It’s early Saturday afternoon at Ireland’s biggest rock ‘n’ roll festival and the gig fairy is not smiling down on me. Traditionally, that lieu time between breakfast rolls and the first major set of the day is spent acquainting oneself with a festival’s lesser-known acts. It’s an endeavour not without its risks, but one that must be undertaken without self-regard or fear, if a music journalist such as yours truly is to uncover the hidden gem of the festival and brag about having seen them in front of 50 people when they’re headlining the Pet Sounds stage next year.

Unfortunately for me (and therefore you), the bands I happen upon in the early hours – namely Concerto For Constantine and Delays – are unlikely to trouble such heights, mainly because they’re both pretty boring: the former throw all the right shapes but make none of the right noises, while the latter are downright offensive in their inoffensiveness. As a result, energy levels are somewhere around the ankles by the time the Brian Jonestown Massacre – a band I actually, desperately want to see – make their entrance. Anton stands side-on to the stage and sings to the drummer, while the eminently-wasted Joel casually hits his tambourine and stares at the sky. The body language reflects the audible apathy, and while the songs are truly great, they sound like they’ve been played 1,000,000 times, which of course they have. Perhaps Anton’s strict diet of straight vodka has dampened his formerly inextinguishable fire.
Next up are the Ting Tings, their set timed perfectly with a colossal downpour. The tent is rammed, the Gardai have closed off the entrances, and a crowd of people 15-deep are trying to get in. There’s lots of energy on stage, Miss Ting is giving it socks and the crowd are clearly loving it, and it could well have been great if the songs weren’t quite so, erm, well, rubbish. ‘Gig fairy! Gig fairy! Why hast thou deserted me?’ I cry, hoping a great white light will shine down from the heavens and karmically lead me to the good stuff. And lo, it does. Within seconds of entering the half empty 2fm stage, Holy Fuck (bathed in a devilish purple light) have my lower jaw in the mud with a wild mash up of sleazy electro-funk and lethal grooves. It’s infectious, energetic and danceable, and slaps a big smile on my face as I wander over to British Sea Power at the Green Room, who maintain the standard with an set of artful indie pop songs that culminates in a chaotic finish (piggybacks, guitars smacking off people’s heads, etc).
There's no GBH, but plenty of quality synth-poppery going on in the IMRO New Sound Stage where Oppenheimer are performing to what seems like the whole of Belfast. Rocky and Shaun are no mere hometown heroes though, with the fizzing ‘Major Television Event’ and ‘Look Up’ explaining why they’re in such demand Stateside. Kudos as well to the IMRO people for giving 30 Irish acts who might otherwise have been overlooked the chance to play the festival.
Things are looking up, I think, as I make my way deep into the crowd for what turns out to be the gig of the festival so far, Vampire Weekend. The atmosphere is electric and the band are clearly feeling it as they tear info a beefed-up ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa’, followed by ‘M79’ and ‘Oxford Comma’, all of which the hungry mob devour with the blood still dripping. Fantastic.
And so to those other nerds du jour Hot Chip. The bass is pumping, the crowd is mighty, and index fingers are pointing emphatically in the air as the sharp-as-a-pin-point guitar riff of ‘Over And Over’ kicks in. “Like a monkey with a miniature cymbal,” is possibly one of the best descriptions ever committed to lyric sheet, and the crowd scream it back at the stage with tonsils raw and trembling.
Hot Press makes a detour to the beer tent before heading off solo to take in yet more digital madness in the form of Justice. I get to the thick of the pit just in time to witness ‘We Are Your Friends’ uniting the Dance Tent with an enormous, pilled-up, sonic embrace, before stumbling dazed towards the O2 Stage and that mightiest of dance rock monsters, The Prodigy. Even on the pixelated big screen, the craziness in Keith’s eyes shines through, and everyone goes properly mental for ‘Firestarter’, which is just as it should be. The clash of headliners makes for another sprint, this time to the main stage, wellies sticking in the mud, where The Verve are closing proceedings with a truly anthemic, arms-in-the-air rendition of ‘Bittersweet Symphony’, invoking a moment of nostalgic euphoria among the festival weary. The gig fairy has a smirk on his face, and I have a big wide grin on mine.

Amy Winehouse and R.E.M. by Stuart Clark
“Amy Winehouse proves her detractors wrong,” reads one of the Sunday newspaper reviews of her Oxegen Main Stage appearance.
How exactly? By turning up? By managing to not fall over or scuffle with members of the crowd? It sure as hell wasn’t with the quality of her singing, which would have got the ‘thumbs down’ at a pub karaoke session.
True, the 24-year-old is more compos mentis tonight than she was a few weeks ago at Glastonbury, but it’s a question of degrees. Arriving on site so late that she apparently had to change in a van, Winehouse looks confused, bordering on distressed as she kicks her 14-song set off – irony of bitter ironies – with ‘Addicted’.
The days when she nailed tunes with a Billie Holiday meets Dinah Washington precision are (temporarily we hope) gone, replaced by a train-wreck of bum notes, forgotten lyrics and bigging up her lovely husband Blake who we’re informed is “out in nine days.”
Gulping from what could be a pint glass of Ribena but is more probably red wine, Amy tries to pick the pace up with the closing salvo of ‘You Know I’m No Good’, ‘Rehab’ and ‘Me And Mr. Jones’, but they’re mere shadows of the gilt-edged classics that grace Black To Black.
No one’s denying her immense talent, but for the time being those detractors are right.
The last time I saw R.E.M. outdoors was three years ago at Ardgillan Castle when their performance was light on crowd-pleasers, and heavy on talking-down-to-the-Irish-masses political rhetoric. Tonight couldn’t be any more different as a sharply suited Michael Stipe leads the band through an exhilarating set that mixes mega hits (‘What’s The Frequency Kenneth’, ‘Imitation Of Life’, ‘The One I Love’, ‘Losing My Religion’, ‘Bad Day’, ‘Orange Crush’, ‘It’s The End Of The World As We Know It’ and ‘Man On The Moon’) with choice moments from their back catalogue (‘These Days’, ‘Begin The Begin’, ‘Ignoreland’ and ‘Let Me In’, which is rendered in rare acoustic form).
With a wall of Warholian images adding to the spectacle, it’s very probably the festival’s stand-out performance. And god do we feel fine!