2013 - the yummy bits. The best albums and EPs of the year

The very best and truly most edifyingly scrumptious bits of 2013.

Top 10 Albums
So, it seems it's de rigeur for the world, his wife, significant other, lodger and gimp under the floorboards to thumb through the hamper of mouthwatering musical morsels and give everyone their opinion on what constitutes the very best. Not that anyone really gives a flying coffee bean-laden civet shit about what anyone really thinks. But here goes.

Now, I'm sure I've left some out. And forgotten some. But here's my tastebud tingling top ten. Rock tastic.

10. One Of Us Is The Killer - Dillinger Escape Plan

First in the hamper this year is DEP's latest firecracker pot of curious Gentleman's Relish. A whole heap of complex flavours, textures and piquant burning sensations. A terrific progression for New Jersey's mathmess magicians. There's familiar fare with feverish, febrile metallically-tinged mayhem but then a freshly tempered experimental lush jazz fusiony butteriness. 

Tasting notes: Not for the basic palate. Sophisticated but enormously spicy, challenging and fiery. Will cause indigestion on an unsuspecting and empty stomach. 

9. The Blackest Beautiful - Letlive
On opening the latest can of Letlive bisque, you kind of expect a rough and ready, heavy, huge but often indistinct flavoured melange. But this time there's a million different challenging and often bewildering reference points. Swinging wildly between high voltage metalcore/hardcore to hi-nrg dance-infused-auto-tuned, multi-layered-popcorny-pop-schlock. And even rappy/dubby bits. 

It really shouldn't work. But it does. There are huge swathes of Fall Out Boy-esque harmonic complexity, infused with Glassjaw and Minor Threat then put into the blender with Enter Shikari and Whitechapel. But the most lingering aftertaste is honesty. Bollocks-out, peeled back transparency. A truly wonderful if not wholly unexpected experience.

Tasting notes: Like one of those crazy and wanky restaurants serving ragoux and ballotines of animals that you'd normally find in a zoo, on the face of it, potentially unpalatable and downright weird. But the result is an enormously raw, powerful and, at times, strangely beautiful dish.

8. Mother's Ruin - Max Raptor

Right, poncey bisques and relishes to one side, time to pop open a can of foaming punky pilsner. And what a kick. Intelligently brewed with the initial wife-beater headiness and numbing punky strength hiding a brooding and cynical sharpness and sophistication, this is world class brain damage.

Politically and satirically as impossibly sharp as those bastard carpet grippers, any superficial froth or head is soon blown off a deep and curious but heart-warming brew. Heavy in parts but fused with wonderfully familiar anthemic and chest-beating abandon. This Midlands ale gets you all Glaswegian and stripping down to the waist and yelling out of windows pointing fingers like bag ladies and grimacing like you've got yer nob caught in your zip. 

Tasting notes: Powerful, lively, fun, surprisingly sophisticated with a real punch. The strongest, overproof rum-soused in yer face fuck off party punch. You looking at me pal?

7. Wild Light- 65DaysofStatic

After the heady brutal brew, it's time to mix grain with grape. Time to ease the cork out of the latest vintage offering from these most consumate of twiddlers, fiddlers, tweakers and soundscape seducers. 

This is new world zinginess and cleverness mixed with a mind-expanding depth and beauty. Real beauty. There are so many swirling flavours, top notes, base notes and every hemi-demi-semi quaver in between. At times beyond description, smoothness mixed with erratic and jaggedy acidity and full-bodied, hairy-testicled grunt. 

Tasting notes: Seriously heady and mind-altering potency underpinned with a delicious smooth, sophisticated but never clinical or synthetic sterility. Lose your head. Lose your inhibitions. But, whatever you do, don't lose your king sized rolling papers. Man.

6. Muscle Memory - Jamie Lenman
Where do you start? Where do you finish? Superficiality first; this is  the most sumptuous and beautifully crafted packaging in this year's hamper by a mile. But once the packaging is peeled open, what a thing. What a two things. 

