Friday 25/08/06 Day 1 @ Rock en Seine, Saint Cloud Park, Paris

The 'Urban Festival' has experienced rather a lot of success recently. Initially there had been trepidation to the growth of performances in famous city parks, namely 02 Wireless festival in London and Sziget in Budapest. Festivals in essence, were an escape from the trappings of every day life, a retreat from traffic noise, tower blocks and tube stations. To embrace this urban ambience would have been regarded as blasphemy against Mr Eavis and the forefathers of festival goers.

However, in a time when convenience is the prime demand for the consumer, it's no surprise that the music industry has followed the pioneering business chutzpah of Tesco Express and brought the music festival to the city, where wallets are fatter and consumerism is more rife. Thus Rock-en-Seine is very much the French 02 Wireless Festival, a festival nestled in the leafy suburbs of Paris, very accessible, very clean and obviously marked with a very corporate feel.

But this is not a platform to spout anti-globalist mantra, Rock-en-Seine, like Tesco Express maybe smaller than many festivals, but it boasts an impressive line-up and its location, the beautiful park of Saint Cloud, is certainly awe-inspiring.

Thus it's fitting that Calexico kicked off proceedings, a sophisticated act with a classier fan base than your average Britpop act. Their homage to Ennio Morricone is always evident, recalling tales of Mexican Bandits and the cruel surroundings of the Arizona desert. Yet songs off their new album 'Garden Ruin' failed to engage a French crowd who were more likely to be pouting in any reflective surface they could find. (Yes, undoubtedly a music festival in Paris could well double up as a fashion show for the alternatively inclined.)

While Jacques Chirac consistently walks out of any meeting where an English word is uttered, it seems like Carl Barat and friends are single-handedly repairing Anglo-French relations. Dirty Pretty Things walk on to the stage draped in a mass of Union Jacks, their quirky accounts of all things slightly English are lapped up by the crowds. Barat, with what looks to be this years fashion must have - a sling, waltzes round the stage like an obnoxious teenager egging on his band mates to have a toke on his ciggie. For the first time though, he starts to look quite comfortable in a band that many thought could be a stop-gap to something else.

Comfort is not something you would associate with Kasabian however. Brought in to replace Richard Ashcroft, their hop over the channel at the 11th Hour is noble, but again nobility might be something they lack. Overall they are in fine mood, lead singer Tom Meighan chirps "C'mon the French!" which actually provokes a positive reaction. Muddled acclaim has emerged in response to their new material, the pomp and grandeur of it is all a bit suffocating, especially when you know they're from Leicester. Still they rattle through the classics like ‘LSF’ and ‘Club Foot’ which makes for a sturdy performance. 

Many French bands come and go to little reaction on our part, sidetracked over the choice between either Crepe or Gaufre for dinner. Soon though, drizzly Salford and the charming streets of Gay Pareeee somehow reach a strange synergy when Morrissey graces us with his presence. This reviewer’s first reaction is of complete awe to his enormous gong (steady...) and his laconic delivery that never fails to stir a tickle in your inner organs. Humorous anecdotes are a plenty, Smiths songs are less abundant but offerings from his last two albums carry the momentum of a brief but romantic affair. A sociable curfew time allows people to take the metro back to their overpriced accommodation, safe in the knowledge that they can fit in the longs meals, nihilistic pessimism, fine wine, a violent revolution of some kind and a high cultural discussion on the fallen state we find ourselves in before Broken Social Scene start at 3pm the following day.