Anyway, it's reality check time, and having missed my connecting train from Paddington station, I'm faced with a

lengthy queue, and the prospect of missing the first band (the intriguingly named Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly.) whilst struggling with my cheapo Lidl tent.

Fortunately, my cut-price canvas is poled up and pegged down in time to catch the next act on the main stage. Villareal have graced this festival before, and based on my rather fuzzy memories of the previous year, appear to have come on leaps and bounds, peddling a pleasant Grandaddy-lite sound that is summery, buoyant and undemanding - just the ticket to sit on the grass with a nice cold drink and relax to after a long morning of travelling queuing and tent erection.

The same certainly cannot be said of next act, the hotly tipped Mystery Jets who use a combination of home made instruments (including what appears to be a selection of saucepans gaffa taped together), cowbells, scruffy hair, a guitarist who looks older than my dad (and who may or may not be one of the band members' dad depending on who you believe amongst the between song chatterings) and a Bez like multi-instrumentalist called Chris who frugs

making it; but when they get it right, such as on recent single 'On My Feet', the results are intriguing to say the least - it will be interesting to see how they develop from here.

Keeping with the main stage, Cherubs seem to have clogging around the London circuit for a couple of years now, and despite the odd good review and some tasty support slots, I have somehow managed to miss them until now. There are plenty of bands doing the stuttery post-garage punk thing at the moment, but Cherubs do it better than most (including The Departure, with whom they are soon to share a stage in Edinburgh), and despite the early hour, the bright sunlight and the rolling fields that surround us, they temporarily transform the main stage into a seedy London toilet circuit venue (and as this is where I've spent the majority of the past 5 years, that's not such a bad thing). Cherubs aren't going to change your life, they're unlikely (barring a major label throwing money in their direction) to make much of an impact on the charts, but they've got enough tunes to keep me dancing for half an hour, and for the moment at least, that's all I'm asking of them.

other stages having been designated a carefully chosen title, I decide to call it Barney from now on.

Anyway, the first band that I am to see grace Barney with their presence today are South London youngsters Battle, who appear to have got themselves lumbered with the tag of 'The new Bloc Party', which is probably useful in terms of getting signed and selling records, but tends to be the kind of thing that hangs around your neck for the rest of your career, cropping up in every single review and article, and prompting snide remarks from fans of the original band that you are nothing more than second-rate plagiarists jumping on the bandwagon to major label megabucks. Battle deserve better than this, and while there are some similarities in their ability to mix twinkling guitars with danceable beats (not to mention the fact that their singer is, shock horror, not white), they take a less abrasive, more melodic route to the audiences heart.

They also put on a much better live show than BP ever have (much as I've

Battle could well be on the verge of being something very special if they can avoid falling into the pigeon hole that has been so neatly and conveniently created for them, what happens next is up to them.

Leaving Barney and heading back to the main stage, all-girl supergroup The Schla La Las are on stage in fetching white dresses and monographed handbags (all matching of course) and doing what they do best - having fun. The songs may be basic and the musicianship may be dubious at times, but they've an infectious charm and sense of fun which quickly spreads throughout the crowd. New Schla Hannah takes centre stage and seems to have fitted in neatly. I leave them teaching the crowd a dance routine to 'Are You Ready' and pay my first visit to the Trailerpark tent, home not to slack jawed white trash Americans as the name might suggest, but to the wondrous Stuffy & The Fuses. Stuffy & co have played a few gigs for us over the past couple of months as part of our Tsunami Relief campaign, but while I've come to know

Stuffy's also a startling frontman, drumming at the front of the stage he has an unusually expressive face, and seems to play like a kid riding a bike, rising and falling with every bump in the road, twisting his face with every turn and change of pace, then leaving his kit completely to wander the crowd and serenade us all individually.

Before today I had never seen Patrick live, and the few tracks that I'd heard from his promising recent album 'Wind in the Wires' hadn't prepared me for this.

At first seeing his precisely shorn hair, and Victorian street urchin get-up, an alarm bell rang in my head screaming 'pretentious twat alert!' But the purity and otherwordliness, both of the stripped down music (just vocals and Patrick on either electric piano, violin, acoustic guitar or ukulele), and of Patrick's serene stage presence - uttering barely a word between songs, but losing himself in the music he is creating, and cracking into a wide, tooth-bearing smile; is so disarming that any cynical misapprehensions are swiftly washed away. This is music of a long-gone and mostly forgotten era, transported into our time through the medium of a quietly eccentric man-child. It is something to be treasured and cherished, and possibly put under the protection of the national trust to preserve for future generations.

