Todd Patrick is a Brooklyn-based DIY (do it yourself) music promoter whose modus operandi is to find unorthodox spaces—abandoned warehouses, apartments, wherever—and stage loud, packed concerts that are often accompanied by blown fuses and visits from the police. Shortly after Jay Buim's film Todd P Goes to Austin opens, we're thrown into his world when police bearing battering rams threaten to break down the door of his latest venue.

The camera is usually handheld and shaky; the focus is sometimes a little slow to lock in; the light isn't great; the sound often seems to come from camera-mounted microphones. It's possible to explain this away as being in the spirit of the film's subject, but in reality none of this matters at all, because you're there, in the middle of things, experiencing them as they're happening. Stuffed into a van with Todd and several other people, including various musical groups, Buim and company provide an almost first-person account of the difficulties indie bands face while touring, playing show after show, driving across county in an undependable vehicle. As the title indicates, they're on their way to Austin, Texas, where the world-famous South By Southwest music and film festival takes place every year. Todd P has become sick of how corporate the festival had become, and he's decided to stage his own outdoor, reasonably priced concert the same weekend.

Todd P is an interesting case, because, like most visionaries (and he is a visionary of a sort), he comes across as kind of pretentious, self-important asshole. But his motives are pure, and the results are inspiring. He thinks that music has been lost in a sea of marketing such that it's viewed as a product, and he advocates a DIY approach that connects fans with bands without involving a huge corporate structure. He may seem like a jerk sometimes, but he gets things done: his audacious plan works, despite some glitches.

The highlight—indeed, the reason for this film's being—is the stellar concert footage. Todd P's ethos is that the entire point is the music, that it's important to strip away the whole apparatus until the music is the focus again, and director Jay Buim channels that by never straying more than a few minutes of a show. The film introduces you to bands that only diehard indie record store junkies know about, from relatively big acts like Dan Deacon to lesser-known groups like girl-punk outfit Mika Miko, whose songs were so great I ran out and ordered one of their CDs. The best are two incendiary performances by Baltimore/Sydney band The DeathSet, where singer Johnny Sierra perches precariously atop towers of speakers, screaming out his band's compellingly melodic noise-rock-punk-electronica hybrid. Indie darlings Matt & Kim utterly carry the film's finale with an inspiring rendition of their "Silver Tiles"—so good, in fact, that it made me kind of like the song, and the band, even though in the cold light of day I can't stand them.

That's the greatest thing about this film, actually: it communicates the raw energy of loud music in unorthodox spaces, the adrenaline rush of being surrounded by fellow ecstatic revelers, the joy of screaming along with ten or a hundred other people who are sharing that experience with you. Many other music docs and concert films can give you an idea of how great a band is live, but how many can truly make you feel like you're in the audience? Todd P Goes to Austin is in elite company on that count.

—June 27, 2009