No Age at Exhibition Hall somehow managed to sound acceptable at this detail-killing space. Their concise noise pop sounded as catchy as it was jagged, the drums and guitar generating a punchy attack that sliced through the hall’s acoustic inadequacies. No Age’s songs carry something of Hüsker Dü’s uplift and heft, if not the nuance of that legendary Minnesota trio; they even have a singing drummer à la Grant Hart in Dean Spunt. The candy apple grey buzz guitarist Randy Randall created was a dense, swarming delight.

I cut out early from No Age to see Roy Ayers, the revered soul-jazz vibraphonist. At Fisher Green Stage, he and his mature ensemble started with a mellow ballad about “sharing dreams.” It was archetypal smooooth jazzzzz. After the song, the distinguished Mr. Ayers commented about how the Seattle weather was brisk, like San Francisco’s, and then he said, “We’d like to ask each of you to take off your clothes.” I laughed. They then broke into a bustlingly elegant version of Dizzie Gillespie’s “A Night in Tunisia.” The next tune quoted “My Favorite Things” and there was a bass solo of Hendrix’s “Foxey Lady” some bop-ish squawking and then the drummer went off on a solo during which he tattooed every flat, inanimate surface on the stage, some of it with a towel covering his eyes, some of it done behind his back-style. It was madness, definitely unexpected. Ayers & co. also did “Don’t Stop the Feelin’” and “Everybody Loves the Sunshine,” which sounded all kinds of wrong at night, with a distinct chill in the air. It was a serious gaffe not to schedule Ayers during the middle of the afternoon, when his style of breezy, soulful jazz would’ve resonated much more.

Addicted to Holy Fuck after their afternoon slot live on the air for KEXP, I headed to the Broad Street Stage to catch them for the second time Sunday. This set was more expansive and spacey than the one they did for KEXP, and it showed that these four Canadians know well how to adapt to their environs and read their crowds. They closed with a triumphant “Lovely Allen,” a tradition I can get behind 100 percent, as it’s one of those songs with which you could say goodbye to the human race as you rocketed to another, better planet with no regrets. Whenever people at Bumbershoot asked me about scoring drugs (a more common occurrence than you’d imagine), I told them to just check out Holy Fuck. The side affects are all positive.

Out of the frigid air and into the SkyChurch for DJ Spooky That Subliminal Kid. He basically rehashed his Stax Records mashup DJ set he performed at Nectar earlier this year, but on the SkyChurch’s rad sound system and with its huge screen, the effect was magnified multifold.

Spooky gave us one of the least boring history lessons in the history of history lessons. As key figures and musicians from Stax’s rich legacy flickered supersized behind him, Spooky started with Jesse Jackson’s über-powerful speech at the Wattstax concert in LA and then raced through several seminal cuts from its catalog, with mostly abrupt but not jarring transitions ratcheting up the excitement. Gloria Jones’ “Tainted Love” “Otis Redding’s version of the Stones’ “Satisfaction,” Booker T. & the MGs’ “Green Onions,” Sam & Dave’s “Hold On I’m Coming,” and many other deathless cuts niced up the SkyChurch. The sound was so massive and dialed in; I decided to forgo the earplugs. In a situation like this, it’s best to submit yourself to getting fucked every which way without lube or condoms—figuratively speaking, though this music is so libidinous, you’d gladly give in to a literal shagging, as well.

Spooky unveiled some of dance music’s essential atoms, the sources of countless samples and the inspiration for countless producers worldwide. Hearing it all on a golden sound system and spun by a knowledgeable selector was a damned blessing and one of Bumbershoot’s highlights, for sure.

Still addicted to Holy Fuck (ain’t no cure for this), I walked (or did I float?) up hills—but not dales—to Neumos to witness their after-Bumber set. Somehow, they increased the intensity for this, their third gig of the day/night. They got a bunch of hipsters, many of whom likely didn’t know Holy Fuck from Steve Aoki, to go apeshit on the dance floor. HF’s combination of streamlined funkiness and kosmische textural embellishments makes me think DFA Records would be wise to sign them. Their motorik-heavy, psychedelic dance muzik is a perfect fit with that of LCD Sounsystem and the Juan Maclean.

This entire Neumos gig appeared to be one big marketing ploy, but, hell, Holy Fuck turned it into a transcendent party, a PhD-level seminar on groove science and the chemistry of ecstasy. Let the record show that Holy Fuck fucking owned Bumbershoot 2009.

(All things Bumbershoot on Line Out can be found here; the Stranger's Guide to Bumbershoot, featuring previews of everything happening at the festival and a customizable schedule, can be found here.)