"I looked it up this morning - it's true! Fucking Dirty Dancing, man!" I heard one Grizzly Adams-bearded belly-rubbing smoker tell another, just as I was mulling that very notion over for the hundredth time. Apparently the guy wasn't alone in his fact-checking - shortly thereafter I'd heard various mutterings to the same effect. Confirmation at last! Or, good enough for me, anyway.

I celebrated the news by meeting up with my Texan friend Nancy who I'd ran into earlier, and we headed over to the main stage to catch 45 minutes of swirling, shimmering guitar wizardry from Robin Guthrie. Best known as the sonic architect behind the elegantly sparkling otherworlds of Cocteau Twins, Guthrie has also made his mark as a producer (Lush, Ian McCulloch, Chapterhouse) as well as a longtime collaborator with noted pianist-composer Harold Budd. His film-score work - particularly his soundtrack for Greg Araki's Mysterious Skin, also recorded with Budd - has been extraordinary.

Needless to say, I was all a-twitter in expectation. Did Guthrie deliver? Damn straight he did: a delicious ebb-and-flow of treated guitar textures and iridescent reverb followed, many of which were paired with subtle electronic whooshes and washes. The entire set was impeccably matched note-by-note with Galerie, a short film whisking out an ever-shifting array of soothing color palettes, abstractions, and intriguing close-up details - the combined effect would feel completely in its element as a museum installation. Still nervy from the residual energy of Saturday night, I welcomed the gradual release of my tension from my neck and joints as Guthrie's filigreed guitar effects fluttered over me - a shame Nancy skipped out early so she could sneak a peek at the in-progress Lilys show over at the second stage.

Given that this was a festival which appeared to thrive on the notion of contrasts, it was only fitting that Guthrie would be followed by - who else? - EPMD. As if they were any other option! Jarring juxtapositions aside, Erick Sermon and Parrish Smith arrived just as on top of their game as they've always been, turning in inspired takes on classics such as 1988's "You Gots to Chill" and the following year's "Please Listen to My Demo."

Plenty of dissing sucka MCs, a healthy double-dose of braggadocio, a call to arms for keeping hip-hop real - exactly what you'd expect from a duo whose synergy of solid groove and laid-back flow remains just as potent as it was when it debuted two decades ago with the unimpeachable Strictly Business (Priority).

One possible indicator that I've now officially gone old 'n cranky, however: I occasionally found myself growing impatient at the between-song shout-outs, itching to cut the patter and skip right to the next joint. And when it came to time to pay tribute to, as Jim Carroll once sang, "all the people who died" - well, let's just say they were pretty damn comprehensive in their litany of shout-outs. Otherwise, a solid show.

Mercury Rev was next on the main stage, and I scrambled up to the front in order to secure a good view of the proceedings. 'Fess-up time: I've been enthralled by these psychedelic orchestral-pop-loving noisemakers since the beginning, but the adoration fell into full bloom with 1998's exquisite, fractured-majesty epic Deserter's Songs (V2), a glorious collection of oddly-glowing celestial cinematics and sweeping melodies buoyed along by Jonathan Donahue's twisted-cherub warble. The disc will always remain of my ultimate escapist-discs, an immediate go-to source for making me feel as wildly untethered to the daily humdrum as it did on the day I bought it. Ten years later, it still arrives as fresh to my ears as it did on its first listen.

Little shock, then, that when the band unfurled a twinkling, snowflake-fragile take on album opener "Holes," I was practically in full vibration. A generous serving of other fan favorites followed - "You're My Queen" and "The Dark Is Rising" were two obvious standouts, with Donahue offering stellar turns as the bright-eyed, brittle-hearted frontperson. Grasshopper's guitar work delivered a decidedly more jagged counterpart to the squeaking, preening vocals. Added bonus: at least one song from their soon-to-be-released Snowflake Midnight (Yep Roc) was previewed - can't wait to hear the whole album!

