We've seen loads of good stuff over the last few hours. We had a sit down in the Pavilion and watched alcoholics chat to rabbits that may or may not exist in Harvey, and sang along to the na na na na's in Hey Jude which Howe Gelb tagged onto his finishing cover of Ring of Fire.
We've been advised that the blood group diet is the only one worth doing by a former champion runner who is now a nutritionist and holistic therapist (never, ever eat a whole avocado apparently) and we've listened to bit of Jolie Holland's set while some Youths caused havoc with beer around us.
Now we're letting Richard Hawley's epic and wistful pop wash over us in between his caustic jokes which are, sadly, way too blue to repeat here. Suffice to say we're storing up the phrase 'soft as a bag of tits' for use in a future conversation.
We've just seen Emmy The Great who turned out to be one person, but were joined by Jeremy Warmsley and a boy called Charlie who owns a very impressive furry bass guitar and thus became Emmy and the Whale. This is not, apparently, their actual name as they haven't thought one up yet but did nicely enough for their gig in the Bimble Inn where the ubiquitous small children joined in on maraccas and everyone clapped along, especially to one song with a lovely Kyrie Eleison refrain. Emmy herself shakes her head around like a Shetland pony while singing which is good as she has the fringe for it, if slightly unnerving as you do wonder if she'll lose her balance and fall over.
They run out of songs five minutes before the end so hail one of their friends onstage to do a poem about crap clubbing. We have now learned how to dance, although said dance might get us committed should we ever actually do it in public.
Seriously, what did we do before we were shown Tilly and the Wall? With dancers and happy hand waving sounds so meltingly summery you could put it in cones and sell it to small children, a Tilly show is a great show.
We've done back to back goodness as we've just come from Holly Golightly, whose incredibly cheery greeting to the crowd belie the sleepily sexy blues that she and her band of equally sexy boys unleash in volumes.
I'm From Barcelona are everywhere we go, although disappointingly the bearded Smurf man has changed into something less revealing. Boo to you, bearded Smurf man! Most of Paris Motel are sitting cross-legged by the Somerset Cider Bus eating burritos like a better-dressed Church outing, and we're SURE we've just clocked tonight's headliner Ryan Adams. Although we kind of hope not, because he just went into one of the Portaloos and that's just not an image we want in our head of someone we've fancied for five years...
New fans for life. Or at least until the tenth wash.
Well, we stand corrected on the poetry because we dived in to warm up and it was actually very funny and sweet. Bloke called Guy Herbert, track him down at allmyownworn.blogspot.com.
On the way to see Paris Motel who we very much enjoyed at Latitude we bump into some people who took advantage of I'm From Barcelona's enterprising t-shirt sales after their set and are very effusive about them which we agree with entirely.
The nine-piece Paris Motel might not be as numerous as the Swedes, but they've certainly got more instruments and, most importantly, an Edward Larrikin type who bangs a drum with much might and dancing, and occasionally wears it as a hat. They also do a lovely cover of 'Maps' by Yeah Yeah Yeahs which entirely benefits from the small orchestra effect. Take note Karen O...
Just as Jeremy Warmsley and his band come on to the Big Top stage a small child starts crying. "Aw that always happens," he quips, yanking his trousers up again. ("Has he forgotten his braces?" Smash Hits texts us, in mothering tones.) Who knows, but the child's wails are soon lost in swarming keys and buzzing sonicery. Although that's probably not a word. They're a bit late because they drove off in Lily Allen's van by mistake, as you do.
Over on the Garden Stage, guitarist-singer Chris T-T has been making up for so-so tunes with a funny schtick in between songs and lyrics about giraffes. Aah... Time for more ice cream we reckon if we can just battle our way through the earnest poetry wafting from the open mic sessions in the Bimble Inn tent to our right and the drumming workshop giving us hippie nightmares to our left. Oh.
One of the year's most improbable tips (let's draw a veil over the memory of Polyphonic Spree shall we?) is I'm From Barcelona, a 20-odd strong collective from Sweden with a nice line in songs about chicken pox.
From their first song about a 'you and me house' tree house in which their Angus Young-a-like singer sprinkles streamers over the crowd (with a handful just for us down in the photo pit. Touched by celebrity, that's us!) there's all sorts of excitements going on. A bubble machine whirrs around the stage and girls clutch twigs left over from British Sea Power's set last night. It's waaaay less scary than the Spree and their 'rhymes with slaughter' leader but none the less full of joy and fun. We particularly enjoy the bearded man dressed up as a Smurf and bouncing like he's on a trampoline.
Angus and one of the tree girls get down in the pit and get people in the crowd blowing into kazoos and singing along like they were born into a musical collective. It's brilliant and ludicrously happy. We are forming a musical collective THE MINUTE we get back to London. Who's with us?
Finally! The good music thread has been derailed by the boring singer-songwriter Christian Kjellvander and his bored-looking co-singer who remind us that minor chords are no substitute for feeling, however frequently they're played. We'd leave earlier but it's quite warm and comfy.
Our next rubbish band are very, very bad indeed but disappoint us by turning out to have a small child on the drums and some kind of comedian singing which isn't really rubbish at all. The next plan is to sing L Ron Hubbard's book Fear. The founding father of Scientology clearly doesn't like this plan as there's a power cut and once it's back on a band turn up to claim the guitar and drums because they're onstage in half an hour. Oh well...
This is now, obviously. Last night was much darker.
Last night when wandering through the Secret Gardens listening to Josh Ritter floating over the trees, we followed strings of lights to a grotto with a piano set up in it. People would randomly drop in and out and play, and we must have been overflowing with festival spirit because we sang with some of them. What a nice idea anyway, and very good for people who are too malco to play in the drumming circle (namely, us.)
We've been steering well clear of the Choc Star bus and its plethora of gorgeous things, but unfortunately our greed vastly outweighs our self-restraint. If it were possible to frame an ice cream combination, raspberry and white chocolate would be on our wall right now: utterly perfect and totally yum.
It's given us the necessary energy to climb through the packed Bimble Inn tent to grab a bit of floor before Suburban Kids With Biblical Names start their set. Even if they're terrible, we will love them because of their name alone. Ooh, they're on now. Jingly jangly tunes, whistling, beats from an iPod they've plugged into a mic and a nice line in straight faced crazy dancing, it's all good fun to watch. The crowd are going mental.
There's all manner of things for grown-ups as well as children at the circus tent, where a Punch and Judy show is about to scare the wits out of everyone over 10. Unicycling is just one of these things. However, as we have enough problems staying on things with two wheels, trying it would probably not end well. We go and check out My Latest Novel and The Boy Least Likely To instead, both of whom provide much more stability and joy than unicycling.
