- Friday
Saddling up with my photographer and go-to-bro Ben Seretan, we hit a rainy Interstate 84 in hopes of catching the first minutes of All Tomorrow's Parties NY, but thunderstorms and an exploded pickup delayed us by a couple hours. After a long but giddy ride, we sauntered up to stage one (Kutsher's main ballroom) shortly before The Dirty Three played their lauded Ocean Songs and, after a deep breath, began processing what was about to happen.
As we realized then and continued realizing throughout the weekend, we were mostly surrounded by rich white people from New York City and London. At least half of the people I talked to were press themselves. The much written about, semi-dilapidated kitsch of Kutsher's Country Resort, a beacon of the Borscht Belt country clubs, really did feel like sleep-away camp for adults. So for the second year in a row, ATP came to upstate New York with a lineup to make any independent music fan wet their pants.
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Before I could sink too deeply into this semi-ironic cultural reverie though, The Dirty Three kicked off Ocean Songs accompanied by Nick Cave on a shiny white piano. As someone with just a faint acquaintance to the album, it was hard to be excited about their set. I think this was actually an interesting way to evaluate their performance, since time's effect on music was obviously a focus of the festival. So with this in mind, I can say that the set seemed “untimeless” to me: the free breakdowns and fiddle leads lacked freshness to my modern ears. Not to say the set didn't deserve respect, but even Warren Ellis' pirate leg kicks didn't rev me up.
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Next up was Suicide performing their first, self-titled LP. For a sound check, Martin Rev fisted all of his synthesizers in sequence while sheepishly smiling to the crowd. As the duo kicked off “Ghostrider,” my nostrils literally began to vibrate. Then my pant legs vibrated (yeah, even with skinny jeans), and I knew we were in deep. Louder than even Boris, Suicide's set was an awesomely nauseating experience that was as compelling as it was painful. Mostly sober, I felt like I could see the soundwaves from the subwoofer bedding Alan Vega's idiosyncratic lyrical coughs and karate stretches. “Cheeree” was particularly engrossing, tonally so carefree but physically so brutal. Every 10 minutes or so, groups of people would leave, maybe to vomit, while another batch of fans took their place and grinded to the punishment.
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Panda Bear then took the stage, moved from Saturday to the chagrin of some and excitement of others. Setting up simply behind a huge white screen, I had high expectations that were exceeded many times over. One of the best sets of the weekend, Noah Lennox's vocals were near-perfect, with ideal musical builds in front of surreal, color-burnt visuals. Running for over an hour, the set unfolded logically and naturally, a feat for any musician, but especially inspiring for a heavily electronic musician. Panda ran through his hits, new jams, and a few Animal Collective tunes for good measure. Also exciting were his intra-song interludes, great loops that I'd expect to hear on future albums.
After a dinner break, we caught 15 minutes of David Cross, who was disappointing. He had resorted to drug and poop jokes, giggly maybe, but not vintage Cross material. We ended the night with The Jesus Lizard, Chicago's noisy punks that abrasively rocked out as many more would during the festival. Singer David Yow curated pit jump after pit jump, his nasal growl unfazed by beer splurges and two fans trying to strangle him. At one point, a fan hopped up on stage and didn't move. Security gave Yow a “want me to get him off look,” but instead, Yow stuck his hand down the gentleman's trousers before tossing him off stage. Oh, and they sounded pretty cool too.
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- Saturday
I opened my eyes from my Howard Johnson bed to a question. Ben said: “I'm going to ask this in as short a way as possible… do you want to go to Olive Garden?” So then we ate lunch at Olive Garden, my first time ever. Breadsticks were good but sort of derivative of real breadsticks. The salad came pre-dressed though -- always nice to have an assertive chef. Anyway, after lunch, we kicked off Saturday with the recently added Sufjan Stevens playing all of Seven Swans. His set was “hangover music” as the man himself described it, but what a great way to start the day! New jellyfish lights adorned the ballroom, and I noticed many chin grabs and tilted-back heads among the crowd buzzing after Friday night's music. Sufjan was flawless: the sound was pristine, and the intensity of the album was multiplied, particularly during the bone-chilling title track. The implied time driven by the breaks in the songs confirmed Sufjan's use of percussion as color, not to supply the groove. All the intensity of the set originated from Sufjan's voice and fingers.
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Over at stage two, Circulatory System refused to walk-off after their sound check, instead making some noise and then launching into the swagger of "Round Again" (often mislabeled "The Spinning Continuous"). So many joyous rim clicks! The eight piece set knocked down seven high-energy songs, ending up in a low-end jam turned encore of audience sing-a-longs. We then caught the last half of Black Dice, who had literally no light but the cool visuals in the backdrop. They (modifier deliberately ambiguous) were really loud!
The experimental hip-hop of Anti-Pop Consortium came next. I've been playing Tragic Epilogue on repeat all week, so naturally my hopes were high, probably too high. Anti-Pop played almost exclusively new tracks, which certainly grooved, but didn't have the tastefulness of some of their earlier jams. Their live sound didn't help much either: three blistering “eh-p-p-p-p-ps!” halted three songs before the beat came in. Nonetheless, spitting coherently four times as fast the beat made Andre 3000 look like a grandpa. We made it back to stage two for the last bits of Sleepy Sun, and I had to cover my face during a time-killing joke followed by a badomp-ching on the drums. “Sandstorm Woman,” the finale, didn't initially grab me but sounded beautiful with its fleet-foxy reverb and spacious vocals.
