Sunday, Sunday... It’s day three of Ireland’s most enticing festival, and the heavy grey clouds that overhang the site are reflected in the pallor of the picnickers, whose hangovers are equally heavy, and their skin as ominously grey. The beer is helping though, as it tends to in situations like these, when the various bodily and environmental odours, mole-like eyes and general crustiness of the festival-going public are ignored, and tales of last night’s revelry fill all facets of the conversation.
Despite the bodily resistance, the mood is decidedly upbeat as your correspondent picks her way through the crowd around the main stage to see Aim, those Mancunian workers of atmospheric dancey hip-pop, wrap up their set. They are swiftly followed by master percussionists Luisito Quintero, whose irrepressible beats find their way into every toe in audible distance.
Following an emergency visit to the Cajun chips stall for soakage, Hot Press makes her way to Bat For Lashes, only to find Ms. Khan's highly anticipated set saddeningly over. Having seen the Mercury Prize nomimee at several other festivals this year, and going by the views of a random sample of the Electric Picnic audience, the performance was mesmerising to some and sterile to others. She's consistently one to divide opinion, and this set by all accounts fits into that same mould. The Beastie Boys however lift flagging spirits with a re-appearance following their truly killer show on Saturday night in the Electric Arena, with ‘Sabotage’ grabbing the assembled masses by the scruff of the neck and not letting go. The performance doesn’t quite live up to the spectacle of Saturday’s gig proper, though.
A sheet of torrential rain sees the Arena fill up quite considerably for New York indie pop specialists Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, whose excruciatingly long soundcheck proves to be worthwhile when they launch into a rocking version of ‘Satan Said Dance’ three tracks in, accompanied by the many colourfully-dressed members of Architecture In Helsinki on percussion. It's a rousing triumph and gets the crowd sufficiently warmed up for UNKLE, who flood the stage with bright swathes of colour and a dense, groove-heavy sound. With James Lavelle now accompanied by a full live band, the energy onstage is palpable even from the outer regions of the tent.
Between those two performances, Hot Press manages to squeeze in a brief but pleasant trip to the Crawdaddy Stage, where Rilo Kiley are regaling followers with musings from their latest album. Jenny Lewis does my head in at the best of times – can any indie pop temptress be so beguiling and, at the same time so irritating? – but her high-cut catsuit and gold waist cincher belt leaves at least half of the crowd in attendance truly agog. Hot Press, meanwhile, scratches her chin and shakes her hips to the guitarist’s sweet licks.
Back on the main stage, SouI II Soul play a blistering set, despite the aforementioned downpour: ‘Back To Life’ proves a phenomenal pick me up for the soggy crowd: the sun doesn’t need to come out to make that track shine. They're followed by post-rock heroes Sonic Youth who knock out awesome, sky-scraping epics like they're going out of fashion, with Kim Gordon spinning maniacally across the stage as she yells into the mic and Thurston Moore, all fringe and slashes of distorted guitar, chopping into tracks from across their back catalogue.
But nothing Sunday’s line-up has to offer can possibly match the intoxicating presence of the wonderful, punk-to-the-marrow Iggy Pop and his Stooges. His muscles may resemble the shell of a crustacean and his skin look like Creme Brulee after a particularly hot blowtorching, but his rock ‘n roll-ability elbows past, stands on the toes of, and unwittingly kicks in the face the rest of today’s performers. If you want to know how it’s done, watch Iggy Pop. This man has the consistency and persistency of a venereal disease, but his presence is much more tolerable: he writhes about the stage, humping the amps and crowd-surfing with a casual nonchalance, displaying more energy than frontmen one third his age, and incites a near riot when he proclaims his “loneliness” on stage mid-song. In nanoseconds he’s joined by a herd of front-rowers, yours truly included, as we scale the barriers for a delicious lick of the real rock morsel. This is a moment to tell your children about, Hot Press thinks, as she's kindly escorted from the stage by the Gardai.
Primal Scream’s closing set slowly draws the crowd from far and wide for loved-up renditions of ‘Loaded’, ‘Rocks’ and all the usual suspects. Though we’re still dizzy from Iggy’s sonic whirlwind, (and despite the fact that he unequivocally stole the show), the moment Bobby Gillespie & Co. call time on Electric Picnic 2007 is one of euphoric unity. Rock on, until next year.