In between sips of free Cafe Bustelo, a veritable dance riot exploded in front of me. Raver chicks ran toward the Main Stage, their skirts flouncing. Frat boys, eyes glazed over with Red Bull and E, loped slowly toward the fray. Everyone's hands flew up to the sky, furiously beckoning. Colombian flags unfurled. And for good reason, too.

Erick Morillo was in the house.

He launched right into "Dance I Said," which reminded me of summer nights spent at the Pantages in LA. His numerous appearances as a host on MTV Ibiza seemed to have made their mark on him. He displayed remarkable stage presence, at once exhalting the audience to "get the fvck and dance,"  at other times chilling us all out by spinning weird ambient techno tracks. Some music pundits have been quick to dismiss Morillo as a NYC clubkid. A flash in the pan. He deserves more credit than that. He is, after all, the same guy who churned out "(I Like To) Move It, Move It," that deliciously annoying reggaeton-infused club anthem.

Next up was Armin van Buren, Dutch wunderkind from Leiden. It is hard to describe van Buren's sound, so let me walk you through a food analogy. You know how when you go to Haagen Daazs, and they just happen to  have your favorite French Vanilla ice cream? And the guy behind the counter decides that you're cute, so he follows it up with caramel, hot chocolate fudge, and ANOTHER TOE-CURLINGLY GOOD SCOOP FOR FREE? And just when you're swooning from the anticipation of all that sugar, he tops if off with gaily colored sprinkles? That's how we felt, listening to Armin van Buren. "Burned With Desire" was sweet and soulful, as was "Zocalo" and "If You Should Go." The Marmot rather enjoyed his set, which is to say, he didn't make an excuse to run off to eat sushi again.

 At this juncture, special mention should be made of the stupendous art direction at Ultra. Mini-oasis were scattered throughout. We saw a white leather chaise lounge here, an intricately carved cocktail table there. In the VIP area, there was a quaintly-lit statue of three frolicking white elephants, each bedecked with tiny Christmas lights and glitter. Even better, there was a small gothic sanctuary, with perfectly aged wrought iron structures and a four poster bed with a charcoal black bedspread. In short, it was as if Iggy Pop suddenly had a hard on for interior designing, and went nuts in your friend's backyard. The overall effect was breathtaking, slightly irreverent, and, judging from the glazed looks of three nice Midwestern girls that I met - Ultra Strange.

Later on that night, Moby, Ultra Strange and Ultra Hyper, took to the stage. By that time, I was already buzzing off three vodka cranberries and restlessly jumping from foot to foot. Flanked by green laser beams and scantily-clad concert goers, he launched right into "Feeling So Real." Not one of my favorites - in fact - a song that ranks up there with "Who Let The Dogs Out" for being the most annoying. But the positive energy was so overwhelming that I stopped thinking, and just DANCED. In the midst of my sweaty, arms-out jig routine, Moby suddenly cut into "Piano and Strings," an uncharacteristically low-tempo track for him. I stopped suddenly and looked around, convinced that people would break out in anarchy, now that their frenzied dancing had come to a halt. They didn't. In fact, there was a distinctly kumbaya-type vibe that settled over the whole place. One might say that Moby had achieved the ultimate dj's Nirvana. Total surrender, no questions asked. Such is the beauty of music, when thousands of souls collide at Ultra.