Now, although Speech Debelle was loitering in a similar position this time last year, starting the day at 33-1, her win turned into something of a PR disaster. Thrusting such an unexpected choice into the limelight – and inevitably, the headline news – made the Mercury panel's decision feel like some serious attention-seeking. I mean, fair enough if you’re determined to piss Radiohead off by nominating their every album and never letting them win - that’s mildly amusing - but just picking some relatively obscure musician cos you want to look like you're know-alls? That's a bit "look at us!", innit?

Thus, poor old Kit. He really must be wondering what the point of him going along is. Whilst the judges love to chuck a curve ball every now and then, throwing two in two years might just be testing the nation’s patience. Instead this year we are going to be subjected to something predictable. Something safe. 2010 will surely be Paul Weller’s year. The bookmakers think so, that's why they currently have him at 1-10.

For those of us still looking for an upset, though – i.e. the people sitting on Kit’s table – here’s an encouraging thought: the panel can’t keep nominating random classical or jazz acts without ever letting them win, can they? Haha! No! Chin up, Kit! This really could be your year! Maybe! Come on big guy!

Nah, only joking. You've got no chance. What’s important here is that you’re in good company. Over the years, some great albums have missed out on the prestige of being named Mercury Prize winners. These guys all painted their pièce de resistances, but lost out to a drawing of a cock and balls scrawled on the back of a fag packet:

1993
Winner: Suede ‘Suede’
Missed Out: PJ Harvey ‘Rid Of Me’
Not quite a cock and balls – Suede saved their crudely etched rubbish for 1999’s ‘Head Music’ and 2002’s ‘A New Morning’ – but not winning the 2nd ever Mercury Prize must have come as a kick in the ovary to PJ Harvey. ‘Rid Of Me’ is a harrowing portrait of a breakdown (I’ve just been re-acquainted with the brilliance of it via Spotify and have completely ruined the middle of the album by pausing to watch this: - nice smoky organ in the intro, Richard), written during a period of intense personal difficulty. Steve Albini, producing, has said that during the recording sessions, PJ would eat nothing but potatoes. Still, after all that personal anguish, at least she lost out to the best Suede album of all time (which is probably the most underwhelming accolade attributed to an album, ever).

1994
Winner: M People ‘Elegant Slumming’
Missed Out: Blur ‘Parklife’
Unthinkably, in 1994, armed with one of the most important pop albums of the decade, Blur still lost out… to a band who made the Lighthouse Family sound like Slipknot. Shocking.

1995
Winner: Portishead ‘Dummy’
Missed Out: Oasis ‘Definitely Maybe’
Two very different sides of the coin, here. Whilst Portishead’s ‘Dummy’ is the discerning music fan’s album of choice; extending a far-reaching influence over the atmospherics of modern indie, Oasis’ gargantuan success throughout the latter 90s and early 00s was founded on the greatness of ‘Definitely Maybe’. It’s the only of their albums that sounded - ‘Columbia’ in particular – genuinely feral. Plus, they spelled “definitely” right, which, for them, turned out to be an intellectual high-point. Yet, still, no cigar.

1997
Winner: Roni Size/Reprazent ‘New Forms’
Missed Out: Radiohead ‘OK Computer’

2002
Winner: Ms. Dynamite ‘A Little Deeper’
Missed Out: The Streets ‘Original Pirate Material’
It seems like a bad memory, but UK garage really was big in 2002. While Ms. Dynamite’s intense-lee-hee-hee grating R&B guided her to the top ten and the Mercury Prize, Mike Skinner’s Lord-Byron-in-tracky-bottoms schtick was the real crossover success, merging the beats of the burgeoning scene with the wider indie conscience. Still, he didn’t win.

2005
Winner: Antony And The Johnsons ‘I’m A Bird Now’
Missed Out: Everyone else.
No, that’s not George Dawes in a Beatle wig, it is in fact Antony Hegarty, a controversial winner for several reasons, the least controversial of which being that his singing voice sounded like a trapped sheep. Those who missed out included Kaiser Chiefs, who sold 17 billion copies of ‘Employment’, Bloc Party and their teeth-rattling debut ‘Silent Alarm’, stadium bore-offs Coldplay with ‘X&Y’, and Hard-Fi, who would surely have snatched the prize, had they decided not to phone in their album artwork at the last minute. What’s that? It won awards? Well, not this one, it didn’t…

2009
Winner: Speech Debelle ‘Speech Therapy’
Missed Out: Florence And The Machine ‘Lungs’
Though not everyone’s cup of tea, Florence Welch is certainly more most people’s cup of tea than merely some people’s cup of tea. That is to say, excluding further talk of cups of tea, ‘Lungs’ has sold in excess of 100,000 albums. We would tell you how many Speech has sold, but there doesn’t seem to be any data out there. This is probably because it performed so pitifully. Even with the massive hype and increased media profile surrounding her win, she had still only sold 10,000 copies by November 2009. A recent estimate by industry insider, Mr. JJ Dunning of The Fly magazine, now puts that figure at somewhere in the region of 10,004.

Several things have been drawn to my attention over the last seven days, not least of which is how many letters there actually are in the alphabet. Twenty-bloody-six! Can anyone else simply not wait for Z to get here? Still, not to despair, we’ll leave that until we arrive at the letter X and all I have to show you is a xylophone solo. This week I have all sorts of treats ranging from a certifiable gent made almost entirely of eyebrows crooning about his love of the clitoris, to an unlikely film-star who wants to poo on your chest. Is this as exciting as it sounds? Will I mention the video I found of a cat that gave birth to a dog? Is the ‘meet single ladies over 50’ email I just received an example of misplaced marketing or a reminder from god that I should lower my standards? For answers to all these questions and more, although possibly less, keep reading.

E - Every Christmas You Will Think of This

What do you think of when you hear the word Christmas? Turkey perhaps? Maybe a tiny baby Jesus? Or maybe you’re more traditional and like to imagine an old man breaking into your house and emptying his sack all over the foot of your bed? Whatever it is you have in mind it can’t possibly be more disturbing or less festive than what I have to show you below. I should probably forewarn you that what you are about to see may well render you completely asexual. In fact, as soon as I finish this blog I plan on sending the following clip to the president of China in a bid to end the country’s population issues.

MUMMY MAKE THE SCARY MAN GO AWAY! I don’t know about you but I find it amazing that one three minute clip can not only completely ruin any positive thoughts I had about sex but also, possibly just as importantly, the birth of the son of god. If that’s not a hyperbolic enough summation for you, please bear in mind that sex is pretty much the only thing standing in the way of us and extinction, so essentially, now none of us ever want to do it again, this song has endangered the entire human race. I always thought that if our society did end up destroying itself it would be due to some ridiculous scientific experiment, like trying to split an atom in four or attempting to grow an arm on the back of a mouse, thus creating a really angry mouse capable of holding a gun. Little did I know that somewhere out there was a man so disturbing he’d just quite simply put me off living.

In ‘Doc Mustard’s’ defence, though, I’m not overly religious so I’m not too bothered about the desecration of baby Jesus’ birthday. And as for sex, sure it’s alright and all, but there are plenty more ways to feel exposed and self-aware yet oddly gratified without involving other people. Also, it does bring about all sorts of complications like diseases, awkward post coital conversation and people. I’ve met some people before and to be honest they’re not all that. As an example take Jedward, they’re the result of a sexual encounter (or maybe two identical sexual encounters, I’m a bit fuzzy on the science) and now they’re here forever. Seriously, I checked, it’s apparently about 18 years too late to have them aborted.

F – Funny-Man Chris Morris Does The Pixies

Thank god that’s behind us. All we have to worry about in this section are a few mild references to incest - back on safe ground.

Funny-man Chris Morris is a funny man named Chris Morris who most of you will know from programs such as Brass Eye, The Day Today and Jam. He’s the guy who convinced a Baywatch star that an elephant had its own head trapped in its botty and also the guy who made Vanessa Feltz perform a monologue to the man who murdered her. For those of you confused - no, still alive I’m afraid, it was a practical joke. When he’s not humiliating celebrities for a bit of a giggle it turns out that Mr Morris does quite a good line in parody songs, or at least he did a really long time ago when this video was made. Granted, it’s a song about incest, but after watching that first video literally everything else in the world seems to have a new found purity. Am I the only one who can’t get it out of my head? Right now I’d prefer to hear Janet Street-Porter singing 'Ave Maria' – a sound I imagine would be comparable to a flock of crows pecking music to death – to ever having to hear that jowly clit-fiend sing again.

Here’s Morris’ take on The Pixies’ ‘Monkey Gone to Heaven’.

G - Gangsta-Rap, Hollywood Style

I’ve never really understood ‘gangsta rap’. Along with dancing, wearing baseball caps, and awkward high-five combinations, it’s something I’ve always assumed I’m a little too white, a little too middle-class and a little to uptight to be able to really fathom. It’s not that me and my homies don’t get chill and roll with the 411, yo. It’s just that I have no idea what I just said.

I think it’s mostly the bravado I don’t get. I’m a fan of modesty. Even if I did happen to ‘pop a cap in someone’ or ‘get down with some hos’, I don’t think I’d feel the need to record a song about it. For one it would be incriminating. I have the same problem with R’N’B. It all seems to be about sexing up women. Remember that song ‘7 Days’ where Craig David read from his sex diary and made everyone feel a bit queasy? Well good for him for getting some and all but really it just seems like an attempt to disguise some hidden insecurity. I’m not saying Craig David is hung like a dormouse or anything, I’m just saying that I think the Craigy doth profess a little too much. If I’d written that song it would’ve been more like, ‘saw a girl from a distance on Monday, waved at a girl on Tuesday because I thought it was someone I knew but it turned out it wasn’t, went home and watched television alone Wednesday through Sunday.’ That way I’d seem like a modest albeit slightly dysfunctional kind of guy and any bedroom talent I may possess would turn out to be a nice surprise when I pounce like some kind of unexpected sexual panther.

