From a wreite-up in the Nashville Scene:
We got to The Basement at 9:45 p.m. Friday night for SausageFest, a seemingly appropriate arrival time for a “festival,” only to find that most of the performers had yet to arrive. It was just us, 20 or so other patrons and about 100 hot dogs. Was this going to be a show or just a cookout?
After nearly an hour of waiting around, we got our answer as Nashville’s own poet laureate Chris Crofton took the stage, not as a stand-up, but with his Alcohol Stuntband. A Billy Bragg of funny, Crofton kept us thoroughly entertained nonetheless with lyrical topics such as his willingness to make a woman climax before going to jail, his sweet lamentation of the death of John Denver and his indictment of hipster gentrification—”Dickerson Pike.”
Just as it seemed that this festival of masculinity was getting underway, it was swiftly emasculated by what has to be one of the greatest mis-bookings of all-time. Asheville’s Stephanie’s Id bewildered the crowd of Pabst-chugging, hot-dog eating satanists with their female singer, who evoked none other than Stevie Nicks with her scarf-adorned mic stand and fabric twirling. The whole shebang was backed by a band that sounded like Coldplay meets Sigur Rós, or any other thoroughly non-rocking combination thereof. This is when the SausageFest briefly became the Lilith Fair, at least until The Mattoid, appearing as a duo, busted into “Cocksuckers.”