The label on the vintage time-punch clock hanging behind the formica counter says: AUSTIN TIME.

Maybe it’s just an old brand name, but here at the tiny, jammed café Las Manitas it seems to describe a certain tempo. Unlike the standard tourist euphemisms ("island time"), at this diner it means a pace where my sturdy clay mug of coffee touches down almost before I do and has barely been stirred when my oval plate of chorizo scrambled eggs and refried beans arrives. Conversations buzz; waiters and busboys bounce between tables; a lineup starts to form outside.

At first I find myself rapidly forking spicy sausage-flecked eggs into the thick, fresh corn tortillas-until I look around and notice nobody else doing the same. Each table of diners is laughing, chatting and enjoying themselves in an unhurried way; it’s the collective energy of the place that gives it a frenetic edge. So I take the time to check out the colourful, eclectic Latino art on the walls, reach for the stainless sugar bowl full of caliente salsa and settle down to enjoy breakfast.

Fast and slow. New and old. Indie and establishment. All of these describe Austin, a city on the edge in so many ways. Though it’s the state capital, it prides itself on being the "people’s republic of Austin" and cherishes its alternative spirit. A youthful vibe comes courtesy of a concentration of colleges and a top music scene showcased via that PBS staple Austin City Limits. A steady influx of IT workers and engineers is intent on re-inflating the high-tech bubble.

You can even see contrast at work on the cityscape. Glass condo and hotel towers crowd squat brick warehouses downtown but the city is still studded with vintage gems like Fran’s Hamburgers (a location star of TV series Friday Night Lights). Oil affluence flows through the whole mix, lubricating it into one heck of a cocktail.

I had been expecting to see lots of the infamous "Keep Austin Weird" bumper stickers. I didn’t. No, that old slogan has now been overtaken in the hipster South Congress neighbourhood by the new must-have baby-carriage sticker/T-shirt slogan: "Make Austin Weirder." Or, a new variant popularized by the retro-chic vintage motor court Hotel San José: "Keep Austin Good," a reference to the city’s eco-consciousness and push for sustainability.

Sitting in the San José’s leafy courtyard sipping pinot grigio next to a postage-stamp pool, I feel like I’ve tripped back to the 1950s. Yet there’s high-speed wireless in the minimalist furnished, concrete-floored suites (which are booked months in advance of the South by Southwest music festival) and gourmet junk food in the mini-bar.

Strolling South Congress Avenue (SoCo, as the neighbourhood is dubbed) perpetuates that time-warp feeling. Locals linger over tacos and buckets of beers at the homey Güero’s, while down the street beautiful people enjoy upscale meatloaf and mixology at the Woodland restaurant. Cowboy boot institution
Allen’s displays rows and rows of fancy kickers that sell for hundreds, yet at the nearby noir-ish boutique Blackmail, 60-year-old vintage pairs are literally handled with white gloves. At novelty shop Monkey See Monkey Do (which has a barrel of old-fashioned sock monkeys), an entire wall of fridge magnets is devoted to Bush-bashing. Parts & Labour mixes Austin designer wares like Stephanie Nance’s vintage tin jewellery, skull-and-crossbones embroidery kits by Sublime Stitching and T-shirts with irreverent, unprintable slogans. What with people-watching, window-shopping and the lazy heat of the day, time seems to disappear. After lunch I pass a well-dressed man sleeping on shady bench in the 100-degree heat. When I pass by a few hours later, he’s still there.

On another day I get a completely different view via the power corridors of Austin. The tour guide at the State Capitol underlines that Texas was once its own republic, singling out among the portraits on the wall all the U.S. presidents and political heavyweights with connections to Texas. A larger-than-life Lone Star tiled into the gleaming terrazzo floor under the Capitol’s dome seems to bear the weight of history. Remember the Alamo? With this kind of pride, how could you forget?

After my tour I walk over to the other corridors of power, at the Driskill, the grand dame hotel that has hosted presidents and movie stars (and, just the week before my visit, Laura Bush). The hushed bar has been done up haute-Western style, with a faux-vintage tin ceiling, deep leather couches and the thick, cool air of discretion. "There are probably more deals done here than at the State Capitol," one local drawls from a barstool that’s just an unlikely few blocks away from the unruly nightlife and college-kid debauchery of 6th Street, the Bourbon Street of Texas.

At lunchtime new-generation dealmakers slide onto dark terra cotta leather banquettes under the flickering sconces of Bess Bistro in the warehouse district, where muslin drapes on brass rails provide just enough intimacy. A tiny cast iron skillet of creamy white mac and cheese has just that much more cachet in a restaurant owned by actress Sandra Bullock (who also has a home in Austin and is often spotted around town). The dreamy black cassis scent floating through the room is a Bessence organic soy candle, the restaurant’s bespoke brand.

And there is perhaps no better symbol of Austin’s future than the scented candle: the yuppie boutiques of 2nd Street teem with them, stocked for the folks who will soon raid Design Within Reach and Lofty Dog to furnish their high-rising lives. A current building boom includes the upcoming Block 21, which will eventually hold the new Austin City Limits venue, a Willie Nelson-owned club and a W Hotel-a world away from the SoCo scene.

By this time I’ve seen Austin, tasted it, smelled it and talked to enough locals to know there is only one thing left to do: to listen. The stars align and my Canadian expat friends score tickets to see the Tragically Hip at a dive bar. "We love Austin! We love
La Zona Rosa!" hollers lead singer Gord Downie to me and maybe 700 others. The flimsy rafters quiver and maple leafs outnumber stars on this night. The band members rock like they’re still twentysomething. I feel like I’m back in university again. Now that’s a time warp I can get behind.

I cap off my spirit-raising Austin experience with Sunday gospel brunch at legendary barbecue shack and concert bowl Stubbs, where the lineup for the grits-and-barbecue buffet winds through the warren of stone rooms. Perched at my balcony table, I feed on the Motown-inflected harmonies of a greying quartet of singers from a local Baptist church, wearing matching red suits with black collars. Though the George Foreman-looking leader has a mean falsetto, the show is stolen by a little drummer boy in a red satin shirt. No older than eight, he tickles the cymbals and clobbers the skins like a pro, taking an extended, impromptu solo at the end of the set to the smiling, head-shaking dismay of his elders in the band.

The devout line up to clamber on stage and raise their voices with the band in praise but me, I have a flight to catch. So reluctantly, temporarily, I punch out my personal time card, though the music carries on strong and Austin time just keeps ticking.