However, if there’s anyone you would expect to be all up in your shiznit with the hip-hop till you flip-flop rhymes, then it would be princess Padmé from those films about space that were a bit like the ones made in the 70’s but shit. Apparently around 18,000,000 people have already seen this clip, but seeing as I assume only around six people are going to read this blog, three of whom are my immediate family, I’m just going to pretend that it’s brand new. Here’s Nathalie motherfoolin’ Portman, doing some really hip rap-hop especially for my crew in the grotto. Peace.

(Annoyingly, YouTube says "Embedding disabled by request", so you'll have to click here to view it).

H - Holy Auto-Tuned Christ

The world has gone up in arms recently at the news that The X Factor has been using auto-tuning during its auditions, making a bunch of relatively untalented people sound ever so slightly better, or ever so slightly more underwater, than the rest of the relatively untalented people. Those of us with time on our hands to give this some thought have probably come to the conclusion that it really doesn’t matter at all because the entire show is an excuse to pimp out fame-hungry bottom-feeders so labels can sell records and Simon Cowell can perfect the art of emitting smug-rays into the world’s consciousness. Personally I couldn’t care less whether these people are auto-tuned or made to sing while Cowell rams his hand up their jaxy and puppeteers them to stardom himself. In fact this whole paragraph has been an excuse to show you this video of an American Politician who’s been auto-tuned for the sake of entertainment. The politician in question is Basil Marceaux, a YouTube sensation that makes George Bush look like Stephen Hawking. Not in the aesthetic sense, that’d be weird, I’m just saying he’s thick so he makes Bush look smart. Oh, just watch it.

So there you have it, the most powerful country in the world’s forgotten political mastermind. I think we should all cast a vote to see what we think is more likely to end the world within the next decade. Is it a) a lack of procreation due to a worldwide release of ‘Who’s Coming For Christmas’? b) Basil Marceaux getting into the White House and hammering away at the red button thinking it’s designed to open his garage door? Or, c) A mouse with a gun?

I’d like to give a special shout-out to the people at Talk-Talk this week for leaving me without internet for four days straight. I’m hoping all businesses and institutions will follow your example. Fingers crossed the people at the NHS won’t bother to leave great Aunt Milly’s life-support on next weekend and I’ll inherit a small fortune.

Of course, he’s not the only musician to have an interest in gastronomy. Blur’s Alex James spent his days after the band’s break-up making cheese – an oft-repeated and fairly dull fact – and, of course, former MOBO nominee Levi Roots, who has become something of a minor celebrity after the success of his ‘Reggae Reggae Sauce’ on Dragon’s Den. (Well, I say “minor celebrity”, I think I mean that Britain’s students probably hail him as one of their “hilarious” ironic icons. If he plays his cards right, maybe one day he'll be as revered as Chuck Norris.)

Then there are the foodstuffs created in homage to musical heroes. Fancy tucking into a Luther Burger? Named after its rumoured creator, Luther Vandross, it’s like a normal bacon cheeseburger, only in place of the bun you use two grilled Krispy Kreme donuts (I think my aorta just puked). Or, if you’re in the Chicago area, head to Kuma’s Corner where you can dine with Megadeath. The burger called Megadeath, that is. Not the band. Kuma’s serve a whole host of rock and metal-themed sandwiches. For instance, $13 will get you a Slayer, described thusly: “Pile of fries topped with a ½ lb. Burger, Chili, Cherry Peppers, Andouille, Onions, Jack Cheese, and Anger”. I’m not sure if that last one is a special kind of herb, or if it’s merely prepared with a full serving of the emotion. Maybe the waiter calls you a bastard.

But until today I hadn’t ever seen a professionally shot video involving Brett Anderson and a fistful of squished blueberries. Though, between you and me, I had always secretly dreamed this day would arrive:

Love Music Love Food started earlier this year, and, being the brainchild of the people behind the Teenage Cancer Trust, is for a fantastic cause – even if it’s a bit wayward conceptually.
Basically, the idea is this: they get famous musicians to pose in various food-centric situations, ranging from the sexy-and-cool to the attention-grabbingly weird. Which is why (in this gallery here), on the one hand, there’s Marina Diamandis dressed as a 50s diner waitress serving bacon and pancakes, and on the other, there’s All Saints’ Mel Blatt peeking out between two curtains of melted cheese. How curiously nauseating.
That’s not all though. There’s Mani with a very phallic plate of sausage and mash, the ginger fella from The Kooks trying to out-stare a sheep, Noel Gallagher looking moody with – get this – a cup of tea, Roger Daltrey with a trout in his top pocket, Coco Sumner eating boiled egg and soldiers, and, my personal favourite, a particularly bizarre photo of what may or may not be Peaches sitting on some beans on toast, with a caption that suggests she is warming them up by farting on them. Or maybe that was in my head. Nope, I just checked. It’s there all right.

So, like ‘Cookin’ With Coolio’, Love Music Love Food is brilliant, if more than a little confusing.

Asking you to enter the address of where you grew up, the video begins with a lone figure sprinting along a deserted, no-name suburban street. As it continues, more browser windows pop up, first as a bird’s eye view circling the address you’ve entered, then travelling down the roads themselves. Then, as it comes to the climax, you’re asked to write a “letter of advice to the younger you,” a postcard to the past. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a video so brilliantly demonstrate the themes of the song it’s been filmed for – in five minutes, it’s more emotionally powerful than any music video since, perhaps, Johnny Cash’s ‘Hurt’.

Its impact will vary from watcher to watcher, and that’s the beauty of it. For example, if you’re still living in the house you grew up in, or visit it regularly, then it might not hit you any harder than “oh, that’s cool.” For me, though, I haven’t seen the house or the street where I spent my teenage years since it was sold after my dear mum passed away four years ago. In that sense, it took the video and the song to a whole new level that I’m not ashamed to say left a big fucking lump in my throat. Everything about it is perfectly pitched - the nostalgia of youth offset against the change of time, of remembering playing in those streets, living in that house, but seeing it for the first time in years, its front garden paved over, the car parked outside not my mum’s. I ummed and ahhed about writing that in a blog that, given my usual mouthy, gobby drivel, might feel a bit too starkly personal. But then I realised, that’s the whole point of ‘The Wilderness Downtown’ – it holds a mirror to the viewer, injecting what’s become one of the most soulless divisions of music media – truly, when was the last time a music vid did anything for you other than have you reaching for the remote? - with a Herculean slab of emotion, giving it not so much a personal touch, more of a personal thump.

To that end, Arcade Fire and Chris Milk need to be applauded and saluted for its achievement. Arcade Fire are exactly the sort of band who, like Pearl Jam and Nirvana in the 90s, you’d imagine turn their noses up at having to make music videos. But they don’t and they haven’t; they’ve done the opposite and laid down the gauntlet to anyone who dares make another let’s-shoot-it-in-black-and-white-get-the-band-playing-in-a-room video again. Right, I’m off to watch it again, except this time I’m gonna pretend I live in Leicester Square. Let’s see if that has the same sort of tear-jerking punch to it…

That’s a lie; it was this month two years ago. Might have been last week, or yesterday. Not sure. It doesn’t really matter. Leave me alone!

Micachu And The Shapes popped our cinematic cherry back in 2008 and once their little argument about who would play the bin lid and cardboard box was over, the trio launched into a charmingly ramshackle version of ‘Golden Phone'.

Micachu & the Shapes - `Golden Phone` FlyTV In The Courtyard

Since then, we've gone on to film over 200 bands in our courtyard or basement, with the likes of Doves,  ...Trail of Dead, Ellie Goulding, The Proclaimers, The Noisettes, We Are Scientists and many more playing their least glamorous gig to date in front of their smallest audience ever. Possibly.

I’m not going to stand here and say that here at The Fly we break careers, but here at The Fly we break careers (I’m sitting). Here’s a run-down of some of our courtyard dwellers who have gone on to dominate the charts or become critically acclaimed.

Bombay Bicycle Club! Who DOESN’T know this band? Even your mum loves them. One of our first courtyard guinea pigs, the band decided to scramble on top of their tour bus for this session. I pretended I was really cool with it and hoiked my body up there too, little did they know I was trembling with fear. They thought it was ecstasy at their gorgeous cover of Loudon Wainwright’s ‘Motel Blues’ and version of ‘Sixteen’ though.

BOMBAY BICYCLE CLUB - `Sixteen` FlyTV In The Courtyard

Prior to the release of the debut EP that launched them from New York pretty boys to 2010’s biggest breakthrough artists and Fly cover stars, The Drums popped in to perform two songs for us. I must admit, it was only until after this session I realised they were actually charismatic and clever, not just nostalgic fad pushers.

The Drums - The Drums 'Make You Mine' FlyTV In The Courtyard

I shant stand here and say that Eliza Doolittle is the best thing since Ryvita and peanut butter (I just made this for the first time today, surprisingly tasty, and healthy too), or whatever that phrase is, but she seems to be captivating many ears at the moment with her jubilant chirps (wrote chips then by accident). Anyway, before she became firmly lodged in the Top 10, she came in to perform this little ditty for us. Then we asked her to ‘pack up’ and go home. HAHAHA.