The first layer of this delicious and dizzying cake is jam-packed with grenades, evil incendiary devices, trip wires, polonium, 7" stiletto blades, Bazooka shells, shit-tipped sharpened sticks and, well, tears. The emotionally saturated ingredients are blitzed with gravel, double-coil pick ups, drain cleaner and red fire ants and the results are outstanding. Challenging? Yes. Easy on the ear? Not always. Outré? You bet. But outstanding? Thoroughly.

Then we move onto the second layer of this Lewis Carol-like Hadean gateau. And it's buttery. Creamy. Delicious. Sumptuous. Clever. Heartfelt. Honest. Bizarre. But like the top layer, equally outstanding. Swing, bluegrass, George Formby, big band, Burlesque. All in the magimix with the accent on magi.

The former Reuben chef has outdone himself. Such brave and challenging cuisine deserves to be at the top table and Muscle Memory is without a doubt one of the bravest, cleverest and intriguing offerings of the year. 

Tasting notes: A seemingly vile and incompatible marriage of nob-melting chilli and tongue mollifying buttery Victoria sponge. A brave and challenging triumph. 

5. Letters Home - Defeater

Next in the hamper are an overseas delicacy from the Americas. And it's certainly not in an aerosol, a blister pack or smothered in syrup. A jagged rusty can filled to the brim with raw hardcore punk flavoured pork and beans with an haute cuisine twist.

Massachussetts may have given the world chocolate chip cookies and cranberries, but this is far more rarified and sophisticated fare. Ok, you can't dip it in your tea and it won't help with cystitis, but Letters Home should be in everyone's food and medicine cupboards. An unholy union of hardcore and concept album sounds like ship's biscuits smothered in finest caviar. But, it produces a wholly original and stunning sensation.

Moving stories from the Civil War are told through family letters and the effect is jaw-dropping. Whereas most lyrical ingredients in hardcore are sublimated to the effect of the overall visceral output, this masterpiece captivates from the first delicious mouthful to the last. And takes you on an historical, eye-opening journey on the way.

Tasting notes: savage and uncompromising delivery, mercifully short on foam and froth, a surprisingly deep and beautiful delicious heart wrapped in searing and acidic heat, meat and gristle. Bloody delicious. And thought-provoking.

4. You're Listening To The Hell - The Hell

Fried cunt. Cooked by cunts. For cunts. Shit. But addictive shit.

Tasting notes: Cunt.

3. Sempiternal - Bring Me The Horizon
After opening with care and, to be honest not much expectation, this assortment box of metal(core?) biscuits has to be the surprise taste sensation of the year. 

To be honest, BMTH are a bit like sprouts to me. I've never been that keen. They don't taste great, make the living room stink and give you unpleasant grumblings in the gut. But loads of people swear by them and have seen something in them that, like sprouts, fail to get my tastebuds dripping.

Until Sempiternal, that is. What a pleasant and unexpected taste sensation. Brutal in parts. Obnoxious in others. But so skilfully blended into an almost perfect example the dream selection tin with sweetness, spice, crunch, layers and surprises. Metal may not be my personal thang, but this is as good as the dark art gets. A true masterpiece of its genre.

Tasting notes: Salty as a sailor's dick, as sweet as Rachel Riley's peachy butt cheeks, as heavy as a lead box full of weapon's grade uranium or Chris Moyle's lunch box and as hot as Dave Lee Travis's brow every time the doorbell rings. 

2. 13.0.0.0.0 - TTNG
As we get to the very best stuff in this year's groaning hamper, it's time to get all truly sophisticated and reach for a seriously vintage, premier cru glass.

So, they changed their name as a sensitive fuck you to gun nuts, weirdos, NRA ignoramuses and AK47 toting survivalist rednecks, but what else did this most revered and classy producer bring the world this year? 

From the first delicious drop to pass the lips from this wonderful magnum to  the very last fading bubble, 13.0.0.0.0 delivers a sublime and almost orgasmic complexity and beauty. With new vocalist Henry 'Hank' Tremain joining the family, there was a slight nervousness that previous vintages couldn't be matched. We needn't have worried.

The technical wizardry and complexity that underpins this sublime deliciousness never gets in the way of its immediacy and breathtaking gorgeousness. There's light, shade, energy, seduction, pathos, spit and beautiful balance throughout. A truly world class and de luxe bottle of sparkling originality and genius.

