It’s hard to take your eyes off Starcrawler’s singer Arrow de Wilde. Her candy red hair and worryingly skinny body-frame, loom large with stage presence. Her eyes are animated, wide with shock. She performs odd body contortions during songs, mimicking Regan’s spider-walk pose from The Exorcist. She’s fragile, yet formidable.

@thestarcrawler #sxsw pic.twitter.com/A8ZENaqLnT

— Ed Murphy (@rockinfoed) March 21, 2018

I saw them three nights in a row. Wilde ended all three shows the same. During the final track, she’d leap off the stage shouting, pushing people out of the way. Her makeup was smeared across her face. She'd manically grab attendees, stare intently into their eyes, then continue fighting her way through the crowd.

I ran into her at the sinks in the toilet after their second concert. I simply repeated three slurred words, “great.....fucking.....gig, great.....fucking......gig.”
She narrowed her gaze and starred directly in my eyes. For a split-second, I sensed trouble. To my surprise, her eyes softened and an angelic Californian accent emitted a chirpy, satisfied, “Thank you”.

Starcrawler #sxsw pic.twitter.com/9oXdY9Sp4B

— Ed Murphy (@rockinfoed) March 22, 2018

It was Starcrawler's final show that revealed exactly what they're about. Gig after gig, Wilde's behaviour had become more erratic and unpredictable. Which ultimately culminated in a sublimely mischievous Flufffer Pit Party at Barracuda.

All the acts on the night played on the venue floor. No stages, no bouncers, no barriers between the musicians and the surrounding fans. It was slightly odd at first, but actually rather fantastic to be eye-level with the acts. Everything about attending a gig was enhanced. People are much more present when the singer, or the guitarist, can walk up and stand right next to you while they're playing.
The downside to the set-up was the photographers took up all the front positions surrounding the band. This began to grate guitarist Henri Cash. Too be honest, it'd seriously bothered the previous acts, Public Access TV and Grim Streaker too, who'd played earlier in the evening.

Due to the lighting, photographers were forced to use flash. Second after second, anywhere from five to fifteen blinding flashes going off in your face is going to annoy you. This was the catalyst.
The final straw was that none of the photographers were moving from their spots. Generally, the rule for photographers is shoot for the first three songs of the band's set. Everyone is cool with that. It's when a room full of photographers decide to ignore that, and continue using flash for a 30-40 minute set, is when the trouble starts.

Starcrawler 2 #sxsw pic.twitter.com/huJB5JBzTh

— Ed Murphy (@rockinfoed) March 22, 2018

And, how gleefully did Starcrawler except this invitation for disobedience. Arrow de Wilde began stalking the photographers. Pulling individuals out of the crowd by their SXSW badge straps and mocking them. She grabbed cameras, she snatched personal property and hurled it into the darkness. She'd saddle next to a punter, size him up with that deathly stare, and do the exact opposite of what you'd expect.

Case in point, the action that caused me to keel over in hysterics involved a twenty-something photographer. He wore black Chelsea boots, dark painted-on jeans, a loose, mostly unbuttoned, silk shirt that occasionally slipped from his shoulder, and a velvet rouge, pork-pie hat that held his hair from his eyes. In his left hand was a camera, not anything new or fancy, it was a retro. Maybe it went better with the entire ensemble. By general measurements, this was a good looking fella.

Wilde walked very slowly and seductively across the floor towards the young man. His back was against a pillar as she approached still singing. She stopped in front of him. There was tension. It looks like she might kiss him. She's leaning in towards his face. She's stopped singing. Here it comes. Wait, what's she doing. Her hand is moving towards her nose. She wouldn't.

She pushed in the side of her nose, blocking her nostril on one side. Allowing her to snot-rocket all over his face. Immediately, I was bent over at the waist trying to catch my breath. People began staring at me like I was the lunatic for laughing at this. It took a good minute to clear the water from my eyes and refocus on the group.

Ten minutes later, another photographer, who'd taken up snot's position, also received similar treatment. Only this time it wasn't snot he'd be cleaning off his face. At some point during the set Wilde had begun bleeding from her mouth. It streamed down her chest. She walked up to the photographer and spat blood all over his face and chest. It sprayed everywhere. I even had a few spots on my cream shirt as I stood behind him.

During the last track, she began her parade through the crowd. The rest of the band began playing manically which only added fuel to the singer's fire.

She was taking people's hats off, pulling at their bags, and barging her way into as many people as she could. She screamed at the venue's sound engineer and tried to climb on his back. The toilet door opened beside the engineer's desk, and the sight of Wilde going wild, was enough evidence for one man to close it and not venture out till she was gone.

She continued to pull people's clothes and hair. And like the previous shows before, as the rampaging guitars and drums came to an end, everyone wondered where'd she go? Her signature Kasier Soze move. She'd vanished into the night.

@thestarcrawler #sxsw pic.twitter.com/bgQ6HRTxyG

— Ed Murphy (@rockinfoed) March 21, 2018