If you see mediocre bands do mediocre shows for long enough it's easy to fall down that horribly slippery slope of thinking that maybe your ears don't work anymore. Thank God for Robots In Disguise, who have just broken into our head and installed a whole new stereo. In spite of chronic and genuine sound problems (yes Larrikin Love, we're looking at you) they turned out a show that was messy, thrilling and the best thing we've seen at a festival all year. Fans in the front row let of ribbon streamers over the band, who stuck mics in people's faces to spell out "girls", and then topped it off by falling over and tussling on the floor. They leant right into the crowd, at one point clambering over onto the tent's support table and dancing like all hell was away. They even got The Mighty Boosh's Noel Fielding in on bass for a song. It was utterly glorious. After endless "performances" where band play, crowd clap, repeat as necessary, it was a total adrenalin rush to be right in the middle of something that reminds you why music is wonderful. Sod Jamiroquai, his stupid ego and horrid songs, we're leaving Lovebox feeling like we've just mainlined joy. Cheers girls.
7.15pm. We're sprawled half way between the main stage and the electro tent which means we're listening to reggae supremo Jimmy Cliff and electrockers White Rose Movement at the same time. It sounds like a mash up done by your least talented DJ mate. FYI: The weirdest thing WRM have ever seen at a festival is a woman masturbating with a piece of pizza at Glastonbury. They reckon it was an American Hot. Ouch... Tabloid cash cow Calum Best has just walked past with numerous "lovelies" (he is very, very orange in real life) and Martin Fowler doesn't seem to have moved for the last three hours. Somewhat suprisingly given where we are, we've only been offered drugs three times the whole weekend. Maybe the dealers are on holiday.
Secretly, we wanted to see The Feeling do 'Fill My Little World' on the main stage because it fills us with joy, but they're playing 'Sewn' which definitely doesn't so we head over to the Kill All Hippies tent for The Holloways. We're very nearly stolen away by a man playing a bossa nova version of 'Teenage Dirtbag' in the Rumpleteaser. Damn can that song swing. The Holloways are very endearing to watch, and clearly overjoyed by what they're doing, so it's a shame that it's the same indie/ska that every other young London four-piece have been doing for the last two years. Time to rootle in the influences barrel again wethinks.
A Burlesque stage has sprouted since yesterday which explains why there's a lady divesting herself of her ribbons at four in the afternoon. Of course! It's the Whoopee Club! One of her nipple tassles goes missing so some enterprising hand movements are employed until she goes "Oh f*** it" and strikes a finishing pose. Nice one miss. She's then rewarded with a cheque from a gringo with a Devonshire accent, before a bunch of pirates come on and start going "Aaaar!" Today is already ten times more fun than yesterday. I blame the models.
Aloud's sleb spotting's going quite well today: wossname who plays Martin in Eastenders chainsmoking in the VIP area, Gogol Bordello looking hot outside the Rumpelteaser tent, and Lorraine. Ole asked if we'd met before. We hadn't, but he's a bit lovely so we would have remembered. The Rumpleteaser tent makes us even more excited as there's an aerial display on and if we didn't have chronic vertigo and absolutely no gymnastic ability, we'd have run away to join the circus years ago. As it is, we're quite happy to get neckache watching these two at it.
"We thought we'd write a song about love. Because no one's ever done that."
Insofar as a dance festival can have a rock day, this is it. We were rather expecting the attractiveness of the visitors to go down as a result after yesterday's model fest, but no. There's lots of tanned youth tapping their feet to Guillemots and their ker-azee folkish tunes. Ooh, someone's doing what looks like the Charleston to our left. That's either very brave or very foolish depending on how hot you are. For those of you who've been asleep for the last week, Guillemots have been nominated for the Mercury Music Prize. Bad luck for them that experimental weirdness won last year, our money's on Sway.
It's bright and early (well, ish) and Vicky Park is already covered in bodies sprawled over the grass. We say grass, but last night's revels crushed a load of it so it's more desert straw than anything else. Synth pop kings Lorraine are playing their biggest gig to date - not that you'd know, like Brian Molko at his best their singer (the rather gorgeously named Oleowns) the stage. Not so much a passing nod to the 80s as a big drunken snog, their songs are huge chunks of wistfulness and Lost Boys style promise. What it must have been to see this done in Barfly...
Jim Noir has cancelled apparently. Oh well. Back to Groove Armada, who have obviously sensed our damp curmudgeonliness as they've amped up the rock. It's all a bit angry, but in a "Hey! This is OUR festival! Brilliant!" sort of way. We're going to attempt dancing now, so thank you for reading and see you tomorrow for day two.
Even as the organisers of this shindig, Groove Armada must be at least slightly fazed by the thousands of people currently swaying along to 'At The River', not all of whom have taken vast amounts of pills. With an entire band jammed onto the stage, it knocks X-Press 2's disc spinning efforts into a cocked hat. Our holiday mood rapidly dissipates with the approach of yet more rain, so we're going to head off to the Lost and Sound tarpaulin stage to watch Jim Noir instead.
We thought Tiny Dancers had cornered the market on elaborate stage decoration but that was before we saw Flipron's drum kit. Dripping with flashing fairy lights and hula flowers it looks like it's escaped from a Brighton old folks home, which is also pretty much as close as you'll get to summing up Flipron's sound. Acidly clever lyrics, accordions, bells and rollicking weirdness from every vintage you can imagine. Oh good, they're about to do 'Skeletons on Holiday'. If you have somehow neglected to fit their album '38 Minutes...' in your record collection, you'll probably have missed this particular Hawaiian-tinged instrumental. You're a fool. Get on CDwow and fix this immediately.