Eliza Doolittle - Eliza Doolittle 'Pack Up' FlyTV In The Courtyard

We’re all over this band like a really nice rash I know, but before we put Everything Everything on the cover and celebrated all of their wonderfully bizarre singles, we got them in to do this courtyard set for us in an icecream van. Taking place in the winter of 2008, the band had just released their first single. Here they played one of my favourite EE songs 'Luddites And Lambs', which sadly never made the album. Wave at old band member Alex too, hello Alex!

Everything Everything - `Luddites & Lambs` FlyTV In The Courtyard

Old Mazza And The Diamonds is up next. You wouldn’t get her lipstickless, wearing a simple pink t-shirt these days would you?

Now look at her!

Anyway, here she is singing a little song on her keyboard for us. No frills, no run of the mill(s) as they say!

Marina And The Diamonds - Marina And The Diamonds 'I Am Not A Robot' FlyTV In The Courtyard

On the other hand, this lil lady has always dressed like a lunatic. Before her debut album rocketed to success and her face became plastered over every TV channel, billboard and festival line-up, Paloma performed two songs for us sat on a really old smelly sofa:

Paloma Faith - `Stone Cold Sober` FlyTV In The Courtyard

Lastly, and I don’t want to toot our own trumpets too much, but these chaps came in a while ago. I think you’ll agree, since this performance, they’ve gone on to do fairly well for themselves.

The Proclaimers - `Letter From America` FlyTV In The Courtyard

No need to thank us bros.

5. Caribou ‘Swim’


It might be the biggest surprise of the five, but it shouldn’t be – amongst 2010’s big hitters, Caribou’s latest holds its own effortlessly. It’s a dance record that you can’t really dance to, an atmospheric record that isn’t boring, an album with no discernable choruses – or even proper vocals – but whose songs are an embed code to your brain. Dan Snaith’s latest is a dense, dynamic sonic adventure, ‘Swim’’s hypnotic glide fully deserving of its place at number five.

4. LCD Soundsystem ‘This Is Happening’


He’s old, grey, makes William Hague look edgy, but, christ, James Murphy is godlike when it comes to ze music-making. Even before overseeing LCD’s all-conquering performances at the summer festivals – Glasto chief amongst them – ‘This Is Happening’ was a neon-lighted sign that, on his last album as LCD Soundsystem, he’d be going out with a bang. It’s a record that wears its influences on its sleeve – Bowie especially – before cutting off its arm and using it as a giant glowstick. It’s a record with a swagger, a strut and enough head-twattingly brilliant dance-pop to last Murphy into retirement…

3. The National ‘High Violet’

It was nailed on that The National’s fifth album would herald – finally! – their mainstream breakthrough. Their part in that process was easy - all they had to do was make sure it was RUDDY ACE. Which, being honourable gents, they did. ‘High Violet’ is their career masterpiece – the achingly beautiful likes of ‘England’, ‘Bloodbuzz Ohio’ and ‘Afraid Of Everyone’ are the work of a band whose songcraft is immaculate but never laboured, a record where every song sounds like an intimate vignette fit for a stadium. A neat, spellbinding trick, eh?

2. Arcade Fire ‘The Suburbs’

A tricky one, given that it’s only been out for a few weeks, it’s possible ‘The Suburbs’ was included in so many people’s #top5albumsoftheyearsofar because they’re still gripped in that thrilling honeymoon period of listening to a highly-anticipated new album. I say this because it was in my Top 5, and I know I am. BUT – and that should be in font size 592 – that doesn’t mean ‘The Suburbs’ won’t feature high, or top, of many a Albums Of 2010 list come the end of the year. You get the feeling it’s a record whose magnificence will stretch across the whole year and beyond. It’s slightly too long, yeah, and has a middle section that could be leaner, but ‘The Suburbs’ is a sign that Arcade Fire are a Reading & Leeds headline performance away from becoming true alt.rock behemoths. Oh, wait…

1. Foals ‘Total Life Forever’

That Foals’ second album would be skyscrapingly ambitious in scope wasn’t a surprise – the Oxford five-piece were hardly going to follow-up ‘Antidotes’ with ‘You Overdid It Doll’, were they? What was surprising, though, was how easily they eschewed the danger of disappearing up math-rock cul-de-sacs, instead delivering a record armed to the teeth with FM-friendly, but still fiercely imaginative, art-rock. ‘Miami’, ‘This Orient’ and the title track are big-chorused, amped-up anthems, whilst the second half of the record has a dark-hearted, fevered flow to it that is absolutely stunning. I say all this cos I had it at my number one, AND I didn’t even rig the vote. GET IN.

So, that’s it. Be interesting to see how much the Top 5 differs from now til the end of the year – the likes of Interpol and Everything Everything (which, despite not even being out yet, was only 1 vote away from matching Caribou) will have a say, I’m sure. But this Top 5 encapsulates what a mighty fine year it’s been for albums – thanks to all who took part, YOU ARE ACES.

I think that this idea that we are only temporarily “biological” is fascinating. Particularly to my impressionable brain, which absorbed Terminator 3 on TV the other night. Thus, the idea that humans will be superceded by a race of shiny warmongering androids seems fairly plausible. But, if the future really is a Skynet-ruled dystopia, what will the red-eyed destructobots of tomorrowyear be listening to? Will they have iPods? Will they like Jean Michel Jarre? Perhaps he will be their god. More importantly, us tissue-based life-forms who refuse to die, living under the piles of human skulls and driving around in pick-up trucks with machine guns mounted on the back, what will we be listening to? We’re sure to be humming something or other. Music has been a part of human culture for time immemorial. And although it’s sad to have three billion people wiped off the face of the planet in a nuclear shitstorm, look on the bright side, it’s a great opportunity to have a purge of the International iTunes. Sure, your nearest and dearest have been whisked into fine powder by the single worst catastrophe in the history of mankind, but at least you’ll never hear Barry Manilow sing ‘Mandy’ again. Not a bad trade, really. Rejoice. Might nip back to the bunker and treat myself to another tin of Condensed Milk.

The business of predicting the future of music is – obviously, in lieu of a time machine – just a bunch of guess-work. Some things will definitely still be playing, like Longplayer, a musical project of The Pogues’ Jem Finer that is designed to play for a thousand years, and the last Magic Numbers album, which seems to go on for twice as long. Whatever noises the tin-foil suited people of tomorrow decide to make, I hope it sounds half as good as this:

Now it’s easy to poke holes in Newsweek’s claim by juxtaposing it with junkie truths when actually every nation on earth has been getting loaded since the big bang. Yet the fact that people are jacking speed up like William Burroughs on a wet weekend in Algiers over here is terrifying… Do they just never come down? Is this how they keep everything so fucking tidy?

There were no easy answers to be found at Flow Festival. No speed freaks, and drugs either. Hell, you couldn’t even take a £6 tin of beer out of the bar to the main stage. This was the only gripe, however, as the reality is that Flow is probably the most fashionable and clean-cut small festival in Europe; everyone’s young, good looking and well dressed. The line-up is cutting edge, too. On Friday you could see every pundit’s favourites The Drums battling with bad sound on the Tent stage, while later the same space exploded into minimal techno deity Ricardo Villalobos’s ground for a set that took in the whole digital spectrum. Meanwhile, finishing up, Magnetic Man’s Benga and Skream played a cheesy collection of dubstep that worships slow and irritating 90’s jungle breaks. And at about 5am they were sat on the steps outside their hotel with an arse-licking public school boy and some American bloke fanning a conversation about how they were gonna take over the USA. Good luck with that, lads.

Saturday kicked off. People seemed to get drunker and there was a group of teenage girls flashing their junk at passersby. Syrian wedding singer Omar Souleyman arrived and entered into a 45-minute deconstruction of psychedelic Levantine dance-pop fixed on chants that drew your mind into the void. MIA closed on the main stage with something similar; an aggressive, relentless carnival of obscure hits furnished with licks borrowed from Suicide and Pink. Sleigh Bells came on toward the end, and the guitarist lent some chords to 'Meds And Fed’s, and for once, it really felt as if there was something more to MIA than empty YBA sloganeering.

However, two acts utterly dominated the festival finale. The first, Konono No. 1 from The Democratic Republic of The Congo, dressed like cowboys and thumbed weird wooden boxes that made high pitched trance sounds as a couple of guys beat out some light house percussion. And the other was The xx, whose stunning set couldn’t help but dominate everything even if they are shy and gothic.

End result: Flow Festival will steal your wallet and your heart.

This week I had planned to write about collaborations after having had a ‘nam-esque flashback of that time Sting did a duet with Craig David. Those of you who don’t remember this may find you’re able to sleep at night. Well done, that must be lovely. In case you missed it and are curious, it was essentially the musical equivalent of the moment George Bush first met the aptly named Dick Cheaney, i.e. the world lost a significant amount of its purity afterwards. Unfortunately this blog never happened. As with most weeks when I sit at my laptop with the aim of doing something productive, the internet got in the way and before I knew it I’d wasted most of my writing time watching YouTube videos of a monkey having sex with a toad in an American zoo and trying to find the best remix of Mel Gibson’s adorably racist phone rant. This gave me an idea: instead of making you look at Sting with his sandals and his stubble and his effortlessly tantric stare, I decided to show you all of the things that distracted me from writing anything good.

Here is part one of my A-Z of internet music:

A – Amusing Remixes
Internet remixes are all the rage these days and it seems that every time an overhyped celebrity shouts at a lighting director or interrupts Taylor Swift during an acceptance speech, a song is soon to follow. In the last several weeks a couple of amazing things have happened. First of all we found out that Riggs really is crazy after listening to Mel Gibson say all sorts of horrible things to his wife about her silly fake tits and such. Here is a re-enactment courtesy of someone with a little too much time on their hands.

