SATURDAY

Armed with a steak & ale pie and all the trimmings, my early afternoon wanderings start in the Electric Arena where pun-loving South Londoners Chew Lip (the name apparently comes from Brendan Behan’s Borstal Boy) are simultaneously managing to sound like Florence & The Machine, Eno-era Roxy Music and Daft Punk in their rather more considered moments. Qualities which in the Clark-ian book are all to be applauded.
Less convincing are Main Stage-rs Tuung who probably won’t be adding my “hippy Prefab Sprout with samples” to their press pack testimonials.
Meanwhile, the Crawdaddy tent is a healthy two-thirds full for David Geraghty, who shorn of Bell X1’s irresistible hooks sounds a little bit, well, dull. Far more captivating on the day is Julie Feeney who’d threatened to appear in full body-paint, but in the end settles for a swirly 1920s number. With a string quartet, xylophone, flute, oboe, stand-up bass and kitchen sink on stage with her – I made the last one up, but you get my point – it’s hugely ambitious stuff but works by dint of (a) Ms. Feeney’s mesmerising stage presence and (b) the eccentric pop genius of songs like ‘Myth’ and ‘Life’s Nudge’, which in a parallel universe would be all over daytime radio like a rash.
His new All Night Cinema album may be a huge artistic leap forward, but the need to keep the festival masses happy with songs they instantly recognise (‘Starz In Their Eyes’, ‘Glory Days’ & ‘Writer’s Block’) means that Just Jack still comes across like an Aldi Mike Skinner. One suspects that he, as well as the rest of us in the Crawdaddy tent, will be happier when he can put his E-guzzling geezer past behind him and show off his newly acquired vocal talents.
Wanting to know if the years or, more to the point, their hairdressers have been kind to them, we stay in Crawdaddy for the return of A Flock Of Seagulls.
It’s a question that thanks to sole original member Mike Score donning a baseball cap is never properly answered, but unreconstructed versions of ‘80s synth-pop hits like ‘The More You Live, The More You Love’ and ‘I Ran’ go down remarkably well with punters who weren’t born when the Liverpudlians were enjoying their unlikely 15 minutes of fame.
A question we can conclusively answer “yes” to is whether The xx are deserving of all the hype that’s been coming their way of late.
Despite singer Romy Madley Croft being almost too ill with a stomach bug to perform, the South West Londoners make 5,000 or so new friends with songs like ‘VCR’ and ‘Crystalise’, which are as in thrall to Aaliyah and Missy Elliott as they are Mazzy Star and the Velvets. By the time their cover of Womack & Womack’s ‘Teardrops’ comes around, we’re convinced that what we have here is the next very big thing.
We also fall in love (and not just because of her silver lamé hotpants) with Welsh-Greek force of nature Marina Diamandis, who is everything Little Boots wants to be but isn’t. Either performing solo behind the keyboards or rocking out in front of her Diamonds, she’s the real maverick pop deal.
After a brief detour to hear Roots Manuva rocking ‘Witness The Fitness’ like a very mean bastard, it’s off to the Main Stage where Kid Creole and his latest bunch of Coconuts are ruing not having more top 20 hits in their arsenal. ‘I’m A Wonderful Thing, Baby’, ‘Stool Pigeon’ and ‘Annie, I’m Not Your Daddy’ aside, they fail to ignite a crowd whose main reason for being there seems to be getting a good spot for Lisa Hannigan.
A year ago you’d have questioned her ability to enrapture a field full of punters, but constant gigging has turned Ms. Hannigan into a supremely confident performer whose voice is even better live than it is on record. One thing that hasn’t changed is the delicious understatement of ‘I Don’t Know’ and ‘Lille’, which will hopefully soon have the distinction of being part of a Mercury Prize-winning album.
The Stradbally weather may be unseasonably chilly, but there’s no shortage of sunshine as Brian Wilson treats us to 75 minutes of Californian pop perfection. Well, when I say Brian Wilson, what I mean is the superior session musicians who do all the singing and playing while the ex-Beach Boy sits there corpse-like in front of an autocue. The odd mumbled greeting aside, it really is like watching the musical version of Weekend At Bernie’s.
Their ‘Fuck art lets dance’ t-shirts may be lacking the apostrophe they had back in the ‘70s, but otherwise Madness are still in perfect working order — and the only thing that could have kept me away from Chic, who I’m told were as jaw-droppingly amazing as Nile Rodgers promised Hot Press they would be a few months back.
The Main Stage idiot dancing doesn’t end there, with Belgian electro pranksters 2ManyDjs shoehorning Slayer’s ‘Reign In Blood’, MGMT’s ‘Kids’ and Dolly’s ‘9 To 5’ into a Frankenstein’s monster of a set, which sends everybody to bed with a daft grin on their face.