On Randalls Island on Saturday, Steven Van Zandt strung together 40 bands, 37 of which probably haven’t sold as many albums as the other three combined. For that alone, Little Steven’s International Underground Garage Festival was worthwhile.

It’s commendable to take little bands – how many records have the Charms sold? What was the biggest show they played before this one? – and put them on a gigantic stage in front of thousands of people with a million watts of ear-splitting stadium sound. (Ear splitting sound it was, too. The sound system physically moved your clothing, made the beer in your bottle foam.)

This same spirit guides the radio program of the E-Street Band guitarist, which airs locally on 104.3. Combine young bands and bands faded from glory, all of whom are exuberant rockers descended from the black-leather jacket-and-overdrive sound of the Beatles in Hamburg, Them, and Link Wray. (Where was Link Wray, anyway?) Then hope they sell records and make themselves some fans.

So, like I said, I appreciate the idea. But the show itself was a grueling ordeal. Every time some rocker on stage screamed that they were having the time of their life and asked the audience if they felt all right, I grimaced. It was 10:30 in the morning. There was the constant threat of rain. A hurricane was looming.

Prehistoric scenester Kim Fowley’s demand that there be a rock ‘n’ roll baby conceived at the concert was amusing, but there is nothing amusing about that reptilian lunatic after you’ve been listening to him for 10 hours. Martin Lewis ranted about England and demanded that the audience learn to say “arse.”

No, this is not the time of my life.

Things were not helped by the fact that the rotating stage broke early in the morning. This caused the show’s presenters to rush the bands and extend the between-band tedium. With so many bands performing, it’s really impossible to talk about the music in any detailed way. But I will point out the following highlights.

The Black Outs were great.

Richard and the Young Lions have recorded their first album; they only had three singles back in the 1960s.

The Flaming Sideburns front man babbled in some foreign language like a soccer announcer while introducing his band, screamed “GOOOAAAAL!” and kicked a soccer ball into the crowd. Some fan headed it, but I think it was an accident, because the fan fell down.

The crazy punk chick who fronts the Charms said that she worshipped the crowd in the Church of Rock, and rocked. The Woggles, in semi matching red frilly shirts, played a great mashed-potato-type crash-up.

Shazam was like a melodic, sonic tidal wave – really the first different sounding band of the day.

The Fuzztones!

The Chesterfield Kings are still one of the best bands in the country. Mooney Suzuki exploded.

The Dictators were so good they sent chills down my spine: Who will save rock ‘n’ roll? Handsome Dick will.

The low points?

The Romantics started out well, but that guy only has one harmonica solo in him, and he plays it on every song. They also make me uncomfortable: I don’t like to think about having one song to play for the rest of my life. “What I like about you” really must get boring.

Big Star phoned their show in. They are/were a great band, but they clearly didn’t care.

Nancy Sinatra (and exactly what kind of garage did Frank have for her to practice in? Electric Ladyland?) was doing okay until she played two new songs. One was by Morrisey and the other was by Thurston Moore, and both were ridiculously, laughably, horrible. Throughout the day, there were go-go dancers on stage (an excellent idea; all concerts should have them). Nancy Sinatra, the queen of the go-go boot, put them all to sleep – until they burst out her classic hit and flooded the stage with all the dancers they had.

Bo Diddley was good – despite my suspicion that his guitar wasn’t plugged in – until he decided to rap. That was just embarrassing. But his voice shined, and in this context it was refreshing, dripping with authenticity.

The best show of the day was by the New York Dolls. Johnny Thunders died of a heroin overdose in 1991. Drummer Jerry Nolan died of a stroke a few months later. (Their first drummer OD’d in the early 1970s.) Arthur Kane, the bass player, died of complications related to leukemia in July. Only David Johansen and Sylvain Sylvain now survive.

They delivered. Johansen strutted around in pink nail polish and pearls, the crazy monkey child of the Grinch and Mick Jagger. Sylvain was in patent leather: “Would you like some cauwfee?” There might only be two of them left, but it was the best show of the day. When they kissed each other on the lips, it wasn’t New York Dolls shtick (Johansen announced to the crowd that he’d just spent half an hour explaining to Sylvain that what they’d had 30 years ago wasn’t sex); it was pure, idiotic glee.

To the sonically abusive combination of the original Stooges – Ron Asheton on guitar and Scott Asheton on drums – has been added Mike Watt, formerly of the Minutemen and Firehose. The result is what has got to be the loudest band I have ever seen. I don’t know why they had to play “I Wanna Be Your Dog” twice. I do know that Iggy yelping like a crazed Hyena and jumping around the stage shaking his ass is something to behold.

Iggy screamed at people to rush the stage. “Let him up. Let her up! Let the f–ing people up here! Take over! Take over!” Then Iggy began introducing people. “What’s your name? Hey, what’s your name? Scott! Jason! Mike Watt! I am you! I am you!” Iggy looks as if he’s been taken apart, tightened, and stapled back together. Iggy and the Stooges don’t just want to play for you. They want to hurt you, they want to hurt you because they love you.

The Strokes had the unfortunate job of playing between the Dolls and the Stooges. Julian Casablancas was visibly pissed off at the lack of enthusiasm demonstrated by the crowd: “I guess you’re saving all your energy for the Stooges.” The Strokes were tight, and very ungarage in their album true renditions of their songs. But they played hard, and they turned it up.

I saw lots of folks singing along. Only they were quietly singing along. They were exhausted. They’d been listening to bands all day. All day, the bands had been hitting them with their hits, the fast numbers, the volume, because they only had two songs with which to grab people. So after a while, all the bands started to sound the same. Concerts are about hooking up with a band; this was something else entirely.

Something else, but still a good idea. I saw the Fondas last November, in Detroit, in a bar on Joseph Campau called the Belmont. The place was packed; there were probably 60 people there. Only vocals came through the PA system, there were no microphones on the amps or the drums.They played a great show. On Saturday Little Steven gave the Fondas a shed tour of their own. They played to more folks at once than they have all year.

For a fan, seeing all these bands at once doesn’t take the place of seeing three all night long in a bar. But for those bands it sure was a fantastic opportunity.