Secondly, we were informed that it’s almost impossible these days to give a TV interview about your sister nearly being “waped” whilst wearing a red bandanna and a vest, without being internationally ridiculed. What has the world come to? You’ve probably all seen or heard this by now but just in case you haven’t, here’s Chris Rock’s effeminate long-lost brother suggesting you hide members of your immediate family. How good would it be if all news reports were like this?

On a more serious note, this wapist is still at large so remember to hide your kids and hide your wife. Oh, and your husband, they are literally waping everyone around there. Rumour has it the wapist can be scared off by annoying people with ridiculous hair, so if you know Newton Faulkner personally, invite him over.

B - Biblical Ska

Holy crap, literally. This week I realised that my greatest nightmare had come true as someone has managed to combine The Osmonds, The Polyphonic Spree and Madness. Apparently Jesus touched this guy ‘deep inside’, proving that being fingered by a priest can, in fact, be a religious experience. I don’t know quite where to start with this, all I can think whilst watching it is that spending Christmas with these people would be tantamount to being repeatedly cock-punched with a crucifix, but in an ever-so-caring way. I have a feeling, if Jesus did exist, then biblical Ska probably wouldn’t be his thing. Because he’d have ears.

C – Child Stars
It is becoming obvious to me that it is impossible to use the internet without being forced to acknowledge pre-pubescent pop-twerp Justin Bieber. This week I was persuaded to try an online chat room where you are thrust into a conversation with a complete stranger. The first person I talked to opened the chat with, "Are you a belieber?" Initially convinced I’d been introduced to a dyslexic Jehovah’s Witness, I offered to copy edit The Watchtower, which led to a confused silence followed by an abrupt end to the conversation. Little did I know that ‘belieber’ is in fact a term for fans of the aforementioned singing foetus. This came as quite a shock because up until this point I had grouped them all under the general banner of ‘wankers’.

As far as I can figure out, Bieber is essentially a tiny child who is being marketed as a sex symbol to people who are too young to know about sex and/or to stupid to be able to spell the word symbol. In a way it’s a huge PR success, legally blurring the lines between pop-music and child trafficking. It is essentially the musical version of those American beauty pageants where toddlers are plastered with makeup, have tiaras stapled to their heads and made to smile like they mean it, despite the fact they’re dying inside. Most of these child careers end in one of two ways: either an all-consuming Haribo addiction will have them cleaning car windshields in order to earn money for their next sugar fix, or they will end up climbing trees with Martin Bashir and inviting Macaulay Culkin over for sleepovers. Initially I felt a bit sorry for Bieber, being thrust into the limelight by the corporate machine and being saddled with the haircut of a lesbian librarian. This sympathy was soon replaced though, after watching one of his videos, with the overwhelming urge to punch his face off. It’s probably a little harsh to blame the boy himself, though. Instead I blame anyone who had anything to do with packaging this turd and calling it music. He’s a child, he should be out poking dead animals with sticks, or rolling wheels down dirt tracks or happy slapping or whatever it is kids these days get up to.

In this video Justin Bieber channels the voice of an eleven-year-old girl, whilst playing a guitar that dwarfs him so he can sing a song about adult situations that he has no knowledge of because he’s ten years old. If he was singing a ballad about not being able to unlock the never-ending staircase on Mario 64 then this might just about be beliebable.

Eurgh. I was convinced there was no way Bieber could ever sound half-decent, that is until someone on the internet decided to slow him down by 800% and provide this magnificent, sprawling, thirty-five minute epic.

D – Defunct Technology Imitating Radiohead
This video has been around for yonks, which is a word I haven’t used since the early 90s. Originally an art project by a man whose name I haven’t bothered to find, the song is a cover of Radiohead’s 'Nude', made using robots or something. The first minute or so is almost as annoying as the religious Ska band above, but after that it’s bloody brilliant.

Okay, that’s all for now. For the next few days the internet can fuck off and take its LOLCATS with it. Next week: E and some other letters.

I managed to catch a tiny bit of Diskjokke m/Indonesia’s show on the main stage, a word music set full of plinks and plonks, staple festival fodder. It wouldn’t be right to attend an event in a field where you don’t witness at least one white man with dreaded hair vibing to some obscure instruments. Next up the WONDERFUL Cymbals Eat Guitars. Performing a couple of new tracks to start off, the Staten Island rockers reignited the slacker sophistication of the previous night’s Pavement set, and slowly eased us into the party spirit when they dropped the exhilarating ‘...And The Hazy Sea’. There was a lot of sweat and sing-along’s, a total highlight of the week; they are such a fantastic act.

The jubilant sounds of LA’s Local Natives then resounded across the site. An act, who on record reminisce a cosy camp fire hoe down, transform into pitch perfect, but slightly ragged around the edge choir boys, performing hit after hit after hit. It’s their first time in Norway, and by the vast crowd they’ve managed to draw in it’s likely it won’t be their last. Walking over to the main stage once again, my eyes are subjected to the surreal sight of Karpe Diem, an act who hop genres like a springbok on hot coals. One minute they're rock-rapping like Crazy Town, the next they’re angelically singing like Westlife, before kicking off once more with an aggressive Eminem style. I’m baffled by it, but the masses of bouncing audience members suggest Karpe Diem are pretty damn MASSIVE over here.

Big Boi comes next. Fairly late (which is a total rarity at this tightly run festival) but he arrived none the less.  Any slight apprehension about what his set would entail was soon obliterated when he dropped Outkast tracks like ‘B.O.B’ and ‘Ms. Jackson’, with his most recent single ‘Shutterbug’ burbling out in all its glorious, beat bombasity. Of course, Big Boi would not be Big Boi without a gaggle of young, excited teenage girls entering the stage and dancing with every bit of their energy to try and catch the eyes of any watching big timers (it must have worked for the most of them, I watched on as a handful of the girls were taken backstage a little after their performance).

The XX waved off the festival’s final night, I watched part of their solemn, throbbing performance but wanted to see a bit of Motorpsycho. I’d heard so much about the act, and was pleased to see that whilst most of the young, international festival goers were watching on in awe at The XX’s mesmeric minimalism, there was a swarm of Norwegian die-hards head banging to the prog-rock of this legendary act.

A magnificently diverse and forward thinking festival, Øya, if you’ll have me, I’d rather like to come again next year.

Sadly all credibility was lost when I gave into my incessant urges and watched South Africa’s Die Antwoord at the Klubben tent. And what a sight it was to behold. Mainly singing about having sex with mums, having sex with girls on their periods and…no wait that’s it, I watched in morbid curiosity whilst that small little child woman thrusted across the stage whilst Ninja got fairly aggressive with his weirdly exhilarating hip hop. The set also included some pornography on the screens to tide any nymphos over during the set.

To try and clean my ears out I watched a short bit of Field Music’s set but it wasn’t shaking the overwhelming feeling that I’d just like to be in my hotel watching Die Antwoord videos. The Flaming Lips luckily stepped in and made my ruddy day. En route to the stage we also got stopped by somebody working there and got told to walk a different route as they had found a nest of bees and didn’t want us to get stung. How marvellously considerate. Wayne Coyne, who we’d spent much time semi-stalking throughout the festival already, came on stage in his bubble, and all of the confetti, gaggle of dancers at the side (word got out that we might be able to blag some passes to be one of these lucky Lips’ dancers but a group of competition winners went and snaffled up the places) exploded to make a truley triumphant show. Somehow I’ve managed to avoid seeing Flaming Lips throughout my life so it was so great to watch this live show I’d heard so much about. ‘Do You Realize’ nearly made me cry and ‘She Don’t Use Jelly’ sounded as good as the day it had been writen. What an awesome way to kick off the evening.

Headliners for this night were either The Specials or Robyn. It turns out a LOT of Norwegians like Robyn, I’d say she brought in the biggest crowd so far this festival. I however, am not a massive fan of the albino elf and trotted off to see The Specials. I’ve managed to see them live before since they’ve reformed but tonight felt a little dry and tired. They didn’t seem to get that into it as a band, although Terry Hall is still incredibly slick as a frontman. As predictable as this is, they didn’t play ‘Ghost Town’ and it kind of bummed me out a bit. It was a little disappointing but it didn’t matter, I had a rather wonderful day.

As you can see below, it was also a great opportunity to put my four-way ski-walking skills into use.

That afternoon I managed to take a little trip to a studio that a lot of the band’s performing are using as a base whilst they’re here, about 10 minutes away from the site. The Megaphonic Thrift, who played recently over in London with Crocodiles and A Place To Bury Strangers, kindly allowed me to film them doing a stripped back song. With just three of them performing in the dimly lit studio, it was the perfect setting for their utterly stirring music. This band are fantastic, normally very loud, and they are performing in the UK again this autumn so I thoroughly recommend you catch them whilst they’re here.

Next up I met the frontman of Vinnie Who (http://www.myspace.com/vinniewhoofficial) from Denmark, who played a song on the piano in the studio for our FlyTV sessions. Although their music, as I later found out at their blisteringly neo-disco pop set later that night, is typically jubilant and upbeat, he performed one of their more melancholic songs, and it sounded beautiful. It sort of reminded me of Soulwax when they’re doing their brooding indie band thing.

Back on site, I set off to see LCD Soundsystem. I managed to sneak into the photographers bit at the front, and felt like a TOTAL dweeb taking pictures on my iPhone, but it was damn exciting. The set was excellent, ‘Tribulations’ being my ultimate favourite, and James Murphy putting on a whistle-stop tour of some of their greatest hits. They are THE perfect festival band in my eyes.