Tasting notes: not for lager drinkers, Lambert and Butler smokers or ready meal eaters. This is sophisticated, frail, wonderful and sparkling nectar and should be drunk with absolute reverence and care. Cheers indeed.

1. Blood & Chemistry - Arcane Roots

So, here we are. The biggie. The last box in the hamper. And what a box. Of all the delicious goodies in this year's hamper, Blood & Chemistry is the one for me that stands out for so many reasons.

Not the least, because it has been purposely and meticulously prepares as an entire feast. Not a selection of nibbles, tapas or two or three big numbers surrounded by burger helper or lips and arseholes. This is premium mouth-watering fare throughout. And with all the trimmings.

The very way the album has recurring motifs (lyrically and musically with back references, arcs, repeating chord progressions and themes) sets it apart from so much of the vanilla and pot boilers rammed with prescribed numbers of tracks that so much output laboriously conforms to.

Marry that with the fact that it's been constructed as a single flowing listen with the tracks cleverly and beautifully merged and segued into each other with drones, decaying notes and clever transitions seamlessly leading one from course to course and, hallelujiah, we actually have an album. A complete multi-course considered and lip-smacking banquet. 

In an age of playlist and mixtape dominated listening mores, it's such a beautiful and rare thing to find such a wonderfully conceived and concocted masterpiece. And that's what Blood & Chemistry truly is. 

Veering from sheer power and mind melting riffs to lighter cadenzas and melodic reveries, this, for me is so clearly not only the best album of 2013, but the only true album. Of course the songs all stand alone (and there's not a slack track on it) but the total effect outweighs the individual brilliance and diversity. 

Astonishing. Truly astonishing.

Tasting notes: An 11 (or 12 if you've got the deluxe version) course banquet of astonishing and unrelenting quality. Huge flavours, beautiful, more delicate moments and heady, mesmerising technical skill and flamboyance married with an earthy, raw power and strength that all comes together to produce a perfectly balanced and tantalising mix. Perfection. Bloody perfection.





Honourable mentions.
It's really tough putting together just 10. So, here are a few more world class albums that didn't quite make the hamper:

Siganals - Mallory Knox
A Dan Lancaster-produced slick pop rocky masterpiece with anthems and hooks aplenty. As near to a commercial version of Proceed as we'll ever get. God, I miss them.

Dreamoirs - Dave McPherson
A wonderful, heartfelt, dreamy (funny that) and personal anthology from rock and roll's hardest working and most likeable bloke, InMe front man Dave McPherson. All made possible by his dedication, ridiculous work ethic and dedication to the outstanding Pledge music scheme. 

Asymmetry - Karnivool
The latest chapter in the Tool-inspired Aussie proggers' masterworks collection. All slick, big-boned, grown up serious stuff with the obligatory sing-a-long bits taking more of a back seat in this sophisticated and complex volume.

Great Lakes - John Smith
As good as folk gets. Just wonderful throughout. Plaintive, fragile, beautiful, joyous and uplifting stuff from the bastard living son of Jansch, Martyn and Drake. Spellbinding stuff.

Opposites - Biffy Clyro
A true epic from the Caledonian epic mongers. A lifetime of couch sessions with Mr Neil couldn't get anywhere as near as this window-opening, soul searching, organ and emotion-revealing journey into his oft tortured and unsettled psyche. Brilliant stuff.

Old Souls - Deaf Havana
My, haven't they grown up? A Ferrari-like acceleration into adulthood and all its travails both musically and personally see the erstwhile East Anglians produce a truly grown up and thoroughly well-crafted blue collar collection of angst-ridden emotionally charged splendour. And I didn't mention Springsteen once. Oops.

Nation - TRC
Nasty but brilliant and raw British hardcore (none of that whiney trans Atlantic shit to see here people!) at its very best. Much more sophisticated than initially meets the ear. A truly original and challenging album. One of the year's very best. 

The Top 5 EPs and singles:

Right, time for the smaller stuff that's too tasty not to mention. You know, the widows and orphans of the hamper. The weird little sauces and tins of weirdness that don't fit in with the larger family packs - in short, the wonderful tunes and mini anthology EPs that didn't appear on full length albums.

