Fast forward a year and a half—past ATP New York 2009 with the Flaming Lips (I don’t recall why it slipped by me)—to ATP New York 2010. It took only a brief conversation with good friend and virtual punk and indie rock history scholar, Thomas Scott, in which he only had to suggest that we go to ATP this year for me to get on board. I wasn’t going to let regret rear it’s ugly head again with a repeat of 2008’s failure to commit to what would arguably be the Festival of the Year once again.

The line up for this year wasn’t quite the list of my favorite bands that 2008’s roster had promised, but there were at least two bands from my list: Sonic Youth and Explosions in the Sky. Plus, Iggy Pop and the Stooges would perform their legendary 1973 album, Raw Power, to close the first night. What self-respecting rock music fan wouldn’t want to see the spectacle of a forever shirtless and writhing Iggy at 63 years of age, belting out “Search and Destroy” or “Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell?” Not me.

I gave my friend Gary a call about this one, knowing he’s generally game for almost anything that promises to be a good and interesting time. And this trip would inevitably involve a couple of culinary detours as well—adding another facet to the trip that would pique his interest. He was in and tickets were bought.

Once we landed in Newark and picked up our rented Dodge Challenger, it was time for a late breakfast on our way to South Fallsburg, NY, where our accommodations were, so we made a planned stop at the New Jersey roadside institution, Rutt’s Hut, for some rippers. A ripper is a hot dog that’s been cooked in a deep fryer. This cooking process causes the casing to tear and rip lengthwise in their sides, making them not the prettiest hot dogs you’ll ever see, but damn tasty, with a slightly chewy exterior and still tender inside. Topped with cheese and Rutt’s own mustard and pickle relish,  Gary and I indulged in what I’m sure looked like a seriously disgusting culinary misstep to our vegetarian traveling companion, Thomas, as he sat with an egg sandwich prepared by the staff. After washing down the deep fried all beef goodness with a beer, we were ready to move on to the next stop, Dia:Beacon.

What was once a Nabisco box printing plant built in 1929 on the edge of the Hudson River in Beacon, New York, is now Dia:Beacon: A sunlight-filled 300,000 square foot museum dedicated largely to installations by Dan Flavin, Donald Judd, Joesph Beuys and Walter De Maria, to name a few. The highlight for me was Richard Serra’s, Union of the Torus and the Sphere, a rusted metal sculpture that, at 37’ long and nearly 12’ high, overwhelms what would normally be a very large room. It vaguely resembles a ship at sea listing to one side, but with a bow at both ends. It is almost uncomfortably close to a gallery wall on one side which creates a nearly claustrophobic feeling as you pass along. It’s a beautiful thing in it’s juxtaposed fluidity and roughness, elegance and extreme heft. Once we left the museum we had just enough time to get to The Raleigh, our place of residence for the following days, check in, get the shuttle to ATP site, get our wristbands and be at the first show at 3:30pm.

After about a forty-minute drive through the Catskills, we arrived at what is now the strangest, creepiest, but weirdly entertaining stays of our collective lives. The Raleigh is one of the last of the Borscht Belt resorts that lost it’s lustre somewhere around, oh, maybe,  forty years ago. Time seems to stands still here. The lobby was dark, dank and decorated in a gaudy-glam style of gold and filigree mixed with Naugahyde remnants from the 60s that might have even looked somewhat upscale when this place was in it’s heyday. It felt like we stepped into the Overlook Hotel from The Shining and expected to see twin little girls glaring at us from the end of a distant hallway inviting us to join them on the other side. Behind the counter we only heard English accents. Obviously, the regular staff had been replaced by ATP staff for the weekend. We got our keys and proceeded to walk down several seemingly endless hallways that lead to our room in the Sammy Davis wing. 642, if  I recall. On the way to the room we saw rows of twin bed frames leaning, maybe eight deep, against one wall and a room with wafer thin, mis-matched matresses  stacked several feet high. There was the smell of what I assu med was a combination of mold, stained carpeting that hasn’t been replaced at least twenty years, and old lead-laden paint. To make things even more creepy, I spotted a baby stroller tucked in a hallway corner with a well worn straw broom; there was a  blue plastic children’s chair turned upside down in the middle of one hallway. If our wives had been with us, we would have been looking for other accommodations pronto. But, we were willing to embrace the strangeness—as long as there are no bedbugs—which Thomas checked for as soon as we get to our suite from hell. Why would we have gone anywhere else? There was shuttle bus running every fifteen minutes to Kutsher’s, where the real action is. After all, we did actually see Wata and Atsuo of Boris in the lobby of The Raleigh. If was good enough for them, certainly it would suffice for us. We had working air conditioning and hot water. Well, the hot water we found out later started out hot and gets hotter. Hotter than Hades. It was a scorching, skin peeling kind of hot, so you had to be careful to blend in some cold water as you take your shower. It was an adventure at every turn.

