Saturday 26/08/06 Day 2 @ Leeds Festival, Bramham Park, Leeds

The second day of the Leeds Festival is a day where fundamental rules of hygiene are seemingly unenforceable. Waking to tales from a nearby tent that a pooper had discreetly secreted a nugget in a nearby neighbour’s tent didn’t aid the digestion of our extortionate breakfast, and even induced poo hunt paranoia at each return to our tent. After ensuring we hadn’t fallen victim to faeces crime it was time to witness the Towers of London. Front man Donny is a nutbag. Gaining points for punting a pint into the morning revellers, then instantly loosing them by scrabbling like a tit trying to get back onstage. Try as they might to be a credit to their influences (Motley/pistols/Ramones) the Towers of London are nothing more than a joke, a funny one though.

Fields on the Radio 1 stage are a tricky affair, opening with a sonic heavy Ravonettes stomper lulls us into positive security, but soon theyre pushing us tripe in the style of the Cardigans, not completely unpleasant but not the My Bloody Valentine we were led to believe. Kate Jackson of The Long Blondes is a great little mover, yelps with the best of them and fronts a Blondie/YYY’s styled band, there’s just one inconsistency, they’re from Sheffield. Yes, although Kate seemingly sings in a New York’n drawl, she’s a fake. But beyond the niggling lies and the 50’s doo-wop of ‘Once and Never Again’, they’re a great daytime drinking supplement.

After some disappointing Guillemots performances and a frankly mediocre debut album, (Mercury’s?!!) Fyfe Dangerfield’s rabble are looking suitably dishevelled. And so would we, a great weight of expectation and praise has obviously mauled Guillemots front man into the unkempt tramp we see before us. Their one glittering track the anthemic ‘Made Up Love Song #43’ aptly describes their potential, yet straight after ‘Sao Paulo’ reminds us just how flawed Fyfe’s song writing can be, all 80’s clichés and sixth form imagery.

Belle and Sebastian are true festival stalwarts, not in stature (Stuart is probably the smallest mincer you’re likely to see), but as an operating beast they are pretty unstoppable. The twee overtones of ‘I'm a Cuckoo’, and the quaint beauty of ‘The Boy With The Arab Strap’ are all preciously British and reap the required response from the Leeds crowd.