5. #Spomb (Love Me) - Shockmaster
Skate punk, surf punk, pop punk, #spomb punk. Whatever it is, its lively, fun, aggressive and doesn't take itself too seriously. Well, with Mike Foster driving this bin wagon, what else is it going to be? 

4. Glass Cutter - Polar
Guildford's scene has never been healthier and while bands like Palm Reader and Polar continue to mature and develop without losing even a whiff of their appealing ragged edge, things can only get even better. And if this brilliant and fierce track is a taster of what's to come of the much talked about new album, then we're in for a brilliant 2014.

Adam Woodford's growls and screams have been imbued with melody (you 'eard) and the effect is somewhere between While She Sleeps and TRC but retaining Polar's signature originality and appeal. 

3. Funemployed - Gnarwolves
Brighton's bright young things of the skate punk/pop punk brotherhood produced a box bursting with bangers full of rawness, edge, fun and phlegm (and probably a bit of THC eh lads?). Real street music kept real. Wonderful.

3= Management - Delta Sleep
Three letters: BSM. Big Scary Monsters have helped to unearth yet another slice of complete genius. This was so close to being my no1because of its consistency. Every track on Management is a different colour, a different texture. Yes, its mathy. Yes it's complex and brilliantly, technically played. But it's also catchy, a bit dirty, even a bit punky. Whatever the fuck it is, it's original, brilliant and captivating. If you've not caught these chaps (and chapess) live yet, you have a donut hole in your middle. Fill it immediately. 

2= I Could Be Anyone - Yearbook

Too little output from such an original, classy and wonderful young band. But we've had to make do with this single offering during 2013 (assuming the equally wonderful Art Student was 2012 - brain's a bit rubbish - if it was 2013, then make it joint 2nd with this absolute banger). A heavy chugger, all frenzy, puke and muck but glued together by the ever-tight and impressive rhythm section of Mssrs Dickinson and Martin while Brooker and Halloway do what they always do best: stretch, cajole and caress our organs, senses and squishy bits. Can't wait for the impending long player from these loveable tyros.

2= The Move. Shake. Hide. - Marmozets
Sheer brilliance from the mathy tykes. Guitars, huge choruses, melody, counterpoint, menace, grit, smiles and bowel-massaging power. As good as pop rock math mash ups will ever get. Bloody wonderful.

1. You Wanna Know - Don Broco
Slick, sexy, power pop rock imbued with a simmering sophistication that often goes unnoticed. Loveable ladcore loveliness from the clean-cut quartet who can do no wrong. Unashamedly catchier than Chlamydia and guaranteed to put a smile on even the grizzliest bearded hipster face. With the almost deified Mr Lancaster driving the desk again. Go on, I best you you can listen to it without smiling or joining in with the oo oos.


2013.
Well, that's it. Purely personal choice. And a year in which we've been pretty spoilt by the recorded output. UK rock in particular is certainly alive and kicking and with new music in the pipeline for next year from bands like Spycatcher, Polar, Yearbook, LTA, Don Broco, Trails, Maybeshewill and Hey Vanity among many, many others, then the future's looking seriously bright.

Arc the herald angels don't usually sing. Arc Tan Gent Festival Live Review

Arc Tan Gent Festival *****
Fernhill Farm Somewhere in the bowels of Somerset 29-31st August

So it's finally here. A festival for all the weirdies. All the unclassifiable ones. All the ones who can clap in time. The ones with beards. And plaid. 

Joking aside, since it was announced by the good people behind the mighty 2000 Trees, Arc Tan Gent has been one of the most fiercely anticipated and important festivals in years.  

It's a collection of off-beat, alternative (in the true sense of the word) diverse, challenging, brilliant, quirky and outré acts (mainly from our sceptred isles) that forms the perfect antidote to the banal and predictable gruel served up at most of the myriad of carbon copy corporate calamities crammed to the gills with Clapham-dwelling, Bulmers drinking, flowery wellie-wearing, Kings Of Leon-listening, Superdry-sporting, faceless, tasteless ISA investing, BMW-driving dicks. And it's here. Thank the fucking lord.