After the serenity of Patrick Wolf's set, it was back to the Trailerpark tent for

face, and general sense of impending apocalypse, but hell, I've never had this much fun watching a goth band before. In truth, they've just as much in common with the theatre of electroclash (before it disappeared up it's over-lubricated sequin splattered arse) - whatever you want to call it, they've got the front rows dancing like loons, smiles plastered ear to ear across their faces, and as hard as they are trying to hide it, you get the sense that Motormark are having a pretty damn good time too.

So far then, so good - most of the bands (Stuffy & The Schlas excluded) have been relatively new to me, and none have disappointed. Sad then that the first real disappointment of the weekend should come from a band that I once held in the highest esteem. The Electric Soft Parade were once hailed as the saviours of UK indie - impossibly young, their debut album 'Holes In the Wall' showcased a prodigious talent for songwriting, which was matched by an onstage charm and sense of fun. Two years ago, they headlined this festival, and shortly afterwards I watched them perform at a packed out

excitement that used to characterise their shows is nowhere to be found. It feels as if we're here as much out of habit or loyalty as anything else, and sadly, the same could be said of the band.

The sorry truth is, they've yet to write a single song of the calibre of 'Holes In the Wall' since. Follow up album 'The American Adventure' flopped, and the band were dropped from their label. Unless they can somehow recapture the magic of their debut album, the goodwill of all those watching them today is going to start running out real soon.

If I had to give one good reason for my love of Truck, The Edible Five Foot Smiths would quite likely be it. They were the first band to truly grab me at my first Truckfest, and indeed the first band that I ever interviewed face to face. Sadly they split not long after, but the magic of Truck has lured them back together for one more go. Made up of three members of the equally fabulous Fonda 500, with Matt on vocals, The Edibles make an inventive and, dare I

Another band of Trucks past, The Young Knives have begun to kick up a bit of fuss in the capital lately, signing to Transgressive records and appearing on MTV2, though I must admit, when I saw them last year I was far from impressed with what had seemed a band like dozens of others that were traipsing around London's smaller venues at the time. What a difference a year makes - The Knives have taken a massive jump forward in the time since I last saw them, and now produce songs as sharp and veiled in danger as their name suggest (not entirely sure about the young bit though looking at them), and by the end of the set are vaulting off the drum kit and generally unleashing taught guitar riffs and jerky rhythms on a crowd who are loving every minute of it.

Staying in the Trailerpark tent, 65 Days of Static are next on. Having popped out for one of the delicious pasta salads that constituted the major part of my diet over the weekend, I found myself with only one place to stand - next to the

submission with their unrelenting instrumental noise attack. To be honest, I couldn't tell you how good they were - all I knew was I needed to retire to somewhere quiet for a moment's respite. Lessons learned for next time.

Thankfully, my poor lugs had recovered in time for what would turn out to be the highlight of the weekend - Truck veterans Fonda 500 and their cavalcade of off-kilter oddball pop.

Simon, in his trademark bear-eared woolly hat, is in great form, his cynical wit and on the spot lyric changes adding to the already overwhelming sense of fun and adventure that this unique band produces. And Bod on bass is tearing around the stage, high kicking and throwing herself to her knees in the kind of display you'd normally expect from a bunch of teenage punks rather than a bunch of whimsical lo-fi popsters into their sixth year (at least) together, but somehow it fits with the bonkers sounds that are unravelling around her.

pop tune, and a boundless sense of exploration and tomfoolery.

Exploration and tomfoolery don't appear to be to high on The Raveonettes' list of priorities, and more's the pity. Sadly, they've still to progress much further than their promising debut album, and tonight's lengthy set merely showcases 45 minutes of the same ground being gone over again and again.

There are occasional highlights, in the form of favourites such as 'Do You Believe Her' and 'That Great Love Sound' and new single 'Love In a Trashcan', but even these are merely superior versions of the bands one song. If they are to take a step up to the next

level, they're going to need more than a string of Jesus & Mary Chain rewrites and a pretty guitarist.

Finally then we reach tonight's headliners, Biffy Clyro. I can't claim to be much of a fan myself, but the

anticipation that is building up amongst the front rows as the guitar is soundchecked for what seems like the 17th time, is palpable.

When the band finally emerge, the crowd explodes, and it's difficult not to get carried along on the wave of enthusiasm and teenage hormones that are gushing towards the stage. For a while, I'm almost converted - the energy of the crowd, combined with Biffy's passionate quiet bit/loud bit formula are a heady combination indeed, but ultimately it's not enough to sustain me beyond the first few songs. Similarly to The Raveonettes, Biffy just don't seem to have a second gear, so when the time comes to slow things down, or to push things further, they just don't have the variety of songs to do it.

So I leave the young crowd to scream Simon's name and bounce around to 'Just Boy', and head back to the campsite for wine and meeting new friends, and look forward with eager anticipation to day two.