They’re up against Jay-Z themselves but, judging from the pointed comments about “racist numbskulls” and “fucking white boys with guitars”, Massive Attack have no time for the anti-hip hop sentiments expressed by certain parties in the run-up to this year’s festival.

The multi-faceted Bristol collective are on imperious form tonight, each of their genre-melting classics accompanied by political quotes tracked across a neon billboard at the back of the stage. Whether they’re dedicating the hypnotic, dub-weighted Safe From Harm to Nelson Mandela, gliding through a psychedelically blessed-out Angel, or sending the sizeable crowd into raptures with alternative national anthem Unfinished Sympathy, these almost local legends are arguably the ultimate standard bearers of the true Glastonbury spirit. Manish Agarwal



Duffy, bless her, is dressed for a dip in the olde briney sea. Her ‘30s swimwear aside, the Welsh songstrel’s voice drips vintage ‘60s soul. The sun-drenched crowd soak it up as she sprinkles her set with her hits, but it’s a lesser known track – Breaking My Own Heart (released as a download-only especially for this Glastonbury appearance) – that really hits the spot. It is just utterly lovely out here.


Elbow are not ones to get the pulse racing; instead their majestic sound is one in which you find yourself slowing immersing. By the time they reach their closing epic - One Day Like This – the whole field is singing along, throwing their metaphorical curtains wide and mentally noting that festival experiences don’t get much more life-affirming than this.


It’s a hard act to follow, but for Hot Chip an impromptu rave-up stretches as far as the Drop The Debt bus, reaching smiley people brilliance as Wiley takes the stage for Wearing My Rolex. Puzzled as everyone is why they should be maintaining that they “usually bubble”, it’s another magical moment from an incredible Glastonbury day. Johnny Dee



Hailing from the Sunshine State, Black Kids (pictured) bring weather, glam disco and two scoops of sexy. While Reggie Youngblood might be the foxiest thing seen on any stage since Grace Jones, it’s sis Ali who gets down and dirty without letting mud near her tush. With Youngblood's pumping through our veins, it’s getting hot in here.

Cooling down comes naturally with Neon Neon, a Jarre-ing concept featuring Boom Bip and (ahem) Byron Maiden. It’s not until Har Mar Superstar arrives to sing standing on his head that the crowd rise from slumber.

They remain, however, cherishably different, a fact hammered home by the arrival of The Wombats, a stage-school project too far. With a ginormous crowd to please but nothing meaningful to say, all quirks educated out of them, their energy and enthusiasm shouldn’t distract from the fact that they are as empty as the inflatable marsupial sharing the stage. Manish Agarwal


The Glastonbury New Talent competition co-winners exemplified orthodox and radical extremes. Manchester’s seven-piece Travelling Band delivered good Calif-country-rock; London’s singular Golden Silvers trio provoked debate about whether they intersect “Weather Report and Soft Cell” or “Dean Martin and Talking Heads”. Imagine!

Los Campesinos! have got it going already. A whooping crowd back to the sound tower enjoyed their art-punk rush and crackling minds. Lead singer Gareth’s St Trinian’s camp persona could annoy the arse off an elephant, but then Los Campesinos! aren’t targeting the pachyderm demographic.

Rather more straightforward, One Night Only brought their own crowd and singer George Craig’s admirable set of pipes biffed every number in the anthemic, arms-aloft direction of their Top 10 hit Just For Tonight. Phil Sutcliffe