In keeping with the slightly off-beat theme, things kick off a day early with a limited line up culminating in a fan-voted set from Leicester's post rock dahlinks, Maybeshewill. And the crowds have poured in for the warm up day, filling the verdant Fernhill fields from the word go.

THURSDAY

Before we tumble into the music on offer, it's worth pointing out just how brilliantly this festival is set up. It's quite small but doesn't feel pokey. The vibe is fantastic. Über-friendly in and laid back in the extreme (aided by THC no doubt). Everyone is here for the music. Not a right of passage, a gap year gas or bucket list box ticking exercise.

The layout is well thought through (with the possible exception that the impressive main stage may have been slightly better placed in the bowl of the natural amphitheatre rather than perched atop its side - probably drainage issues to be fair). But the food concessions, merch, other stores and stages are perfectly appointed. Could have done with a few more bogs though.

Right, music. Given the daunting task of opening the whole junket are local trio Memory Of Elephants ***** and they do a sterling job. A tremolo-infused post noise rocky din switching between two guitars and a bass and guitar and serving up the already packed tent a great aperitif.

Obviously, even with the best intent in the world, it's impossible to catch every act, but from the snippets I catch, ensuing (and from what I can glean, also local) acts Flights and Falling Stacks seemed to continue the vibe to an equally packed tent before Alright The Captain ***1/2** (replacing POHL) take to the boards. And they deliver a jazzy/mathy/proggy/post rocky/jagged and boisterous fusillade with wit, energy and spice. Tasty.

Next up are Hereford tribe Talons***1/2** violin and all. Which affords the band a bit of space between itself and some of the other post-rock acts around. And mercifully is used differently enough from tune to tune; not just as a pad or stringy fill. Stabby staccato and pizzicato, frenzied, almost Paganini-like cadenzas and melodic ersatz-vocal work sit happily above the intricate soundscapes provided by the more traditional instruments. A heady and interesting mix.

Talking of traditional, next up are the stoner, spacey, proggy, monged Amplifier *****. Dressed like something from a 70's Saturday night end of the pier spectacular or golf club dinner dance - resplendent in black shirts with snazzy matching amulets and serious faces, they (eventually, after starting 10 minutes or so late - TCH? Surely not) kick off into a set with the bong water infused with everything from Into The Void era Sabbath, Intronaut, A Perfect Circle, Uriah Heep and even touches of The Buggles if they were backing Tool. 

Occasional big-arsed half time riffs and repetitive, head bobbing inducing chuggy bombs rear their alien heads from forgotten decades and Sel Balamir's spacey lyrics provide a sprinkle of even more mind-altering weirdness to proceedings. An often bizarre and somewhat uncomfortable, but not wholly unpleasant, trip. Man.

So, next up and now in front of a fully rammed and overspilling tent it's the turn of the delicious Maybeshewill****1/2* The fan-voted set throws up few surprises and every riff, passage and melody is fervently sung back by a baying, salivating crowd. The spine-tingling Red Paper Lanterns and melodic hook overloaded I'm In Awe Amadeus are personal high spots, but the set is jammed with beauty, depth, goosebump-inducing progressions all  delivered with wonderful craft and genuine enjoyment. 

The love in the tent is just huge and serves as a great big good night snog and a hug for all the happy campers (despite not quite reaching the vinegar stroke of the last number due to the over-running of the bong-water drinking Amplifier). Awesome stuff indeed. And so to bed. Well, after a bit of a party.

FRIDAY

So, thanks mainly to Cotswold Cider and Montepulciano, Friday shuffles into focus shrouded in a hazy fug and the impressive main stage crackles into life for the first time. To be honest the delicious locally smoked bacon roll and coffee accounted for missing most of the openers The Naturals, but they seem to draw in a reasonable crowd from the rapidly swelling day one proper numbers. 

But it's Baby Godzilla***** who really shake off the collective post-party torpor with a fantastic, aggressive, mayhem-strewn kick in the face set of punky, hardcore-hued anthemic, grizzly and uplifting noise. This lot look like the band that a family in Shameless would have been. You know, the noisy bastard neighbours with overgrown front garden strewn with rusty car parts, old bikes, piles of pizza boxes and beer cans who spend the day just shouting at each other.

