Latitude - the play-out groove

Dear Sheddists,

you rejoin us as the sun continues to beat down on the dusty pollen fields of Latitude.

It's Saturday morning and yours truly is to be found lurking in the Comedy Arena listening to James Acaster. I've never heard of him before and am exceedingly unlikely to hear him again. Frankly, he fails to rock the boat.

On the money

I leave the tent early and follow, Pied Piper-like, a trail of grooves emanating from the Obelisk Stage.  The impressive Ibibio Sound Machine lay down some mean West African funk beneath the soaring voice of their Nigerian songstress, Eno Williams. Before long she has the gathering crowd sashaying up and down in time to the music.

She sets the bar high as the Sound Machine make way for a group of Malian troubadours swathed in flowing robes and traditional taguelmoust headscarves.  I've been looking forward for some time to seeing Tinariwen perform live and they are truly a joy to behold, delivering a mesmerising set that surpasses my expectations.

I'm particularly touched by a lovely older couple dancing next to me who clearly are lost in the music. I catch them to speak at the end of the set and they kindly agree to have their photo taken. I really must stop approaching total strangers and asking them their life story!

The legendary Booker T Jones is next up and it's hard to believe he turns seventy in November. Despite the blistering heat he is immaculately tailored, barely breaking into sweat as he delivers a tight performance that puts youngsters half his age to shame.

And so the baton is passed the men in black as the Afghan Whigs hit the stage.  A middle-aged and somewhat substantial lady in front of me has been waiting in eager anticipation for her hero Greg Dulli. She lets loose a loud whoop to greet his arrival and proceeds to deliver what to all intents and purposes appears to be a horizontal pole-dance using the top-rung of the crash barrier.  I leave soon after as her metallic pleasurings reach the inevitable climax, possibly the most bizarre act of the entire weekend.

Up in the woods

It's time to see what's down with the kids, so I make my way leisurely up the wooded hill on the opposite side of the bridge for my annual pilgrimage to the I Arena.  As ever, the drinks are warm, the tent is rammed and there's sweat dripping from every conceivable surface.

I watch in short order Ry X, Mnex and Ghostpoet, all of whom put in spirited and well-received sets.  A tinny or two of restorative festival cider and it's back down the hill for the headline act of the day, Damon Albarn.

Why, oh why …

.. did I bother!  His, apparently, is the only act that requires formal introduction and the sycophantic compere who announces Mr Albarn's entrance duly sets the tone for what is to follow - a series of dull, miserablist dirges accompanied by a whining out-of-tune vocal.

Having earned a fortune estimated at close to £26,000,000 from his days fronting Blur the heavily-trousered scamp now feels free to indulge his sensitive side. Spare us the middle-aged angst, sir - we much prefer Parklife.

We make a premature exit, just in the nick of time. As we reach Veronica the camper-van the skies open and we witness the most fantastic lightening storm. Sadly it fails to drown out dear Damon, who continues to give voice to his mid-life existential crisis back at the Obelisk Arena.

Cheer up, lad - £26,000,000 should buy you a shed-load of pies!!