What happens when you take a crumbling mountain resort, cram it full of the best depressing music of the last twenty years, invite the mid-thirties hoodie set, make sure nobody has to drive, then douse it in ten Woodstocks’ worth of booze and drugs? For some, this is a recipe for suicide. For me, it was every fantasy I’ve ever dreamed up about rock camp, minus the part where I shred out a solo so awesome it brings about world peace and wins me the heart of Steven Malkmus. Curated in part by My Bloody Valentine, the 2008 All Tomorrow’s Parties New York Festival took place over the course of three days in the cool, piney folds of the Catskills.

I could talk about the retro-creepy location (think The Shining), the substances ingested, the pool parties, the hotel room parties, Steve Albini’s all night poker table, or the crazies who skinny dipped in the slimy lake one night, but at the end of the day, I was there to rock, so let’s get down to business.

Being disgustingly young, I was too busy pooping in diapers and learning to tie my shoes to see many of the bands during their first burst of relevance, but I’d read/listened/learned enough to know their significance. The weekend functioned partly as a rock and roll primer for me, and partly as a testing ground to see who still seemed to give a shit, and who just wanted to hang out and watch My Bloody Valentine. Some bands seemed awkward, burdened by the years, while others felt as fresh as if they were just being introduced to the world (and a few, in fact, were).

Friday was packed with competent performances from The Meat Puppets, Tortoise, and an apathetic Thurston Moore performing Psychic Hearts (but that's why we love him). I also caught most of Patton Oswalt’s comedy act, which made me laugh until my belly hurt. The real prize for the day, though, goes to Built to Spill’s performance of 1997's Perfect From Now On (plus a few extra songs).

Out of all the bands who performed classic albums that day, Built to Spill felt the least like I was watching a historical re-enactment, and the most like I was simply checking out a band I’d recently gotten into (if only every great album I discover could pass through a similar time warp…someone reanimate Nico, and Lou Reed too, while you're at it). I’ll admit I even got a little verklempt during the biting strains of “I Would Hurt a Fly” and then again during “Velvet Waltz.” Whether this was due to the band’s gorgeous cello lines and timeless ability to exude pathos, or my recent heart-stomping by another stupid boy, it was powerful stuff. I half expected someone to pat me on the head and go “cheer up, emo kid,” but looking around, many in the audience seemed equally affected. I dabbed uselessly at my vanishing eye makeup and headed up to my room, where a party had already begun, and stopped sniffling long enough to drink a fun-sized bottle of Jack Daniels –– because I like to have fun.

Saturday brought a packed, all day schedule of music old and new. The noisy / spacey / mathy undulations of Brooklyn's own Growing are usually contained within small, DIY venues, but proved epic enough to fill the large room they played. Fuck Buttons walk the line between droning ambience and developments interesting enough to inspire active listening, and while their live performance is essentially two guys bobbing their heads while they fuck with their buttons (harr) and play their excellent album over a booming sound system, that was enough for me.

Next, Harmonia (featuring former members of Cluster and Kraftwerk) continued the instrumental electronic trend with some classic Krautrock rife with synths, loops, beats, and space noises. It was nice to not have to listen to words reminding me how much love sucks for a little while, sinking instead into the comforting abyss of an electronic dystopia. Some hits off a fellow journalist’s joint further calmed my nerves. Machines feel no pain.

Polvo’s dreamy jams helped me to continue on this path. My head kept trying to float away, so I untied it for a bit and let it wander through long complex riffs, delicate dissonant passages, and invigorating crescendos and switch-backs.

After a wee rest by the lake and the best smorgasboard of crunchy/salty/sweet snacks I've ever crammed into my mouth, I changed over to stimulants in preparation for Les Savy Fav. I’ve written about them before, so I will simply say that Tim Harrington is one of the best front men in rock today. Anyone who can pull off multiple costume changes, outwit security to get to the back of the house, command the audience to carry him around on a ladder, and then magically summon the first five rows of people up onto the stage, all without missing a note, has probably got something going for him. By the time it was Shellac’s turn, everyone was sweaty and tired, but that didn’t stop them from pumping fists in the air for angry classics like "Prayer to God", as well as laughing at Albini's stage banter.

By the time the third day rolled around, I’d grown accustomed to a constant barrage of sound interspersed with calm strolls in the sun. The Lilys delivered their cool Brit pop with a slightly off-kilter demeanor, Gemma Hayes crooned more of those sad words I dislike (but it hurt so good), Mercury Rev’s David Baker slithered around the stage to skillful, sprawling jams, and Yo La Tengo and …And You Will Know us By the Trail of the Dead rocked me hard enough to induce an unpleasant, throbbing sobriety. Mogwai was an exercise in loud-soft dynamics, and the songs off their new record thankfully didn’t suffer too much in comparison to their older material. Dinosaur Jr. were sort of "meh", and then it was time for the legendary shoegazers.

I realized I was high again, this time on sheer physical exhaustion. Parts of my body hurt that I didn’t even know I had. However, seeing My Bloody Valentine made it all worthwhile. Taking many cuts off their consummate 1991 album Loveless, the band got everything right: the pitch-bent guitars, the dreamy vocal effects, those heartbreaking hooks, that brutally loud mix. As the band’s first U.S. performance in 16 years, the thing had been hyped to hell, but Kevin Shields and company delivered the crowning performance of the festival with their signature "no big deal" composure. Following a twenty minute long wall of noise, the band waved sweetly goodbye, and that was it.

Desperate for my own bed, I drove directly home with the beautifully dense, crushing riffs still ringing in my head (literally; that shit was loud). It was the perfect counterpoint to the previous weekend spent “studying” their music while "emoting" in a shoegaze-y fashion in my bed all day and night. My big, comfy bed, to which I returned triumphantly at 5:30am to lie down and sleep, my thoughts calm at last. Sticking in the edges of my mind even as I lost consciousness, My Bloody Valentine, at least for the moment, was the only lover I needed.