Just as soon as I’d finished my last dancefloor stomp, I darted over to the second stage. I was flying solo at this point, having left my show-buddies back at the screening room before Fuck Buttons so that they could keep on with the filmic pleasures - so to catch as much of the already-in-progress Harmonia set as possible. I’m so glad I pushed off snacktime a little longer in order to see these guys: the show was a swirling, chugging, cosmic delight. Insistent keyboard patterns, throbbing motorik grooves, and subtle-but-surprising shifts in tone and texture - the German trio held us all in a tight grip, and the accompanying film on the wall behind them was a perfect fit for their hypnotic machine rumbles and bubbles.

Having duly shoved a full bag of trail mix into my face after the last ripples of Harmonia had receded back into their usual celestial orbits, I returned to the second stage just in time for Om, the SF experimental bass-and-drums stoner metal/meditative drone-rock duo. I was largely unfamiliar with their music, but had heard enough mutterings about the band’s compelling mix of bottom-heavy wow and devotional chanting to be intrigued.

Within the first few minutes, I was already a convert - the pairing of such uber-dense, doom-riddled sonic thunder and bassist-vocalist Al Cisneros’ mantra-like singing made for some tantalizingly spooky poetry. Dressed in a dazzling array of effects and treatments, Cisneros’ bass was a seismic force wrenched from somewhere deep within the earth’s core. Meanwhile, Emil Amos’ approach to the drum kit was humbling in its single-minded, punishing nature.

Low - as always - put on a masterful show of chilling hushes, sumptuous harmonies, and guitar-incinerating feedback, and reminded us once again of the band’s capacity to make crowds cackle. (Vocalist-guitarist Alan Sparhawk managed to get in a couple of delicious stabs at the hotel’s creepy vibe before giving the audience a few loving jests as well, pointing out that some of the hipster boys in attendance “didn’t look strong enough to even lift their arms over their head.” All in good fun, mind.)

Sparhawk’s and drummer Mimi Parker’s vocal symbiotics were pure spine-tingling bliss, and the trio’s takes on “Pretty People” and “Murderer” from last year’s electronically textured Drums and Guns (Sub Pop) were substantially meatier and more organic than those found on the recording. Sparhawk also seems to have teased out more of the playfulness from the album’s catchiest track, the coyly-sung “Hatchet.” Relatively new addition Steve Garrington has easily settled into his role as the band’s new bassist, judging from the impressive fluidity with which he delivered his authoritative grooves and gurgles. I can’t wait to hear what they do next.

After reuniting with Tim and Jessica for a much-needed meal break and sit-around time, we shot over to the main stage to witness the glorious spectacle that is a Les Savy Fav show - or, so I had been told, anyway. Having never seen the group before and with only a surface familiarity with their music, I was mainly there because I had been told over and over again that these guys were a must-see.

Turns out they have a reputation for a reason: the Gang Of Four-indebted, post-hardcore spazz-punkers throw one hell of a rapturously chaotic, spirit-raising party. Frontperson Tim Harrington was clearly born for the stage, furiously switching hats from lippy jokester to electrifying inhibition-free exhibitionist to infinitely huggable ambassador for the simple irrefutable platform that music can lift the soul, can be a communal lovefest (and without sounding trite or sappy).

The switching of hats was literal as well - Harrington hasn’t merely brought back the notion of the costume-change in performance, but has embraced it as yet another ante-upper in his ever-enlarging bag of tricks. My favorite outfit was his black-and-white striped prisoner’s get-up, but his varying states of undress were equally grin-worthy, as were his meet-and-greets with audience members throughout the entire concert hall, thanks to a cordless mic that allowed for endless scaling of walls and charging down aisles.

To be able to pull off such high jinks, one obviously requires a tight band to keep the momentum - and the remaining members worked together like a pogoing, leapfrogging bulldozer, pushing forward with jaw-dropping force and dexterity. At one point, Harrington dragged a ladder into the crowd, set it up, and proceeded to climb to the tippy-top, shouting away from his precarious perch without a single slip-up. Tottering away on the verge of his own possible peril, he singlehandedly in that moment wiped the slate of the rock spectacle clean and gave us a new standard for daredevil showmanship. It was thrilling.

Shellac ended our Saturday night on another high, with Steve Albini’s trebly shrapnel-shattered guitar and biting vocals in splendid form, as was Bob Weston’s lurching bass stalks and snarky between-songs patter. The star of the show, though, to be sure, was drummer Todd Trainer - jokingly referred to as “the poor woman’s Tommy Lee” by Weston at one point during the set. His ferocious, complex rhythms - combined with the apparent ease with which they bristle from his body - provided a gripping focal point for the outfit, and thus it made all the sense in the world that he was up front-and-center in their arrangement onstage. Simply put, Trainer is one of the most fascinating drummers to watch onstage.

Slugging through oldies such as “My Black Ass,” as well as more recent faves such as “Steady As She Goes” and “Be Prepared” - the latter of which was offered complete with its captivating series of false starts - Shellac were a riveting, and occasionally unsettling, joy to behold. It might not be the easiest music in the world, but for the strong-hearted it is certainly some of the most rewarding stuff out there.

And on that nail-biting, misanthropic, utterly cathartic note, Saturday night thus ended - or for us, anyhow. As much as I would have loved to have seen closing act, Lightning Bolt, I couldn’t help but evoke Kenny Rogers in my decision to go back to the hotel room: you gotta know when to hold ‘em, and when to fold ‘em. (A fitting analogy, considering Albini’s often-noted skills as a poker player, a reputation helped along by his lordship over ATP’s card tables over the weekend.) My game - well, it was over for the night. I’d played well and all, but my eyes kept drifting into shutdown mode - and so I folded, game over. And Sunday promised to be a full day as well.