Anyone who has followed Yo La Tengo over the years is already well-aware that the trio can pretty much do it all: straight-up no-nonsense rock 'n' roll, sweet-tempered acoustic bonhomie, churning garage clatter, bubbling ambient-pop, and take-no-prisoners punkified bad-assery. The question was, which Yo La Tengo would show up tonight on the main stage?

As it turned out, what we got was mostly the churning, squalling garage-rock variety, loaded with extended guitar jams, amplifier-hugging jam-kicks, and Georgia Hubley's apparently effortless drumming hypnotics. How does she do it? As solid as the set was, it ultimately felt a bit short on actual songs, thanks to the group's focus on 10-minute-plus pieces that needed plenty of time to achieve their desired sprawl-factor. Can't complain too much, as Ira Kaplan's guitar acrobatics were phenomenal as always. Still, a couple more straightforward numbers would've been nice.

Sugar high: Bob Mould.

After reuniting with concert pals Jessica and Tim for some quick eats and a relaxing layabout, it was off to the second stage to check out Bob Mould. Now rocking a wonderfully bearlike beard - with a touch of a better-kept Santa thrown in for good measure - Mould looked absolutely fantastic, and his energy level could shame most of the folks in attendance, despite their being only half his age. The guy was clearly thrilled to be there, and his furious rip-through of Sugar classics - "Hoover Dam" and "A Good Idea" jumping out as the obvious highlights - were a thrilling jaunt back to some of the 1990s' finest full-throttle agro-pop. His plow-throughs of numbers from this year's intermittently electro-pop-flirting District Line (Anti-) benefited from considerably more muscular arrangements, and a spirited take on the 1989 strummer anthem "See a Little Light" ushered in waves of nostalgia upon the older set in the crowd, present company included.

Ah, nostalgia. Let's face it: a major theme running throughout ATP NY was that loaded word itself, as evidenced by its Friday night offering of full-album revisits (bunched together under the banner "Don't Look Back") as well as its choice for top billing (the eagerly anticipated return of My Bloody Valentine). Which brings us to Dinosaur Jr. With last year's faultless Beyond (Fat Possum), the combo provided ample proof that it is possible for defunct '90s bands to reconvene and not only avoid the pitfalls of cynicism-driven nostalgia cash-ins (think Pixies) but also create a deserving addition to their legacy.

Better yet, long-exiled member Lou Barlow even came back, thus returning the band to its classic J. Mascis/ Murph/ Barlow line-up - big news! Occasionally the unexpected does happen - Mascis and Barlow were able to make amends, and as a result came up with one of 2007's finest surprises. So, how did it turn out on the main stage? Spectacularly - with the only slight slip-ups occurring doing a quickly fixed sound problem during "Tarpit" (classic Dino, dating back to their 1987 SST masterwork, You're Living All Over Me) and a wholly unnecessary, scaldingly passive-aggressive barb from Barlow, which gave me pause to wonder how long the reunited lineup might actually last.

Starting out innocently enough with a comment to the audience about how excited he was that My Bloody Valentine would be next on stage, Barlow had to go ahead and soil the enthusiasm by saying that he never got to see them before - when Dino was touring with MBV - because "he got kicked out of the band right before the tour." Eeesh, sounds like somebody hasn't quite moved on. Mascis appeared completely unruffled by the comment, mercifully.

Unruffled rock: J Mascis and Dinosaur Jr.

Otherwise, it was a parade of highlights: "Little Fury Things," "Freak Scene," "Out There." Plenty of crowd faves, in other words. Murph and Barlow joined forces as one of the most assertive rhythm sections of the entire festival, laying down track after track of thumping, charging bottom-end satisfaction. Mascis, per usual, was possessed by his guitar, pounding out squeals, scrapes, and shards of noise without a single hitch - and his voice hasn't aged much at all, still charmingly croaky and as unhurried as a summer Dixie afternoon.

