It was something to ponder during the next main-stage performance: Grouper's wordless, ambient layers carved their way from slow, dense dirges to light, wispy respirations. From Grouper onward, the afternoon took an increasingly electronic turn–not toward the now stale-sounding, techy perforations of glitch beats, but toward a more organic encounter with pedals, cords, knobs and buttons. One that, ultimately, made everyone dance. If Sufjan's banjo was a look back, it was a last look: we wouldn't be returning that way any time soon.
 
On the second stage, in a wide, thickly carpeted ballroom with low ceilings and a chandelier that looked like, upside-down tray of elegant water glasses, Atlas Sound was making this abundantly clear. The solo project of Deerhunter frontman Bradford Cox is, he says, an attempt to maintain "live" experience whether in a studio or on stage. Armed with a harmonica that stabbed first at folk-sincerity, then at a tenuously ironic retro-validity, Atlas Sound's "live experience" waffled awkwardly around on excessive self-consciousness, relying too much on the flimsy charm of nonchalance to carry off unrehearsed new songs, and laughable sanctimony: "I mean, come on," was the half-bitter, half-pitiful plea midway through the set. "I'm playing the fucking harmonica up here!" The ATP audience, unflappably supportive, saw him through the set, obliging time-killing banter and cheering through the botched songs.
 
Back on the main stage, Deerhunter yielded a much tighter set, redeeming Cox's solo performance with the persuasive groove of slow-churning guitars over steady, driving beats. The evening seemed to take a cue from Deerhunter's set, trading in a steady groove for the seductive mystique of the occult in California psych-rock outfit Sleepy Sun–whose co-ed power vocals make a convincing incantation–and the rewarding reunion of hypnotic electro-rap group Antipop Consortium.
 
From there the night could only dive headlong into the trance-inducing rave of a set by Animal Collective that, no matter how far it strayed from folk authenticity of harmonicas and acoustic guitars of the Woodstock generation, could only be described as a magical mystery tour for a new generation. From ambient soundscapes to electro-dance and righteous psych-rock, the indie generation is getting wild and free.
 
"It's like indie-music camp," chirped one of the amiable ATPers who, along with a few hundred others, was staying in Kutcher's Motel Americana-style accommodations for the weekend. She echoed a virtual consensus on the success of this peculiarly intimate little festival (a UK import now only in its second year in New York): an appreciation of the community spirit cultivated in the retreat-like atmosphere of this campy, Club-Med-of-the-Catskills destination. It's a dynamic more likely to be associated with Woodstock hippies than Brooklyn hipsters. Granted, this year's lineup was curated in cooperation with ATP organizers by the Flaming Lips; no doubt some of Wayne Coyne's patented musical exuberance lent the gathering a dose of old-fashioned good vibes. This particular day, though–the second of three–was entirely ATP-organized, and the seamless orchestration of a genuinely entertaining weekend of music, comedy performances, panel discussions and film screenings is a more than impressive achievement in the age of industry-geared mega-festivals like Coachella, Lallapalooza and, these days, South by Southwest. Call it a British invasion, but ATP has given indie rock a revitalizing shot in the arm, and American music is better for it.