Further still from the chameleonic wonder of Damon Albarn are Mumford & Sons, playing their umpteenth dwindling festival slot of the summer to an umpteenth uncountable throng. A slew of topless students atop shoulders await all things drab from the Christian quartet, from the medieval twangs of Roll Away Your Stone, to the brassed up slurs of The Cave whilst Thriller-era Jacko blares his trumpet, yet enveloped by the fancy dress spirit, they've come as the Three Musketeers so Marcus Mumford's waistcoat falls by the wayside. Hurts earlier shrieked "When the world surrounds you, I'll make it go away, Paint the sky with silver lining" and whilst the sky isn't quite glistening, lack of musty old waistcoat is said silver lining. If all that glistens is gold, then Sigur Rós frontman Jónsi is 24-carat at the very least; the stirring gentleness with which he blusters through the inherent beauty of debut solo LP proper Go is bone marrow-quaking. Adorned in a tasseled jacket Gok Wan would turn back to chip fat for, the likes of reedy tonsil-quiverer Tornado and appropriately barge-sounding Hengilas are akin to the calm before the tempestuous eye of an apocalypse, an apocalypse that you almost want to be sucked into just to flood your ears with Jón Þór Birgisson's extraterrestrial falsetto. Whirring strings and dual drums as impressionable as Sigur Rós' very own Orri Páll Dýrason make Kolnidur entirely enamouring, engrossing and ultimately, irresistible. Although it's when Jónsi steps out from behind the shadows of his twinkling keys and hammers away at an acoustic guitar on a bewitching Go Do that the sound of hearts erupting and jaws dropping down into inches of muddied earth is vastly amplified. Fantastical in the extreme, a relentless finale curtailed by Grow Till Tall transforms reality to a fairytale-stained fiction, its pages few could possibly wish to close.
Injecting a little more bohemian bourgeois into proceedings are reformed, still Eno-less glam icons Roxy Music, launching unapologetically into a rambunctious Re-Make/Re-Model, before slinking off into a beguiling oboe-led Out Of The Blue. From Virginia Plain, to Ladytron, Love Is The Drug and Do The Strand, Bryan Ferry & co. take us on something of a Piccadilly Line's worth of unforgettable, eccentric numbers, before terminating at a vivacious Let's Stick Together. Ferry bows elegantly and endlessly throughout before a cast of thousands and barring a few wayward faves and a distinct lack of new material, insinuating this may be something of a swansong, Roxy Music prove still to be as sassy as Shirley Bassey in an infinity pool of bristling sequins, as quintessentially British as Pot Noodle. Or Posh Noodle... The stage is then cordoned off as construction begins...
Hard hats dusted, hammers at the ready and human hamster ball inflated, Wayne Coyne's The Flaming Lips emerge from the beaming nether regions of a psyched-up nude cavorting to the sound of supernovas exploding (or In Excelsior Vaginalistic), before Coyne rolls around on outstretched arms until oxygen becomes a rather sparse commodity. Clambering on the shoulders of black bears whilst emitting laser streaks from enlarged foam hands, the 'Lips offer an unparalleled experience in the realms of live music, as confetti cascades to Silver Trembling Hands and voice boxes are dented during She Don't Use Jelly. Unfortunately interests wane slightly, due to a heavy smattering of material from the underwhelming befuddlement of latest long player Embryonic, although with the likes of Yeah Yeah Yeah Song, Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots Pt. I and an aqueous-eyed Do You Realize? in the barrel of his acetate streamer rifle, these lips are always destined to kiss and tell of essential festival occasion.