The inevitable audience self-detonation occurred with a ripping read of 1994's "Feel the Pain," from the somewhat-spotty Without a Sound (Blanco y Negro/ Sire). I've never been a huge fan of the song, but onstage the college radio hit was injected with a raw power sorely lacking in the original. As the band made the stop-on-a-dime switch from midtempo rambler to triple-time floorboard-basher, a tidal wave of bouncing bodies crashed against the stage, only to recede and crash again and again. From our cushy spot directly behind the soundboard - behind but still elevated above, thus granting us a wonderfully unobstructed view - it was a sight to behold.

My Bloody Valentine were to take to the stage in an hour, but we weren't going anywhere in the meantime. Instead, we camped out at the sweet spot. Having already agreed earlier in the day that this would be our meeting point, my friend Nancy reunited with us as well. As it turned out, the one-hour wait approached the 90-minute mark, so we all had plenty of time to recount our day's ups and downs to each other while the DJ spun a crowd-rousing mix of Primal Scream, the Beatles' "I am the Walrus," and more than a few old soul nuggets.

The theater was now thicker than thick with hopeful-eyed music fiends twitching with excitement. Luckily enough, we still had some wiggle-room, and a much-appreciated leanin'-wall, thanks to our securing such a primo location behind the soundboard. Looking down into the mingling crowd directly below and in front of us, we quickly realize that the "VIP room" is right there at an arm's length away: Bob Mould's head is two feet away, Yo La Tengo's Georgia Hubley is milling about, as is Todd Trainer from Shellac. We heard rumors later that Patti Smith was there - was she also right there in front of me? Still not sure, but methinks she would've approved of what was about to follow.

Enlightening: MBV during "You Made Me Realise."

Sure enough, MBV arrived in an unearthly glow of lights and a crush of white noise, thus melting away all of the years of conspicuous silence since the 1991 release of their still-incomparable last offering, Loveless (Sire). The set, as one would expect, was a veritable best-of - pushed to eardrum-bruising levels, just as we'd all been warned ahead of time. (ATP staffers were even passing out free Shields-approved earplugs to everybody in advance of the show, urging them to take the advice seriously - pity the poor fools who declined the offer of protection.)

I was truly wowed by the band's ability to faithfully reproduce the complexities of their records: dreamy, hushed vocals fluttered out in melodic wisps under dense chugs of fuzz while guitars slipped ever so slightly in and out of tune. The best possible sense of vertigo slowly but surely took over as the fearsome foursome lurched, lunged, and plunged into the murky depths and dizzying heights of their catalog: "Soon," "I Only Said," "When You Sleep."

The decibel-levels seemed to drift higher and higher as the show bulldozed along, peaking on their truly damaging read of "You Made Me Realise" - a song which historically has always started off innocently enough (by MBV standards) before thwacking itself head-first into a full-body-penetrating pierce of cataclysmic white noise. The track has become the stuff of legend for the outfit, and as they kicked off with its sweet, breathy opening opener, I found myself simultaneously overjoyed and filled with dread about what I knew was coming.

And sure enough, the inevitable arrived: a full 20 minutes of blasting, shrieking, death-howling walls of noise accompanied by blinding stabs of pure white light pouring from every corner of the stage. I'd call it an endurance test for all concerned: such a sustained, merciless tidal wave of sound certainly required super-human levels of repetitive motion from the band members, but it wasn't any easier for the crowd, either. The experience was akin to that of a spacecraft approaching the flaring, storming surface of the sun - not that I've ever been through such a thing, but you get the idea.

One guy a few paces away must have released every demon within his soul over the course over those 20 minutes, judging from the throat-shredding caterwauls he unleashed against the crippling sheets of sound. Others were spiraling around, eyes rolled back and grinning - the indie-rock equivalent to whirling dervishes, finding bliss in the nothingness. As for me: well, gone were all thoughts of Jennifer Grey and Dirty Dancing, gone was every memory of every joke I'd heard made at the expense of Kutsher's crumbling glory. Goodbye Catskills, hello oblivion.

Days later, I think part of me is still out there in the void, hurtling and humbled under the unfathomable crush of it all. I wonder if it'll ever come back.