Firstly, here’s three reasons ATP-run festivals are better than other festivals.

1. No more tents. Getting lashed and watching cool music is fun. Going back to a campsite after the bands have finished, probably in the dark and with the ground churned into five different kinds of crap by bad weather and foot traffic, and sleeping inside essentially an oversized Pac-a-Mac, probably with large rocks digging into your back, most likely surrounded by loud idiots, and running the risk of having your stuff stolen, or having someone even more wasted than you are piss on your tent in the night, fall into it and demolish it, or even set it on fire (all of these things I have seen at festivals)? Well, that’s not so much my idea of fun. ATP neatly sidesteps these problems by setting most of its festivals in Butlins, with chalets and microwaves and showers and proper beds. No longer do I have to live like an unenthusiastic Duke of Edinburgh participant for three days to watch some cool bands.

2. The line-up. ATP picks an artist (usually musicians) to curate the festival, and they select most everyone else on the bill. As a result there’s no boring Festival Usual Suspects and no garbage that’s transparently only there because of PR firm or record company politicking. Generally if you enjoy the work of the curator, you’ll also find much to love in their selections. And while some festival bills look like they were assembled by pulling out names from a hat containing 6 months’ worth of shredded NMEs, the curation system gives ATP a much more cohesive feel. As if, y’know, someone’s actually put a bit of thought into it, beyond “which bands will help us sell the most unpleasant lager?” At most festivals, there’s a reason you haven’t heard of much of the stuff on the bill; at ATP festivals, i’d be surprised if you didn’t see someone you’d never heard of before but come away absolutely loving them.

3. The fans. I have been to three ATP events now, and I have never seen anybody (a) wearing one of those moronic jester’s hats, (b) performing any sort of poi, (c) walking on stilts, or (d) falling over themselves to declare the end of civilised society because a rapper happened to be playing the main stage. This speaks for itself, right?

(One disadvantage of ATP festivals: having to book chalets in groups of 2-7 people. A lot of years I couldn’t find even one other person willing or able to attend. The first time I managed to get to one was the Breeders-curated event in 2009. As it’s being held at North London’s Alexandra Palace (oddly billed as “The People’s Palace”), the two-day “I’ll Be Your Mirror” avoids this pitfall by selling day tickets, which is nice.)

Anyway, because of some line-up changes and travelling down from t’north, I’ve missed a couple of things by the time I get there, regrettably including The London Snorkelling Team and DD/MM/YYYY, who both sound great from their programme entries. So the oddly-named Foot Village are the first thing I see. The Los Angeles four-piece’s set-up is simple: four drum kits arranged in an inward-facing circle, the four members pummelling the Palace’s West Hall with volleys of ferocious polyrhythms. Two of them layer the drumming with shouted rhythmic vocals, most focally Grace Lee, who commands the stage like a dervish in orange Lycra cycling shorts and contact mic. Sometimes they’re reminiscent of a scaled-down version of last year’s incredible 9-drummer Boredoms set, and it’s no surprise to find out that all four Foot Villagers drummed in 2008′s 88 Boadrum performances.

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If this all sounds a bit hippie-drum-circlish, think again my friends. Though their arrangements are minimal, these pieces are taut, structured and ferocious rather than slack Burning Man stoner meanderings. The word “tribal” is bandied about a lot in discussing Foot Village, but if they were a proper tribe, they’d probably be the kind whose livestock has been slaughtered and whose lake has been poisoned by mainstream society, and who are now out for wild-eyed percussive revenge. This is brilliant, obviously.

Next: a once-rare apparance from DOOM in the Great Hall (actually a hometown appearance, weird as that seems). He’s clearly a main draw for some festivalgoers, if the small contingent of people by the hot-dog stand outside with their own Metal Face masks is anything to go by. This set is better than the first time I saw him, at Manchester’s Warehouse Project last November, on the basis that the sound was clearer and I could actually see him without a giant concrete arch in the way. Accompanied by his big fat hypeman (who perhaps also serves to put DOOM’s own… um, substantial belly into perspective), he kicks off with “Accordion” from the Madvillain album, setting the tone for a set of his signature laconic delivery and smart, improbable lyricism.