Lastly I went to see Pavement, who I’ve always wanted to see, but have felt like a bit of a phoney in the respect that I am not some uber fan who knows every B-side and rarity. Apparently that does not matter, as it was one of the best shows I’ve ever been to in a long while. Steve Malkmus is one of the coolest frontmen and I have fallen slightly in love with the band. I'm probably a decade or two too late, but at least I got there in the end.

I finished the night watching the extremely invigorating Vinnie Who in a packed out venue, before heading off to dance to Grandmaster Flash’s DJ set. Then I bought a panini and then I went to bed.

Post-National gig I trotted off to the festival site, a space containing around 5 stages based right next to a motorway, with a small lake running through it. The setting is bizarre and weirdly beautiful, and as it gets darker the industrial sites on the periphery glow and the tower blocks are illuminated in an ominous light. The site is also insanely clean, not a drop of rubbish to be seen, which makes festival endurance a lot easier when you know there are no paper plates full of non descript food stuffs awaiting your next squelching step.

After catching a bit of Ingrid Olava’s haunting set on the main stage, I set off to watch Sleigh Bells. I've had a love/hate relationship with the act since we first got their album in - it's instantly appealing but also relentlessly repetitive and abrasive. Live, however, it suddenly became clear to me that Sleigh Bells’ main purpose is to provide fun. Loud fun. I couldn't tell how much of the vocals were backing track, especially since Alexis' stage performance involves a lot of head thrashing and aggressive fist punching, but either way, her wails resounded like Alice Glass in a very good mood.

Next up was Iggy And The Stooges, who I've always managed to miss at festivals somehow. He strutted on with his weird walnut-in-a-condom body, ripped off his black leather waistcoat then proceeded to play hit after hit after hit (and one new song, but it came right after ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog’ so the audience were suitably whipped into a frenzy by that point).

I was  finally able to witness the eccentricity of Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti live, donning a white ski jacket, and spinning around the stage, the Pinkster either embracing a high pitched prince-like croon or a rumbling, almost gothic rambling. It started off just plain odd then he whacked out ‘Round And Round’, some odd people came out and danced and the weird haze was temporarily lifted to a level of surrealism only apt in the middle of a field surrounded by cranes, motorways and half made bridges.

Headliner M.I.A. was up next. I'd seen her the weekend before at The Big Chill and was fairly disappointed with how cold and confused it was. Tonight though, the likes of ‘Bucky Dun Gun’ and ’10 Dollar’ sounded awesome, her visuals were incredible and she had some seriously slick dancers on stage. Overall, it got silly with fairly long-winded lazer games and lots of stops and starts. I guess that’s her appeal, the unpredictability of it, I just wish she’d get round to playing the songs properly sometimes. Am I turning into an old woman?

Anyway, today has already been a great success, having a trip to an island, playing quizzes and eating lots of love food provided by the wonderful Øya hosts. I’m off now to do some Courtyard sessions then get stuck in to today’s festival line-up!

We’re staying in a hotel really close to the festival site, the same hotel that both M.I.A. and Steve Malkmus are sleeping in too (Not in the same bed (I don't think anyway (they could be the new Delta Goodrem and Brian McFadden!))) . I was hoping I could sniff them out before they leave for another leg of their globe trotting shenanigans but time is ticking away and there’s not a pair or neon leggings or, err, biscuit coloured shirts, in sight.

Claes, the festival’s main organiser (who, brilliantly, always travels by bike, even if the distance isn’t that far), managed to sort some of the journalists out with tickets to The National’s performance at Oslo’s Opera House. And what a show it was! Frontman Matt Berniger found the first half of the set mildly frustrating due to the fact that we were all seated and looking up in awe at him. Striding out into the audience and raising up a couple of enamoured fans, he soon discarded his subdued surroundings and transformed into the surprisingly visceral frontman he is. Supping on a bottle of white wine throughout, his warm purr ripped into a guttural bark, with songs like ‘England’ triumphantly resounding across the incredible venue, their new songs sounding as bold and glorious as older classis. My personal highlight was the beautifully understated ’29 Years’, which nearly finished me off, in the emotion stakes.

Anyway, today the festival properly begins, so I shall don my rain jacket and venture out to hopefully see the likes of Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti, Sleigh Bells, Hypertext, Wild Nothing, M.I.A. and Iggy And The Stooges. See you on the other side!

I’ve been thinking recently about the amount of time our generation spends listening to music. Whether I’m driving home, pretending to listen to my friends or devising ways to kill the busker outside my workplace who keeps playing Toploader songs, the chances are I’m doing it with earphones in. It is as if I have become addicted to ignoring the world outside me and getting lost in my own perfectly sound-tracked environment where I don’t have to deal with any of you lot. No offence, it’s just that you can be hard work sometimes, with your conversations and your shoes and your vitamin water. Most days I just don’t have the energy for interaction. The thing is I know I’m not alone. Anyone who’s ever spent time in a city during rush hour will have witnessed a constant stream of head-phoned commuters, all marching in unison whilst Steve Jobs sends subliminal messages through their iPods convincing them that the iPad really is a good idea and that no-one will ever want to see them naked unless they buy the iCock 4, or something. Whereas once upon a time people on public transport had conversations - probably about last night’s air-raid or something - our generation has embraced escapism, and then French-kissed it a little bit, and then tried to put our hands between its legs only to have it push them away and whisper oh-so-softly, “no, I’m not ready yet.”

The problem comes then when we are made to go cold turkey. The days when your battery runs out or you realise you’ve left your mp3 player on the kitchen counter are the days where we are forced back into the real world, cold, sweaty and shakily riding to work with no obvious excuse to ignore people. So what’s the worst that could happen? What are we so afraid of? Spending forty minutes listening to Johnny Banker talk to his friend about how he’s just become the mayor of Shinyshoesville on Foursquare is tedious but not fatal. Mugging, terrorist attacks and accidentally making eye-contact with the person sitting opposite you are all things that city-folk have to be aware of but music won’t prevent any of them, so really, there’s nothing to worry about, is there? That is unless some excruciatingly self-satisfied boy band member feels the need to musically assault you with some horribly saccharin, groin-thrust of a song without any warning whatsoever. Behold; Lee Ryan, or Duncan James or someone, making the smell of urine only the second worst thing on this tube.

For those of you who managed to watch all of that, well done, details of a counsellor will be placed at the end of this blog. Now I’m not going to dwell on this too much, but let me just point out a couple of things before moving on. Firstly, there is nothing wrong with busking, but at least give people the option of ignoring you. Look at 1:36, where Lee Duncan James Ryan from Blue sings just inches away from a man who finds himself in the unenviable situation of being trapped between the locked doors of a moving train and a twat; the only circumstance where a high speed collision would actually be preferable to a safe journey. He literally does not know what to do with himself. Look how close he is to the doors, it’s like he’s willing them to open so he can throw himself onto the tracks and find sweet, sweet relief. “If only I had my headphones in”, he must have thought, “I could pretend I hadn’t seen him”. Even worse, once he’s ruined this man’s day/life, Lee Duncan James Ryan then turns his attention to bothering various groups of mostly uncomfortable looking girls. Quite what it is about being in a boy band which makes trying to arouse underage girls acceptable is beyond me. Sure, you do it in Wembley stadium, no probs. You try it one time in a playground and seemingly without warning you find yourself labelled a sex-pest. Hypocrisy anyone? Essentially what I’m trying to say here is that I have video evidence of a pop star grooming young women and demand something be done about it. No? Worth a try.

I understand this may seem a little harsh, maybe I’m just in a bad mood, but something about this video made me quite angry. Just so I don’t send you all fleeing to the Apple store however, and also so I don’t waste an entire blog on a forgotten boyband member, I’ve decided to include some clips of buskers who won’t have you travelling around the Circle Line in the foetal position, reaching for the emergency stop as your life flashes before your eyes, just slowly enough for you to realise how much of it you’ve wasted not actively hating Blue.

Greg Patillo and Eric Stevenson
www.Concretebeat.blogspot.com
If it wasn’t for all the crime, impossible-to-hail cabs, men selling hip-hop demos to you in Times Square, fashionistas, Guidos and Greenwich Village trendies, I’d quite like to live in New York, and this is why. It takes a lot of work to make a flute cool but this guy pulls it off with aplomb. Wonderful isn’t it.



The Guerrilla Busker
Here The Guerrilla Busker, aka Kerry Leatham, who has apparently spent the last several months busking around Britain in various locations, plays to an empty train. I can only assume that Lee Duncan Ryan James got on at the last stop and caused everyone to walk home.

Nathaniel Rateliff
Amazing isn’t it? This doesn’t look like a train at all. In fact it looks a little bit like a recording studio. I’ve just been on the phone to Dickie Branson (he lets me call him that) and he says that as of 2012 all Virgin Train toilets will resemble this one, complete with a xylophone (pictured right) so you can practise your scales whilst releasing a massive turd – a trick Muse have made a career out of. Only joking, I quite like ‘em really. Anyway, this is quite obviously not a train, but it’s a really good song, so you should watch it anyway.

That’s all from me. Next week I’ll be talking about how the band Keane once ruined my trip to work by existing. Bye.

P.S I have literally mentioned Apple products at least half a dozen times here so if you’re reading, Steve Jobs, some freebees wouldn’t go a miss. Not an iPad though. I’m sorry, I just don’t get it.

This is a lesson that needs to be reiterated to TV programmers and advertising types - no matter how many Sleater-Kinney songs you subtly play in the background of generic blonde #3's hair salon in Doctors it won't make you 'edgy' or 'cool', it'll just pass most people by and make those who actually care weep a little into their cuppa.

