Saturday lunchtime and we were sitting in front of the Pyramid Stage, in the sunshine, drinking ciders and singing along to The Pipettes. The three ladies and their backing band delivered a proficiently poppy set with many hand-clapping and finger-wagging opportunities. It was the only chance we got all weekend to sit down on the grass and therefore it’s a rosy cider-tinted memory, but I hope that’s allowed.
Everybody got soaked watching The Guillemots. I saw them entirely from the little eye-gap in my ginormous poncho, and from what I could make out through the lashing rain, they were noisy. Fyfe Dangerfield did his usual flailing and fitting on the floor while sultry Aristazabal looked on dispassionately, shimmying all over her double bass. Sao Paulo was ear-splittingly rousing, and as I trudged over to The Other Stage I heard many wet folk enthusing about how excellent they were. A job well done for one of Britain’s most underrated, and loud, bands.
En route to The Other Stage I stopped over at Emma Levine’s stand. Every year I buy one of her brilliantly designed t-shirts and now it’s a bit of a tradition that I stop by and say hello to her motley crew of friends.
CSS were utterly manic. Lovefoxxx performed her, by now, requisite strip-show, revealing increasingly garish full-body leotards to starjump across the stage in. Approximately a third of the audience fell instantly in love with her. Bubble-blowing kits were thrown into the crowd, Lovefoxxx bravely crowd-surfed muddying her sparkly cat-suit, and finished the set by taking a great gulp of helium and introducing Let’s Make Love like a chipmunk. Minifig, predictably, hates CSS. I just wish they’d ask me to join the band. As one commentator on YouTube says, I love the funnesss.
I don’t really understand the hype around The Klaxons – Golden Skans is a perfectly passable song and works reasonably well on adverts – nuff said. However, unlike other ridiculously highly-billed acts (yes, Artic Monkeys, The Killers, The (wtf) Kooks, I’m looking at you), The Klaxons turn up hysterical and blushing at filling the modest 5.00pm Saturday slot on The Other Stage. I’m still not convinced, but Atlantis To Intercourse is a giant, shrieking, dirty great track – like Atari Teenage Riot meets 2 Unlimited, which, please trust me, works well. However, they weren't good enough to overcome my extreme exhaustion, and defeated we all head back to the tent for a cup of tea. Rock ‘n’ bloody roll – what a bunch of middle-class, middle-aged, middle England lightweights. Any one for a slice of Battenburg?
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