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It’s almost a greatest hits set, with an emphasis on stuff from newest album Born Like This, but also taking in Madvillainy crowd-pleasers like “America’s Most Blunted”, alongside stuff from Mm…Food, one of the King Geedorah records, and even Dangerdoom‘s “Benzi Box” album to close. He even dedicates the set to Amy Winehouse, news of whose death is starting to filter through, before bringing on a soul singer of his own to take the hooks on a venture through “November Has Come” off that one Gorillaz record. It’s slightly unexpected, and he could perhaps have chosen more obvious crowd-pleasers for this bit, but it’s not a huge concern. Besides, there’s definitely entertainment value from DOOM and his hypeman adding some hilariously bad singing of their own. It’ll be really interesting to see how the upcoming tour with Ghostface goes down.

I don’t get to see much PJ Harvey in the Main Hall, but the bits I do are quality, mainly drawn from this year’s Let England Shake but also including cuts from Uh Huh Her and Is This Desire? She’s in fine voice and backed by a well-drilled band. “Words That Maketh Murder” and “The Glorious Land” are particular highlights, although to these ears That Bugle Sample on the latter still doesn’t seem any better a decision than it did when the record came out (it still sounds like you’ve inadvertently clicked something and opened up a pop-under browser ad by mistake, but IN REAL LIFE). A very minor point, though: the rest seems great.

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The real draw of the day for me, and clearly many of the backpacker types assembled three rows deep at the front of the Great Hall a good twenty minutes before their stage time, are Company Flow. The NY legends have reformed to play only two shows, this one and a New York warm-up, and I basically only decided I was going to this ATP two days before, on the basis that I would never forgive myself for missing them. The chemistry between the three is clearly undiminished. El-P and Bigg Jus prowl the stage nailing their hyperdense machine-gun raps with great precision as DJ Mr. Len assuredly holds down the music on turntables and laptop, sometimes keeping familiar tunes fresh by dropping fierce substitute beats.

To a clearly completely thrilled crowd, the group blaze through all the expected highlights from their seminal debut (and also only album as a trio) Funcrusher Plus, including “Bad Touch Example”, “Blind”, Jus’ graffiti-culture tribute anthem “Lune TNS” and retooled versions of “Vital Nerve” and “The Fire in Which You Burn”. (At the New York show, the crowd got not only the Indelible MCs doing their album cameos, but also the likes of Jean Grae performing her collaboration from Mr. Len’s solo album, “Taco Day”. It’s not like I was expecting this would really happen at the London show, but it would’ve been the most amazing thing possible to see J-Treds, Breeze Brewin’ and BMS doing their parts on those classics (and perhaps also RA the Rugged Man hurling abuse at everybody over “Population Control”). I understand it can’t be all that economical to fly loads of extra heads over just for the one show, but y’know. A boy can dream.)

El-P, who on his first solo album delivered the line “sign to Rawkus?/ I’d rather be mouth-fucked by Nazis unconscious”, also takes a moment to gleefully relish the chaos currently raining upon the Murdoch empire (bean-faced heir apparent James Murdoch was Rawkus’ co-founder and bankroll, and the grudge is clearly as fresh as ever). The epic “Patriotism”, in which all America’s sins are confessed as straight-faced statements of pride, starts off with El in character as president giving a press conference from behind a lectern, before this is symbolically kicked over and the energy levels go up yet another notch.

Towards the end, the group, who are apparently overrunning, are warned by a member of the Palace’s production staff that they are out of time. A defiant El-P asks the audience how many of them are there just to see Co Flow. Unsurprisingly, everybody is. Explaining that even though they want to watch Portishead (on next in the Great Hall) as much as anyone, they also want to rock this set, they rip into triumphant closer “8 Steps to Perfection” with a power that even the spitefully-muted master volume can’t diminish. “The independent representation of what MC’s can and should be/ Judge, prosecution, defendant and jury” indeed.

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By this stage I am frankly knackered, and although Portishead’s “Glory Box” and the crushing “Machine Gun” are sounding great from the back of the Great Hall, at this point I pretty much have to go outside, drink a lot of water and take paracetamol to recover (clearly getting old). Fortunately, they’re also on tomorrow. It’s a shame also to miss the acclaimed Factory Floor, but I have to get a ‘tube’ to somewhere called ‘South Woodford’ and I am but a frightened provincial amid London’s crazy bustle, and don’t want to end up a cowering town-mouse stranded in zone 9, or whatever. So I go home. A great day, though.