The worst culprit for this is Hollyoaks. I love Hollyoaks, I am not ashamed, but I love it in the same way that I love America's Next Top Model or Paris Hilton's New BFF - i.e. with absolutely no depth of feeling or emotion whatsoever. They're vapid, glossy slabs of escapism that allow you to take a half hour out from the stresses of Real Life and stare at pointless, shiny things like a glorified magpie. What I don't enjoy, then, is hearing a selection of songs that mean a great deal being wantonly thrown around these gaping vats of shallowness as though they too have no significance when THEY CLEARLY BLOODY DO. Sorry. It just hits a nerve.

At what point Mr. Hollyoaks Producer decided that Los Campesinos!, purveyors of the most socially awkward, bitter slices of indie-pop around, would be a suitable accompaniment for Cindy and Mindy getting a spray tan I do not know but with every misplaced lyric a little bit of me dies inside. Ditto for adverts (Dancing On Ice soundtracked by Slow Club? Brilliant!) and, to a lesser extent, shop sound systems (thank you dearly Topshop, I've always wondered what was missing when sat swooning over the torturous musings of Perfume Genius - turns out the answer was overpriced Henry Holland tights with houses on).

I understand the logic, kind of, but, dear Lord, is nothing sacred? Soon we'll have to sit through Jordan and [insert current husband here] pointlessly yapping to the strains of Belle & Sebastian and XXX porn with The xx. And no one needs that.

It was at this point – some would suggest he might have mentioned it earlier – that Big Tone decided to tell everyone that he was, in fact, not Irish. Nope. He had lied about it. In reality there wasn’t a hooray-for-potatoes gene in his fraudulent body. Tony was from Kent, and as English as teen pregnancy or carpark-based binge drinking.

To some people, this makes Tony a bit of a cheater. Personally I admire his cojones, with the added bonus that they’re nicer to look at than his face.

The reason that this obscure, swindling footballer of yesteryear comes to mind is because of Plastic Bertrand.

Plastic Bertrand – real name Roger Jouret – was a Belgian one-hit-wonder in the late 70s. If you need reacquainting with his 1977 smash ‘Ca Plane Pour Moi’ – a gibberish classic – here it is in all its nonsensical grandeur:




Quite good, isn’t it? In a sort of kitschy, “did-he-really-just-sing ‘wham bam my splash cat’?”, kind of way. Plus, I find it’s healthy to watch a music video and find yourself constantly wondering things like, “are those zips just for show, or do they lead to pockets?” and “is that the ‘Thriller’ Michael Jackson in negative?”.

However, not once in all the years I’ve heard this song did I ever question Plastic Bertrand’s integrity. His zip choices? Yes. His ethnicity? Yes. But his integrity? Never.

Shockingly, Bertrand last week turned out to be a Cascarino all of his own. Following a long and arduous battle in the Belgian high courts (I’m not sure how this sentence could be any more underwhelming, if you’ve got any ideas just drop me an email) Bertrand was proved – by virtue of a expert analysis from a linguistics specialist no less – to not be the singer of ‘Ca Plain Pour Moi’. That honour belonged to producer Lou Deprijck.

After reading that I had to sit down. It’s just shocking, isn’t it? How do you get that surname? If a Cooper is a barrel-maker and a Fletcher is an arrow-maker, what’s a Deprijck? I dunno. Maybe his ancestor was a gigolo.

Anyway, I’m sure Irish international fibber Tony Cascarino would be proud. In fact he’s probably claiming he sung ‘Ca Plane Pour Moi’ himself. Still, should make for an excellent future episode of ‘Le Judge Judy’ on Belgian cable.

Los Campesinos! are the band causing havoc on the main stage simultaneous to my arrival (meaning I missed Egyptian Hip Hop plus the apparently hilarious stage show of Darwin Deez, boo) and they’re on fine form. Frontman Gareth Campesinos! takes a reflective moment to announce “I think [Underage Festival] is really fucking important”, and as an excitable 14-year-old next to me whoops loudly as they begin the next crowd pleaser, probably enjoying his first festival experience, you can’t help but agree.

There’s a great diversity in the line-up to suit all possible attendees’ requirements, whilst Everything Everything unleash their catchy art-pop on the crowd assembled at the Youth Music stage, Tinie Tempah is whipping up the main stage congregate into a frenzy. Especially when declaring that the Swedish House Mafia had asked him not to play a particular song, but ‘This is the Underage Festival man!’ being his justification for launching straight into it. It’s not without mild emotional turmoil that I drag myself away to the tent where Everything Everything are just about to start. This sadness quickly subsides though as they kick off with ‘QWERTY Finger’, a track from forthcoming debut album ‘Man Alive!’. The whole set proves to be one of the highlights of the day with smiles on the watching faces not faltering throughout.

Crystal Castles take to the stage afterwards and within seconds Alice Glass dives into the crowd. In contrast Ethan Kath stands stationery; providing the explosive electronic sounds to unite with Alice’s high pitched screams to release their intense, electro-thrash madness into the mob in front of them. Chaos ensues and muddy dust from the floor flies high into the air as hundreds of crazed spectators convolute in wild euphoria. Ellie Goulding provides some light relief after the Crystal Castles induced mayhem with her emotionally charged pop songs, “this is a sad song about a boy” she shares before performing new single ‘The Writer’.

20-minutes later than advertised M.I.A. takes the main stage as the headline act for this year. Throughout the performance colourful video visuals play behind as she showcases songs from new album ‘// / Y /’ as well as providing the hits, including ‘Paper Planes’. The crowd is a little underwhelming for a headline act, but M.I.A. seems unaffected and completes a good performance to end Underage Festival for another year.

The introduction to live music and the great platform for young musical inspiration to develop makes Underage Festival an event not to be dismissed, as Alice Glass put it so well earlier; “You guys are the future!”.

Patrick Hinton

As we got closer to Victoria Park it was surreal to see so many teenagers all heading in the same direction. Although in theory the festival is for 14-18 year olds the reality is that most people there were, like us, in the younger age range. Unlike other festivals I’ve been to (The Big Chill, Reading) the first thing that struck me as we walked through the gates was that Underage is a lot more commercial.  The stages are all named after brands and Tango ads are shown on the big screens. The moment we arrived we were handed all sorts of free things from badges to balloons - all of them promoting some sort of product or company, and although I have no problem being given free stuff, it can get annoying having people shove leaflets at you all the time.
 
The first person to play on the main stage was English singer/songwriter Ellie Goulding but I have to admit we were too busy looking around the site to see much of her set. Next on were New York Darwin Deez; I wasn’t expecting them to be very good live, but they had a way of making you sing along to songs you had never heard and even people who didn’t enjoy their music could just watch their odd but entertaining dances in between songs.
 
One thing I really like about festivals is that for me it is like flicking channels on TV; you can walk around the different stages and listen to bands for as long or a little as you like before moving on to something else. While wandering around we saw Chapel Club (interesting but a bit noisy), Daisy Dares You (good for a sing-along), Chiddy Bang (good for a dance) and we all went to see Shiva because the drummer is a friend from school.
 
When new rave band Hadouken! came onto the main stage loads of people including some of my friends went into the crowd but I didn’t join them. Last year they dragged me to the front during Prodigy at Reading to cure me of my fear of massive crowds but not surprisingly it had the opposite effect. At the end of Hadouken!’s set my friends came out covered in bruises and dust but they seemed to enjoy it.
 
South London rapper Tinie Tempah’s set was really short although on the plus side it meant that it ended in time for us to hear the beginning of Professor Green on the Topman stage, which was the last act we saw. We didn’t actually get to stay for headlining act M.I.A. because my friends live a long way away and didn’t want to be travelling home in the dark, which is something you have to think about when you are only 14. Maybe next year we will get to stay later…
 
Flora Spencer Grant

No, it seems that women’s magazines particularly are unable to report on what’s actually going on in music and can only grasp what Kate Moss and Alexa Chung are doing with their rock star boyfriends. As someone who goes to gigs every week of the year I know for a fact that I’m not the only woman there watching (apart from the odd Twilight Sad show). I’m also aware there are plenty of music magazines and websites to inform us about music, but surely publications aimed at a certain type of woman, of a certain age and style, should be able to get all she wants from just one magazine?

In order to back up my rant, I looked at the websites of 4 major male and female orientated lifestyle magazines and took a glimpse at what their coverage of music was like. (If I was doing a proper dissertation on this I’d very much like to look through all physical copies of the magazines, and perhaps a few more, but I’m not paid to write one blog a day so this will have to do.)

Batting for the men are:

GQ:

As soon as you visit the homepage it’s clear to see that music is a priority for its readers. Scantily clad females aside, The ‘Top Feature’ is ‘Listening To Music’, which then takes you to a page smattered with some of the best current releases for its readers to download. It’s not the sort of music you’d expect your non-specialist lad mag reader to desire, with Perfume Genius and The Dark Night Of The Soul as its top downloads. Very impressive.

 MAXIM:

Maxim, whose homepage is literally swimming in tits, did not feature music as prominently as GQ, but still had an extensive archive of Q magazine-styled features. Sat snugly inbetween ‘Movies’ and ‘Stuff’, there's a whole host of features on different alternative artists. There’s definitely a place for music fans to learn more than about what Sally, 19, can to do with her bendy legs, even if you have to delve a little deeper to find it than on GQ’s site.

