronos Quartet. From lyrics to instrumentation to stage presence, the band (which in fact has seven members) projects as much self-aware irony as it does pure-pop enthusiasm. "International Tweexcore Underground" is one of the band's biggest hits, where the band sings about its place in the pantheon of ideological indie rock groups. Namely, they name-check other performers or institutions—Ian MacKaye, Sarah Records—who staked out political ground or struck DIY poses that today, in the age of post-history, seem perhaps naive or contrived. "Ooh, this city is run by fucking pigs, and though you say you're my friend, you're not, you're one of them," sings Los Campesinos, mocking the anti-, us-against-them punk ethos.

Fair enough—but in place of politics, Los Campesinos offers only ironic posturing. For example, the band couldn't help but note that "International Tweexcore Underground" was their biggest hit. Gareth kept mentioning the fact to the crowd, semi-joking that they play it last so people won't leave, seemingly in response to requests for the song (which this writer didn't hear). "Death to Los Campesinos" is another popular number. If it's possible, they're smarmier than Art Brut, wordier than Jens Lekman, and standing on the shoulders of dozens, maybe hundreds, of pop bands who have defined every element of the sound they have to offer.

I was sorry to miss British Sea Power, but I think I found an even better antidote to LCs!, an Austinite peformer named Davíd Garza. I'm tempted to use the word "authentic," a word that shouldn't carry so  much weight as it does in discussions about art. I will say that Garza rocked harder, put forward a stage show that was more than self-aware banter, and played songs from a catalog of works that has never found much of a commercial foothold but is treasured by Austin locals.