The Raleigh entrance.

The shuttle that would take us to Kutsher’s arrives in front of The Raleigh. And it wasn’t not the kind of shuttle bus one would expect. You know, a smallish modern bus with comfortable seats, fuctioning air conditioning and ample room for adults. No, it was old yellow school bus with leg room designed for 5th graders and the tin backed seats you can hear bend and pop against the pressure of your body weight. We boarded the bus along with some other passengers snickering about their bizarre weekend home. The weather was beautiful and we were all excited about the events that lie ahead at ATP New York.

The Raleigh.

One of the hallways at The Raleigh.

The Raleigh lobby.

The Raleigh lobby.

Thomas at the empty Raleigh bar.

The Raleigh.

The Kennedy Wing at The Raleigh.

At the in-laws

At the Okefenokee Swamp Park

At the Okefenokee Swamp Park

At the Okefenokee Swamp Park

At the Okefenokee Swamp Park

The Lakes Golf Course at Laura S. Walker Park

The Lakes Golf Course at Laura S. Walker Park

Hot boiled peanuts. This dude cooked 1100 pounds of 'em that day.

Waitin for his hot boiled peanuts.

We put on our ass kickin’ boots and flew out to Austin last week to Flatstock 20, SXSW’s annual poster exhibit. The makeshift cardboard halls were alive with the smell of ink, a sign that screenprinting is still vital to music scenes across the country. The American Poster Institute once again brought together some of the best illustrators, screenprinters, and designers in the world-all under one convention center roof. It was a place for SXSWers to break from all the noise and check out the maze of papers and personalities that appealed to any aesthetic. It was five days of  total sensory overload, full of great music (lots of rock hands), laughs that made you pee your pants (just a little), plenty of refried beans (chorizo anything), and celebrities (Tori Amos and Uchi chef, Tyson Cole). Oh, and we did sell some posters! Hell yeah!

Thursday we visited the Boston Museum and Fine art to admire some Sargent paintings. From there we went to the new Institute of Art on the Bay where I thoroughly enjoyed an exhibit by Tara Donovan. I think i was alone in my appreciation. That night we bowled a few frames at Lucky Strike and finished at Bukowski.

Bukowski Tavern

Lucky Strike

Friday was the event we traveled to Boston for: the Boston symphony doing Stravinsky’s ‘The Rite of Spring.’ The whole program was great including a very interesting piece by Elliott Carter. The Stravinsky did not disappoint. It was big, loud and powerful.

Symphony Hall, Boston

I just bought the near brilliant (in my opinion) new record from Mercury Rev the week before heading to Boston. I noticed in the local paper they were playing that Friday night at Paradise Rock Club. Since the Symphony was a matinee, that worked out perfect. We could hit Bukowski, buy some LPs at Newberry Comics have dinner at Sonsie and head to Paradise. They put on a great show at skull splitting volume and threw in some retina burning multi-colored strobes for good measure.

Mercury Rev at Paradise Rock Club

We wrapped things up at Petite Robert Bistro for a light lunch of seared foie gras, lobster mac and cheese, braised lamb shank and crepes suzette. Then more LP shopping.

Oh, Bukowski. How I miss you.