FHM:

There's quite a substantial amount devoted to music on FHM.com but not nearly as much as I expected. There’s stock indie-lad fodder with interviews with Richard Ashcroft and Plan B and even a bit of fun with Jedward. Of course, there’s also some sexy bitches what make music too. Clever girls. Aside from some of the dumbo articles, there’s some pretty nerd-alert type pieces for readers who are really, genuinely interested in reading lists on the greatest moments in live music history, for example.

LOADED:

I didn’t really know much about Loaded, but it turns out it is just soapy tits and footie. But that’s fine, there is a small space for music. I found an article about V Festival so that sort of sums up its readers' musical inclination. Purdy damn bad coverage but existent all the same.

Batting for the ladies:

GLAMOUR:

There’s a good lot of content based on festivals on Glamour.com, including a comprehensive list of all of the festivals you should go to, which is pretty useful. But festivals aside there doesn’t seem to be an actual section devoted to music. As you can see, there was once a feature on Scarlett Johansson and The Brits but that was AGES ago and there doesn’t seem to be an awful lot else.

COSMOPOLITAN:

Right in between ‘Women Of The Year’ and ‘Diet Tips’ sits the ‘Festival Guide’. Fantastic! I thought, but was soon alerted to the fact that this section is mainly about if it will be possible to wear clogs on the varying terrains of Latitude. There was a section which did have a round-up of all the best events this summer, and I took particular pleasure to see that the image Cosmo chose to represent the world’s greatest music festival was Kelly Osbourne and her cheating albino boyfriend. Cool! 

VOGUE:

 ELLE:

Despite Elle's frontpage telling me I’m about to read about The Secret Garden Party festival, it is once again a feature based on what gladiator sandals some anonymous person has picked up from Topshop and decided to shove into a backpack. Sigh. As I search for their music section it appears they haven’t actually updated the music part of the site since October 2009. And the last article is on the girl who is related to Amy Winehouse who tried to launch her singing career and never really made it. Amy does wear nice dresses though, so that's nice.

I know for a fact that there are women who read these kind of magazines who are interested in fashion, culture, style, celebrity rubbish AND listen to bands other than Kings Of Leon and Chase & Status. It’s truly disappointing that females are unable to purchase a magazine, under the price of £5 (ahem Dazed and I:D) that tell us something other than what diet will bag you that boy in a band you’ve been after. It’s insulting and ultimately a depressing representation of a lot of women's passion in life.

With this in mind, today I was going to write a nice blog about how retro pop is the order of the day. How, in recent years, the mainstream revival of old school pop icons – mainly female, artificially reanimated walking mannequins called things like “Duffy” and “Amy Winehouse” – has been mirrored in the (largely American) indie undercurrent of 2010 where it’s been made over by a layer or two of wishy-washy Jesus And Mary Chain hiss and fizz. I was going to point out how we’ve now got The Drums (who’re all retro surf-songs and choreographed hand-claps), Crocodiles (who fight the drone by being obstinately melodic), The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, Dum Dum Girls and Best Coast (whose binary love/hate lyrics hammer the point into your forehead with excruciating incessancy). I tottered into work on a cloud of euphoria and late sixties love, with a headful of Phil Spector and The Ronettes.

Instead, when I got here, this video of professional rich-kid dunces Salem came drumming (arythmically) on my eyeballs:

Yep, at 1.38, that’s an actual person sitting down on the stage smoking. I mean, don’t they know that that’s BANNED? I’m just guessing that it’s a Marlboro Light, but hell, it could even be a jazz cigarette. You know? One containing Marijuana. These guys are just that crazy. They don’t give a shit about the rules. There’s even a naughty line about blowjobs! Mary Whitehouse is going to have a field day with this lot. Oh shit, she’s dead!

I’m all for being punk as fuck and celebrating the Brian Jonesness of having your amp turned off during a gig because you’re just too minced to stop your eyeballs from staring each other out, but this is just lame. Did Sid Vicious swear his head off at Bill Grundy so the kids of today could mumble in front of a Korg and a corporate banner? I don’t think so.

Sigh. Jesus fucking Christ.

So thanks a lot, Salem. You’ve set me back on the road to Negativity. Destination: Gloom Town, Brownshire. Near the sewage works. I’m off to thwack a puppy with a stick. Bye.

There are lots of reasons to make a mix tape, but if we’re all honest the most common reason as a lustful teen of the nineties was to try and get into someone’s pants, using the words of others to say what you really feel, maaaan. When I was a teenager the mix-tape was as big a part of a relationship as the first date, first kiss or first irritating itch followed closely by the first awkward trip to the clinic. It was a tried and tested seduction technique which only those with a heart of stone could resist, and kept me from having to learn to actually talk to girls for years. In the world of playground romance it was the ace up our sleeve, the H-bomb in our arsenal, the something-else-that-I-can’t-think-of-right-now-that-would-nicely-round-off-this-sentence.

During the first year of university I was so proficient at making mix-tapes that I even made a special ‘seduction mix’ which permanently resided in deck A of my stereo on the off-chance that a girl would get lost and wander into my room. This isn’t easy for me to admit, and in retrospect it does make me seem a bit rapey, but in my defence I was self-aware enough at the time to see how ridiculous it was and only record on one side of the tape. This actually resulted in an interesting problem where on the odd occasion I did find myself with company, I knew I had to seal the deal within 45 minutes. If not, any potential coitus would be interrupted by an audio book of Lord Of The Rings as read by Brian Sibley. It always came on at the point where the hobbits were about to enter Mordor, which incidentally is the very reason my ex’s vajayjay was given a rather peculiar nickname. Even more peculiar than vajayjay, which is a word I wish I’d never used and would encourage you to forget. I kind of wish I hadn’t said any of that now.

The truth is, all nostalgia aside, I don’t really miss the reality of mix-taping as much as the thought of it. As I’ve grown older, more cynical and infinitely less motivated I’d much rather email someone a Spotify playlist than actually have to get out of bed and press buttons. Also, as we age, the majority of us find new and more sophisticated ways to share our feelings with the opposite sex – namely getting hopelessly drunk, grabbing clumsily at each others genitals and trying not to be sick before falling asleep in a pool of our own detritus. It’s much more civilised, much more practical, and, most importantly, much less time consuming. A quick search of some internet forums however will inform you that certain members of the public (who I assume very seldom venture out into the public) still regard mix-tape making as some sort of sacred seductive art, pouring over transitions, timings, themes, mix titles and hand-drawn artwork before making tiny effigies of the intended recipient with chewed up magnetic tape and spaffing all over them.

I just watched a YouTube video of such a person who goes by the name of Matt. Matt is an American gentleman and a self-professed mix-tape expert, who claims he wants to “tear into someone’s heart and then slowly put it back together”. Obviously he means this as a metaphor for the impact his mix tape will make, but that only makes the claim slightly less harrowing. Matt is the perfect example of someone who has clung on to the mix tape a little too tightly, turning what was once a hobby into some kind of pseudo sex-crime, wherein he purposefully tries to manipulate women’s emotions using other people’s art in order fool them into thinking he might actually be an okay guy and not a borderline-obsessive deviant. As I watched the video and starred into Matt’s empty eyes that reflected a lifetime’s worth of low-resolution internet porn, I decided I never, ever want to turn into this type of person. The faux-Amish bowl haircut, the odd predilection for Goo Goo Dolls singles and the face that screamed of loneliness and extended periods of furious masturbation; it was all a stark reminder of the path my life could’ve taken. Now I know I admitted to doing similar things as a teenager, but back then I, along with most adolescent boys, would have sold my own Grandmother’s liver for a chance of sex. Matt however is a grown man. A grown man who still gives women mix-tapes, and I can’t help but think he should probably be made to sign some sort of register.

So it is today, mostly out of fear of becoming a Matt-a-like, that I have decided to relinquish the habit of mix-taping once and for all. I say today, I probably haven’t made a mix in just under a decade but it seems writing it down makes it more official. I suppose then this is essentially a written declaration that I will shed my teenage habits and embrace manhood. Think of it like a Bar Mitzvah, albeit a shit one because none of you bought me a gift, and an unnecessary one because I’m not Jewish and a belated one because I’m 27. Other than that this is the perfect metaphor. From now on, if I want to impress a girl I’ll simply run around in a trilby pretending to be Dick Tracy like I did when I was eight, it worked then and I’m sure it will work now. But before I can fully take the step into bona fide adulthood, I must have one last shebang, one last farewell, one last compilation. Behold, readers, the one mix to end them all; a gift from me to you that is in no way an attempt to do sex at you through your ears. Those days are behind me.

One Playlist to Rule Them All

NB – The title might be a bit grandiose but I really wouldn’t get your hopes up too much. 

Jonathan Demme’s Talking Heads film, Stop Making Sense, pretty much sets the standard for a concert film, capturing David Byrne’s & co.’s arty, jittery quirks so perfectly that it’s regarded as the greatest rock film ever made. Previously, Demme was making films with Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn – hardly, you feel, the perfect stomping ground to prepare for a band leading the new wave vanguard. Stop Making Sense, though, encapsulates what a film director can bring to filming a gig that, perhaps, a regular MTV bod can’t, adding a suspense and energy to the editing that goes far and beyond your BBC Glasto footage. Furthermore, just as a director knows when to let his actors lead the way, Demme’s not afraid to stick the camera on Byrne and let him do his thing either.

