Did you not make it to All Tomorrow’s Parties in upstate New York to see Iggy & The Stooges and Mudhoney amongst a cast of thousands last weekend? Don’t worry, Tone Deaf was there with Anaya Latter telling us how it was.
There are few things that surpass your expectations in life. But All Tomorrow’s Parties is one of these things. This festival follows a simple formula: Take the best party of your life, add the most awesome bands you’ve ever wanted to watch and set it in the best holiday resort that comes alive for this occasion – once a year over the Labour day weekend.
The lineup at this year’s ATP New York, which took place at crumbling-quaint Kutshers Country Club—somewhat decaying but still standing to deliver an eerie tribute to parties past—was jaw-dropping. Iggy Pop and the Stooges performed Raw Power. Doom masters Sleep re-formed to deliver Holy Mountain and Dopesmoker in entirety. If that wasn’t enough, Sonic Youth, Fucked Up, The Black Angels, Wooden Shjips, Dungen, Raekwon, GZA, Explosions in the Sky, Tortoise and The Books delivered the line-up to die for.
Most ATPs have a guest curator who hand – picks the bands on a particular day. This year’s curator was holy hair of the white cloud, Jim Jarmusch— – every film nerd’s favourite inspiration into the nuances of black- and- white disaffected narratives. He was a constant, stalking presence at the festival. He was there to watch the bands as much as we were, and even took part in a Q&A with Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore.
Friday night was a music glutton’s chance to gorge. The Scientists rocked out to great acclaim. Mudhoney performed Superfuzz BigMuff with firm fidelity. Despite his age, Iggy Pop unleashed lithe, unstoppable fervour and banshee stage antics. For a man pushing 60, his energy levels didn’t show it, although some troubling leathery skin and pulsating veins led you closer to the rock god’s true age.
It was epic and unassuming Doom who blasted the crowd on a musical rocket ship fueled by Al Cisnero’s mesmerizing low bass lines and moody vocal incantations. For any metal fan, it was true vindication of all that is right about stoner doom.
Saturday started late for those who partied till dawn on Kutshers’ rooftop. Nonetheless, there was no shortage of incredible bands to see and adventures to have. Unrepeatable experiences like swimming in a pool with a dead frog, stumbling across a deserted health spa replete with sauna and steam room and taking a boat out for a merry ride across the lake with the hotel laid out like a diorama around it.
Saturday’s musical highlights included Sian Alice Group and BEAK>. Fuck Buttons managed to stir up an otherwise lethargic crowd, before Tortoise roused attendees with its percussive, multitalented presence. Hallogallo, Michael Rother’s project to give the music of ’70s German electronic pioneers NEU its due, translated extremely well.
Shellac were captivating and magnetic. The Breeders left me cold. Instead, Papa M filled the void with his post-Slint folk explorations, which suited my mood more than the breathy cuteness and bygones of The Breeders.
Often at ATP, you can accidentally miss an artist or two because of the dizzying number of events. This year, you could have a Jarmusch-endorsed cinematic experience; enter the dance contest; paint a Smurf; play book bingo or take a music quiz; sing karaoke; or lose all your money to Steve Albini in the poker room. His poker face would put Lady Gaga to shame.
The guilty pleasure that caused me to miss Explosions in the Sky was karaoke. But I defend my choice, having always believed that Explosions were a poor man’s Godspeed. However, trusted sources attest that they were all kinds of amazing.
Saturday’s real highlight was Sonic Youth. Since the group played at the first New York ATP, they were like the pretty and perfect homecoming queen. They played a range of their classic hits, focusing on the Daydream Nation era.
And on to Sunday, which offered up a perfect musical elixir. The first band off the loading truck was White Hills, a groovy, canoodling psych band whose glam outfits and sense of fun was like a revitalizing bloody mary after an all-night bender.
Next up were the Greenhornes, a bluesy, ballsy garage- and soul-inspired rock act that had toes tapping and hips jutting. San Francisco’s Wooden Shjips were fantastic, their eclectic, droning dirge delivered by musicians whose passion for creating their sound was palpable.
Fucked Up were awesome Canadian rockers. The hardcore-but-softie-on-the-inside frontman stumbled into the crowd to hug and high-five everyone. I was impressed by the band’s tightnesss, remaining constant despite having to endure an occasional face-licking from frontman screamer Pink Eyes.
Raekwon was solid, and at moments it seemed like a Wu Tang reunion. The Black Angels wowed a crowd of faithful fans, and T Model Ford fingerpicked his way into the hearts of a reverent audience. I missed GZA, as a last-minute reschedule set him at odds with ALTAR—and I couldn’t miss ALTAR.
The festival’s pinnacle was indeed ALTAR, the collaboration between Boris and Sun O))). After a long, smoke-machined silence, they filed out in hooded cloaks before the solid wall of towering amps. The sound was incredible—throat and internal organs at the mercy of bass claws that ripped through your clothes and submitted you to a quivering constant that seemed to touch even the individual strands of hair on your head. The intensity was overwhelming, yet also the perfect, mind-altering experience of sound’s capabilities.
Drummer Atsuo’s lengthy and reverent crowd surf was met with thousands of rock fists thrust sky-high. It was a passionate display of respect. Visually, it summed up the ATP weekend: We had made a pilgrimage to see musical wonders that inspired and extended us beyond the border of our expectations.