The two feral front men spend more of their time off the stage than on it taking instruments and mics into the throng. Climbing gantries, using crowd members as mic stands, throwing guitars around, even - and quite brilliantly - giving a guitar to a member of the crowd to play through one song. And - remarkably - it hangs together. A shell shocked early congregation enters fully into the spirit and they really have set the bar high for the day. 

And by the time the last guitar makes its way back onto stage, shorn of strings and looking like most people's hungover heads, the fug has truly been lifted and smiles have replaced any dehydrated downturned mouths. Brilliant stuff.

Right, hangover confined to history, time to properly ease into what's going to be a long day. Over to the second stage for Leeds-based stoner psychedelic progmeisters Humanfly*****

A reasonable early crowd has gathered by the time the interstellar overdrive button is pressed and our trippy journey begins. 

What follows is an eye-closing, mind expanding, head bobbing voyage of wonder. So many influences could be cited from Floyd to Greenslade, Caravan to Return To Forever. But, the bizarre thing is, that despite the rock, jazz, fusion, prog and stoner lineage, it still feels kind of fresh. Even original. 

John Sutcliffe's light and ethereal vocals struggle a tiny bit this early but the band are tight, sharp and totally loving it. There's a comfort and warmth; almost a nostalgia in the air as they power through lengthy, multi-layered and faceted spacey flight. And I can't get the grin off my face. Can't wait to see them in a dingy late night sweaty room with a proper lightshow, Just what the Doctor Seuss ordered. 

So, feeling as metaphorically stoned thanks to the Humanfly big fat human one, it's time to return to some mathy, post-rock. And who better to ease the come down than East Midland scene stalwarts You Slut!*****

Their poppy, dancy undercurrent is supported by choppy, techy, intricate time signature noodling and syncopated polyrhythms but the overall effect is far from inaccesible; in fact the opposite. Despite the counting and the oft complex constructs, this is good time fuck yeah fuel. And the tent knows it. A packed Bixler tent laps it up greedily and the affable quartet seem humbled by it. But the adoration is fully deserved with early afternoon perspiration and dopamine levels soaring off the chart. Bloody marvellous.

Following on from You Slut! on the Bixler stage are Brighton-based trio Physics House Band ***** A beautiful and stealthy start with a duel between keys and bass, refereed by an inquisitive drummer suddenly blossoms into a set of true majesty. 

Adam Hutchison's mesmerising bass playing is the glue that holds the amazing tour-de-force together. I have seldom seen such brilliance from one so young. It's impossible to cast aside comparisons with a young Stanley Clarke: this guy is the nuts. However, in fairness it's not all about him. He's abetted by the multi instrumentalist  and wonderfully monikered Sam Organ on guitar and various keys and noise making rigs and the sharp drumming of Dave Morgan provides a remarkable trellis for the music to climb all over.

This is top drawer music. In any category. Flying wildly between genres, taking in jazz fusion, funk, prog, mathcore and general neo-classical modernism, it's quite simply astonishing. 

shoe gazing. man.

Back to the main stage for a much needed post-Physics House Band coital chill at the hands of kentish soundscapers Yndi Halda***** I love this lot, but (my fault) they've dropped off my radar a little recently, so I don't know what they've been up to since the last time I saw them supporting the mighty and much missed Oceansize. 

Their magnificent album Enjoy Eternal Bliss is right up there on my most played list and thankfully they soothe us with works culled  from it this fine afternoon. But, dammit,  there's a load of new stuff on show that I'm unaware of. And it mainly includes vocals. Not that that's a bad thing by any means. It's just caught me off guard. But the vibe is, as always beautiful and mellow without being soporific. A perfect late afternoon balm. Eternal Bliss indeed.

Complete change of pace needed. Prescription: 

Sheffield's mighty noise canons Rolo Tomassi ****1/2* 

I'm beginning to fall deeply in love with this festival. While, on the face of it, there appear to be a lot of very similar bands on the bill, it's dawning on me that there's such staggering diversity and startling cleverness in the curation that any initial apprehension or preconceptions were as specious as they were misplaced. Proof, if needed is delivered in spades by the Spence siblings and their noisenik crew. 