At the other end of the art house scale is Cameron Crowe. A music journo for Rolling Stone before he became a director, Crowe went on to make the best film about 90s alt.rock in Singles and 70s decadent-rock in Almost Famous – there are, admittedly some duds in between and after - and his career came full circle last year when he helmed the slightly controversial promo for Pearl Jam’s comeback single ‘The Fixer’. It may be controversial amongst Pearl Jam loyalists The Ten Club because the clip contained extras, not real fans, and because the arch-stick-it-to-da-man-band had the footage used in a commercial by Target, a mass retail company, but what footage! Right up in grizzly ol’ Eddie Vedder’s face, ‘The Fixer’ video captures Pearl Jam’s ongoing vitality in clean, visceral blasts. And those extras look like they’re having fun, so who cares? Tim Burton, another Pearl Jam associate (they wrote ‘Man Of The Hour’ for the ending credits of Big Fish), might not have done any live concert filming – unless it’s a Cure concert on the moon, gigs are probably too steeped in the real world for Timbo’s liking – but he did shoot a suitably goth-comic vid for The Killers’ ‘Bones’ single.

The director whose most veered into the world of music is probably the best of them all – Martin Scorsese has balanced the likes of Goodfellas, The Departed and Taxi Driver with a couple of beautifully shot concerts and a few documentaries. His Bob Dylan documentary, No Direction Home, is certainly worth checking out but it’s The Last Waltz, which documents The Band’s last ever gig, and Shine A Light, in which, without CGI, he manages to make The Rolling Stones not look like decrepit, decades-past-it Grandads that are truly stunning. On top of that, he also directed Michael Jackson’s ‘Bad’ video. RESULT!

There’s a host of directors I’d love to see pitch up at a gig and do their pointy-camera-and-film thing: who better than Quentin Tarantino to capture the full riotous blood'n'guts of a Crystal Castles show, just how good would it see Christopher Nolan apply his calm-centre-of-the-storm approach to a film about, say, Glasto, or Shane Meadows to capture Mike Skinner’s urban scuzz? And maybe Robert Zemeckis, so adept at conveying pseudo saloon-bar banjo-slingers in Back To The Future Part 3, could do a Mumford & Sons one?

After seeing them live at the Serpentine Sessions on a small podium ('podium' adds an air of stripper sassiness, ‘bandstand’ would probably be more appropriate) Smoke Fairies’ ethereal charm completely bowled me over. When their debut album ‘Through Low Light And Trees’ arrived in the post a week or so ago, I was once again bowled over, their LP is full of the most swoon-some folk and expansive guitars I’d heard since Ryan Adams ran off with Mandy Moore. Other debut albums that have tickled my fancy are the psychedelic swirls of Tame Impala’s ‘Innerspeaker’, the crackling, visceral new wave cool of Crocodiles’ ‘Sleep Forever’, Violens' Smiths-tinged and slick and sauntering ‘Amoral’ and Crystal Fighters’ incessantly pounding and exhilaratingly abrasive ‘Star Of Love’. I’m also very much looking forward to the long-awaited Dinosaur Pile-Up album arriving on my desk. HURRY UP BIGLAND AND CO.!

As well as all of that fresh young meat, there are some stellar releases coming-up from some old timers. Most notably Interpol’s deeply stirring self-titled LP (read Niall’s First Listen HERE), DD/MM/YYYY’s typically eclectic, noise drenched and brilliantly peculiar new album ‘Black Square’, and The Bees' third album. I’ve only heard a few songs from it so far, but from what I’ve heard it’s very likely they’ll match The Coral for the most fuzzily nostalgic, euphonically harmonious release of the year. I’m still watering at the mouth to hear the new Walkmen, Deerhunter and Blonde Redhead albums. Please don’t disappoint me oh wondrous ones! Finally, the absolute highlight of September scheduled releases has got to be Edwyn Collins’ ‘Losing Sleep’. As you probably know (click HERE if not), it features a plethora of indie frontmen ready and able to assist Collins’ with his return to music after his double brain haemorrhage. Not that he needs it; this album showcases some of the best material he has ever written. Uplifting, honest, simplistic and insanely catchy, it’s going to be a staple on my stereo for a very long time. Well, until that new Milburn album shows its face, anyway...

Whilst entrenched in the brilliance of ‘Journal For Plague Lovers’ last year, I embarked on a giddily-written ADD blog about how ‘Journal…’ had me revisiting Manics’ back catalogue in a way I hadn’t quite since ‘Know Your Enemy’ and ‘Lifeblood’ cooled my interest in the first band I properly obsessed over. But now it appears they’ve undergone one big fucking U-turn – the indelible MOR crunch of ‘Send Away The Tigers’ first proving they still had something to give AND THEN SOME and the conceptual sonic spikes of ‘Journal For Plague Lovers’ putting their undeniable brilliance and relevance, once again, in big fucking neon lights. Hope I’m not cursing it, but all the signs point towards ‘Postcards…’ living up to the stellar standards James, Nicky and Sean set down in the latter half of noughties. The Tim Roth-featuring artwork hints at something iconoclastic, its sepia tinge evoking a nostalgic gloss that suggest Wire might not just be playing the contrary bugger when he suggests this is their last big pop blowout.

The single itself certainly suggests as much; opening with a plucked riff that harks back to ‘Little Baby Nothing’’s soft-rock opening, soon it’s injected with an impeccably elegant orchestral flourish. If ‘Journal For Plague Lovers’ had them plugging back into their phaser pedals to re-create ‘The Holy Bible’’s industrial grime, this sounds somewhere between ‘Everything Must Go’’s strings-led euphoria and ‘Send Away The Tigers’’s attitude to choruses. i.e Big Ones. With Fucking Bells On. It’s a tantalising taster for the album and a sure sign that the Manics haven’t only left that late 90s, early 00s lull when they threatened to turn into a A Mature Band behind, they’ve sky-rocketed it into oblivion, revitalised, raucous and attention-grabbing in a way that, really, a band in their 40s really shouldn’t. But that’s the Manics, isn’t it? Always, wonderfully, brilliantly, doing things the wrong way round…

The Antlers beckon us to the Word Arena (actually a big tent) next, and the first of several Brooklynites here to wow us today leave us fair convinced they’ve hidden a few extra members offstage, such is their hair-blasting psych-rock clamour. Sadly The Big Pink’s set is interrupted first by a loss of power and then by the band’s own off-putting nonchalance, meaning even ‘Dominos’ can’t redeem them. Kristin Hersh will rescue us with a magical, career-spanning, Throwing Muses-sprinkled set, won’t she? Why, yes she will.

A welcome slice of experimental vigour comes courtesy of Dirty Projectors (more Brooklyn residents) at the Obelisk, but they are a mere apéritif. Sunday undoubtedly belongs to Yeasayer (from… you get the idea), their valiant straddling of timeless art-rock, Middle Eastern, African and 21st-century r’n’b disciplines resulting in an indisputably joyous encounter. The future-pop brilliance of ‘O.N.E.’ and ‘Madder Red’ sets minds whizzing and even tired feet a-shuffling in the tent – where the sonically fearless trio will take us to next is a fool’s guess.

After Yeasayer have knocked us sideways, the cheerfully shallow Jack Wills-attired Afro-pop of Obelisk headliners Vampire Weekend (yes, Brooklyn again) just won’t cut the Colman’s. It’s left to Jónsi and Grizzly Bear – go on, guess where the latter are from – to play us out back in the tent. Sigur Rós frontman Jónsi offers a far poppier, immediately pleasing take on his usual band’s high-concept blissrock, and Grizzy Bear turn in a disappointingly impenetrable fug (for the less well versed, at any rate) with little of their more recent focused folk fare on display. A for-fans-only headline act, perhaps? Well, it’s brave.

With much post-festival talk zooming in on the two suspected onsite rapes this year, what you’re hearing now is sadly not hyperbole about musicians, however: it’s the sound of Latitude’s family-friendly, Guardian readers and ciabatta, your-teenage-daughter-will-be-safe illusion shattering. Whoever is at fault for inadvertently creating the opportunity for sexual assaults to happen – and for sure, the festival’s “tranquil”, secluded wooded areas will never seem so attractive again – there’s no doubt a full strategic rethink of Latitude’s security provisions is essential now it’s grown to more than three times its 2006 capacity.

Decent lighting absolutely everywhere at night, real police – not just council-appeasing but dubiously effective private security staff – on site at all times, and trained, knowledgeable stewards with more incentive to work (and less to bunk off with their mates) than a free ticket would be a start. Whatever the calibre of the artists playing – and Latitude’s “more than just a music festival” tag must be ringing pretty hollow for some in the wake of the weekend’s alleged more devastating events – the festival will have much ground to regain in 2011.

Noah And The Whale can’t even find a foot to be found wrong at the moment – their sheer earnestness has earned them, in our view, virtual critical amnesty. Why? Because their honesty has beaten us all. When you wear your entire heart on your sleeve, no matter how insidious a critical tailor you might be, you cannot stitch this band up. Charlie Fink’s assertion that this is the “Best festival in the world” might seem a bit hyperbolic under other circumstances; but when ethereal opera ‘Blue Skies’ descends, in a festival of unbridled azure, the probability of greatness is tangible upon our fingertips.

A word for the Belle & Sebastian folk – a review myself and co-writer Charlie Ivens were supposed to collaborate on, because they’re such a divisive act between the two of us – I was surprised to find myself utterly charmed by their life-affirming set. Maybe it’s the surroundings, but the twee-heavy semi-jaundice of their output actually renders me helpless to their tractor-beam charm. Where tracks like ‘I’m A Cuckoo’ twangs its way into your heart with its self-effacing jangle, other songs like ‘Boy With The Arab Strap’ remind you that, beyond reservation and preconception, there are things in this world that can distract and divert you when you least expect it. Much like the festival itself – our first encounter and newfound love. As a wiser lady than myself called Marie so sagely points out at the end, Latitude is the Belle & Sebastian of festivals. Do not underestimate it. Love and Latitude are the answer.
 
Stephen Brolan