Interview

The All Tomorrow's Parties Festival takes place at Kutsher's, a decrepit country club in the Catskills. From the first moments of the first set last Friday, remarks about everything from the creepy pool next to the bar to the lousy food to the long hallways' resemblance to the hotel in The Shining were standard operating procedure for both performers and guests. This, and the fact that you kept returning to the same room with the same few people over and over again, made ATP feel like a cruise-ship–how bout those portholes, everybody? I knew it wasn't a cruise though, because besides jokes about the decor, the thing I overheard most frequently was some variation of, "This is the best music festival ever." (PHOTOS BY ABBEY BRADEN)

I'm sure I said something like that out loud to myself a few times on Friday, the first day of the festival. Between the 60's summer camp atmosphere and the killer decade shuffling lineup, the day felt like a semi-lucid dream populated by boys and men in dark clothing and their patient girlfriends.

The Australian band the Drones started things in the main ballroom at promptly at 3:15, to a crowd of about thirty people. "We agreed to play for free tickets to see Suicide," says lead singer Gareth Liddiard before launching into "Sharkfin Blues," the first track from Wait Long by the River and the Bodies of Your Enemies Will Float By, which they played in full. The band was tremendously powerful, and their energy level rose as the crowd swelled. By the end of the set they'd gained  new stateside fans.

The Feelies were next and anticipation ran high in the crowd: they don't play very often anymore, and the promise of 1981 classic "Crazy Rhythms" from beginning to end had the geeks babbling. The first few songs had the crowd resigned to disappointment–the vocals were low and the band didn't acknowledge the audience. But somewhere around the frantic cover of the Beatles' "Everybody's Got Something to Hide" lead singer Glenn Mercer found his voice and the band's jangle clicked. "Crazy Rhythms" brought down the house and the encore cover of the Modern Lovers' "I Wanna Sleep in Your Arms" was stunning.

I wasn't looking forward to the Dirty Three–they play lugubrious instrumental post-rock featuring a violin. But the room was packed to capacity and buzzing wildly. Why are there four people in the Dirty Three? Is that...? Yes, Nick Cave was playing the piano; he never said a word. The mournful set was punctuated by the best stage banter of the day. "This is about being in a hole and taking lots of hallucinogens, even though they don't particularly agree with you," went one memorable introduction.

Suicide won the distinction of driving away the most audience members over the course of a single set, no small feat considering they were playing their beloved self-titled album. They were simply too loud and abrasive for some, but I appreciated the gut punch. 71 year old lead singer Alan Vega sneered and hollered through "Frankie Teardrop"–it wasn't as scary as the record, but nothing in the world is or ever has been. Mercury Rev manned the analog snythesizer in massive goggles and
grinned demonically. "Don't give up hope," counseled Vega. "Things will get better." Nice advice, from Suicide.

Panda Bear was representing "the present" and was slightly underwhelming. Person Pitch is a great record, but his standing stock still at the mixer and playing extended burbly remixes of its tracks was a bit of a downer after the awesome power of the old guys. The drunk guy behind me was really digging it. "That's So Raven!" he roared.

I took refuge in the comedy basement on the other side of the hotel to see Eugene Mirman and David Cross. Mirman was charming and low-key–he read from "Greeting Cards to Give to your Dad" ("Thanks for being better than that dad in the Dead Poets Society") and showed a "Welcome to New York City" video that was slightly incongruous in Monticello. David Cross was very drunk and occasionally got from point A to point B, most memorably on family friendly subjects like shitting your pants and date-rape. It was pretty late.

The Jesus Lizard provided the finale, and they lived up to the 11 years of anticipation since their last show. David Yow threw himself into the crowd seconds into his first song and crowd-surfed almost continually throughout the set. He spat on audience members, put his hands down a young man's pants, gyrated laciviously, and shouted "Happy 9/11!" as his only stage banter. The rest of the band played it straight with pummeling riffs. There was a violent most pit made up of mostly men in their thirties and forties. It was certainly among the best sets I've ever seen by anyone and the perfect sweat drenched way to end the night.