Saturday 15/07/06 Day 2 @ Latitude Festival, Henham Park, Suffolk

Gigwise has been drinking organic cider since 3 O'clock, and, to be honest, we've made Oliver Reed look like a choirboy at communion. And there is a women dangling from a tree in front of us from what appears to be a meathook. And she's wearing nothing apart from three strategically placed tassels. We’re absolutely terrified. Welcome to Latitude Festival, day two.

Rewind 12 hours. Gigwise wakes in a furnace-like tent, with a mouth that tastes like something's crawled up and died in it. A comparatively uninterrupted sleep (by festival standards) has meant that we've missed political discussion in the poetry tent, but staggering hazily from our tent we're accosted by a group of grown women dressed as fairies attempting to sell us a retreat 'in fairyland.' It's either that or drugs, we suppose.

Latitude, for the uninitiated is Mean Fiddler's kind way of reminding us that there is life after Glastonbury. Set in rolling fields, tribes of musicians, actors, performers and artists parade about with absolute impunity making sure you're only ever a few feet away from clowns, patois poets and the odd Elvis impersonator. But, we're here for the music, so we grab an organic cider and knuckle down for a hard day's shoe gazing. Saturday is the most low-fi of the three days, and with an encouraging number of female-fronted acts, and no real 'star names' it's certainly the most intriguing of the weekend.

Opening up the main stage are dreamy alt-country newcomers The Last Town Chorus. Led by gorgeous singer songwriter Megan Hickey, they seem a strange choice for the cavernous Obelisk Arena – surely they'd have been more suited to the more intimate Uncut Stage, but the lap-steel revivalists are unfazed, delivering a set of near-perfect americana. Recalling Mazzy Star's languid 'Among My Swan' era, and as heavy on reverb as My Morning Jacket, The Last Town Chorus are a delight, and must be set for bigger things soon. And they cover David Bowie's 'Modern Love.' Which is great.

Continuing the female country-theme, Howling Bells take to the Uncut stage and tear roof off. They're absolutely astonishing. Fronted by an Australian nymph with a voice like a primal scream, and backed by a band that sound like they've never listened to a note of modern music (that's a good thing, honestly) the Belles shake the Uncut Arena to its very foundations. It honestly doesn't sound like anything we've ever heard - songs of deserts and distance, dust and longing. 'Low Happening,' and 'Wishing Stone,' are the sound of a group that's been locked in a shed in the outback for the past hundred years with only rudimentary musical instruments, and it's all the better for it.

Gigwise is also intrigued by Camille, a French art-rocker backed by two men playing double bass and keyboard. What's astonishing about them is that they make up the rest of the band with their voices, dipping into metallic screeching, beatboxing, rap and gutteral roars, all played through their cheeks. We don't catch any of the names of the songs, but it's a sonic experience to treasure, and one second-billed Patti Smith should take a few notes from.

She, surprisingly is the least impressive of the female performers. Sound problems and a distinct lack of enthusiasm mar what could have been a cracking end to a day where emancipation in the music industry took a giant leap forward. Compared to the exciting, visceral Howling Bells and Camille, and the beauty of The Last Town Chorus, Smith, the godmother of Punk just looks bored.

Keeping the men's end up over at the Sunrise arena, Sussex based singer-songwriter David Ford is quietly bashing out a contender for set of the weekend. After a few numbers with a full band, he plays two songs solo, looping tracks over and over each other, before finally, triumphantly being joined by a 10-piece choir dressed in football shirts for a gloriously uplifting version of single 'Cheer Up' ("Cheer up, you lazy ****, this has gone on long enough") Gigwise is also contractually obliged to mention that his drummer Joe is a very talented and handsome man. So there.

We saunter over to the Uncut arena, pausing briefly to pick up another organic cider, and hit upon the novel idea of watching Gomez close the day. Three minutes later, we regret it. Why oh why did we go to see them? In the name of everything that's holy, if you're not going to do the decent thing and retire, then at least don't inflict your cod-awful blues nonsense on an unsuspecting crowd that just wants to hear that one about getting drunk in Piccadilly. Gigwise knows little about the Southport lad’s recent output (well, since 1998 at least) but we do know that if you're going to headline a festival stage, however small it might be, then do not, under any circumstances play a set of cod soul derived from your last two albums. They hold it down well (well, you would do, after trooping around the country for 10 years together) but, sweet Jesus, SHUT THE **** UP!

Annoyingly, we miss British Sea Power, but get back in time for Antony and the Johnsons. Another bizarre choice of headliner, Anthony is obviously playing to a much bigger crowd than he's ever worked with before, and at first the show fails to hit the mark. Then it all picks up. Perhaps it's all the organic cider Gigwise has been ingesting, but we're certain that the sound suddenly improves tenfold – usually we're not too big on A+J, but tonight they sound absolutely beautiful. Crystal clear tales of love and loss all delivered in that astonishing wailing falsetto. He plays 'I Am A Bird Now' almost in its entirety, and during 'Hope There's Someone,' you can almost hear a thousand heartstrings twanging. Not the most convincing end to a festival, he hardly engages with the audience, and there's a general air of bemusement amongst a good section of the audience, but certainly enough to keep the masses going into the third day of the festival.

We stagger outside, and immediately bump into the naked woman hanging from a meathook. While we've been busy scooting from tent to tent, we've managed to miss all the madness outside, which should really be the fun bit. . We make a resolute promise to ourselves. Tomorrow, we'll embrace the weird. But tonight, we're going and dance in a wood until 3am.