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Akron/Family then stepped up to the plate as Miles Seaton yelled “I can't believe this!” to a loopy group of fans. Out of the several times I've seen Akron, this particular set was by far the best. Well-driven jams shouldered complicated sing-a-longs, held up by Dana Janssen's infallible drumming. It was great to hear these dudes as a three piece -- sheer musicianship really made their songs come alive.
We were fortunate enough to catch up with Miles after the set for an interview (forthcoming), cutting our Shellac time a bit short. But we did stick around long enough to see the inimitable Steve Albini rock out with that guitar hanging from his belt. Another reporter I talked to said this was the 85th time he'd witnessed Shellac at an ATP. He was kidding, of course. Then came The Melvins back at stage two, loud and sludged up as ever.
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Finally, it was time for the money maker, Animal Collective. Maybe it's cliché to say I liked Panda Bear's set more, but I did. It could have been the overloaded sound system, but it was really tough to distinguish most of the songs. “My Girls” obviously got the crowd dancing, but much of the probably interesting transitions were lost in the muddle. Thirty minutes of non-stop strobe lights made me reach for my sunglasses. Older numbers, like my personal favorite “Who Could Win A Rabbit,” got dancified pretty shamelessly, which was fun but also not so fun. I'm partially just being an asshole, because after eight hours of music, I think I wanted sugar, not salt.
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- Sunday
Sunday was the day curated by The Flaming Lips, and they did a fantastic job. We got to Kutsher's at noon and checked out Oneida's “Ocropolis,” a transplantation of their studio. Their objective was to jam all day with different artists and turn it into a record. In the brief time I was there, I heard some interesting things, but the atmosphere was somewhat claustrophobic.
Sitting by the “lake” before The Low Lows, I watched Steve Albini sip a drink and then skirt away as he saw Ben and I coming toward him with our field recorder. The Low Lows ten-piece reminded me of Jens Lekman, but I think they could have made better use of their huge sound. Regardless, they were a band I'd check out again.
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Then came Boredoms. Performing a nine-drummer version of Boadrum with friends like Jeremy Hyman from Ponytail, the set was dynamic and forceful with a strong backbone of hardcore thrash. The set began with Yamantaka Eye, the mad scientist in charge, tapping his array of openly tuned guitar boards. Slowly, all nine drummers hit their toms with the timbre of every drum sound from 1960-2010 rolled into one. Security cleared the floor as Yojiro Tatekawa was brought out king-style on a platform through the crowd. Miles Seaton out partied everyone in front of me, thrashing into more than one crotchety photographer. Exceeding their time limit, they ended the set by playing on the dwindling supply of cymbals as the stage crew began hauling away their equipment. Such badasses!
After Boredoms' fury, Caribou Vibration Ensemble with Marshall Allen was somewhat of a letdown. They were intense, but not like Boredoms, and it was a disappointing to see Allen only get one solo. “Melody Day,” done without percussion, was the most interesting, although I'm willing to admit my ears just needed a break. Deerhoof's half-assed choreography, stuff they clearly discussed 10 minutes before the set, perfectly complemented their goofy but groovy arrangements. Meanwhile, Martha Colburn's bizarrely engrossing visuals kept up the energy as they played old and new, including a Ramones cover.
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I had guessed Boris would be good, but I didn't expect them to be amazing. Performing all of Feedbacker, I once again put on my sunglasses, closed my eyes, and let the beautiful, earthy drones wash over me. Atsuo dived into the crowd during the last track, and while I didn't even see him do it, feeling his presence in the crowd was the perfect complement to the bodily noise. What a testament to the band's physical sense of sound. No Age performing the songs of Hüsker Dü with Bob Mould didn't disappoint either. As he was setting up, Randy Randall complimented Ben on his flannel, so I think a compliment from me to them is also well in order. The ensemble threw in a few No Age hits like “Eraser.” Always a good sign when your feet are killing you but you still dance like crazy.
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And then, well, it was Flaming Lips time. By the time we got in, laser pointers had already been distributed and were already getting annoying. But they were put to good use as Wayne Coyne held up a mirror at one point and become a literal and metaphorical point of reflection. Wayne, you are really creative, and I mean that. It was beautiful. Wayne was clearly cheery as he set up the entry runway and tinkered backstage before the set. Earlier that evening, Ben accurately dubbed Wayne the bona fide mayor of weirdo rock, and that perfectly described his presence on stage: upbeat and even-handed, with that weary, understanding smile. For a fan who's seen video after video of the band live, they didn't disappoint one bit. The time-tested joy of “Race For The Prize” really made me teary as I was transported by the bright lights, confetti, and the wistful contentedness of Steven Drozd's synth. The ATP production staff next to me was also teary, but probably for a different reason than I was.
For an encore, Wayne sang “Over The Rainbow,” which was just so damn fitting for a weekend of sincere nostalgia mixed with ironic kitsch. Ben and I drove back to school at 2 AM, drinking Red Bulls and freestyling over the mix tape Anti-Pop had handed us earlier that day. Eating, peeing, breathing, and interviewing prevented us from seeing some reportedly great sets, but I think our time was well spent. And while I can't say that the average ATPer was someone I'd want to take a road trip with, the lineup, relatively good sound, and atmosphere made me a happy almost-camper.
[Photos: Ben Seretan]