A brisk and wonderful set shows off the delicious Eva Spence's baffling Jekyll and Hyde Schizophrenia: on one hand delightful, seductive, ethereal chanteuse - on the other: a rusty box of napalm stuffed with tacks, shards of glass and fuck-off thorns and thistles with a sonic output like a Superbike with a knackered silencer.

But, as always, it works. A good range of old favourites and the newer, slightly more sophisticated work from the stunning Astraea spellbind the crowd. And the band look as though they're thoroughly enjoying themselves too; bopping, writhing, jumping, looning and grinning their way through their jazzy, alt, mathy, poppy melange. 

Because of bill congestion and slight overlaps, it all gets a bit frantic for a bit, but I do manage to grab a solid earful of the ever-brilliant Brontide***** on a rammed Bixler stage complete with Nathan Fairweather making the same dash from Rolo Tomassi's main stage triumph to take up the four strings for the post-rock kings. They truly are leaders of a very talented pack and tonight they cement themselves into that position with the adoring masses.

Back on the main stage (or was it before - all getting a bit much thanks to Jager, Cider, the last of the Montepulciano and 'Humanfly'), it's time for Maybeshewill ***** again. 

This time a slightly different set, but delivered with the same passion and pleasure to a much bigger crowd than last night's intimate kick off.

The neck hairs are up again. The collective goosebumped flesh makes the crowd look like a Bernard Matthews plucking shed and the thousands of doe-eyed faces must hurt from smiling. This is just wonderful. And as the sun is setting in the heart of Somerset, there isn't a dry eye in the field as the monumental shimmering beauty of some of the world's finest melodic post-rock enraptures and mesmerises. It truly doesn't get much better than this.

So, still bathing in the total beauty of Maybeshewill, it's time for yet anther change of stage and mood. Quirky Londoners Public Service Broadcasting***1/2** are headlining the Bixler stage with their kooky audio visual, post Kraftwerk, automaton triggered, Orwellian/Kafkaesque prole-tertainment smorgasbord. And the gathered citizens and denizens tuck in greedily. There's a dry humour thoroughout with even the 'banter' between tunes synthesized. But the overall effect is one of energization and this is as near as Arc Tan Gent has got to a rave yet with lots of lost souls losing their collective shit; albeit in a slightly controlled and middle-England kind of way. One imagines the smartly turned out band members would approve of the restraint and decorum. 

I'll be honest, Much as I love 65DaysofStatic***** I only manage to stay upright for a portion of their stunning set before needing a late evening safety nap. But the light show and huge crowd do their best to keep me together enough to get stuck in to the vibe for long enough to crack my face from smiling yet again. I'd be lying like a cheap korean watch if I could remember exactly what they play. But it is, as always splendid. I think. Oh fuck it. Time for another Jager bomb and  the silent disco.

The Silent Disco*****

if you weren't there, I'm not going to even begin to explain. Just, fuck.

SATURDAY

Oh god.

No, really. Oh God.

Right, got to man up. There's heads to nod. Beards to stroke. Shoes to gaze at. Coffee to be drunk. Bacon to be gobbled. Hmmmm, bacon.

So, after, what can only be described as a 'sketchy' night, it's time to start all over again. And what better way to ease away the toxins than with a saunter down to the sun-soaked main stage for some soothing tunes. 

Things kick off with a space psych noodling and pleasant enough wake up at the hands of ANTA***** who draw a surprisingly healthy (in numbers not physical condition, clearly) early crowd who bob along to their mashed up time signature other-worldly din.

Hot on the space winged heels of ANTA are Delta Sleep*****

And this eclectric crew move things up (and pace wise, down) a notch or two. A sophisticated cocktail of post-rock vibes with towering repetitive, hummable passages that would grace an early Radiohead long player set to an, at times almost jazzy rhythmic backdrop with inevitable alt influences swimming to the surface. 

Think Colours or Tubelord (without the hysteria) mixed with moments of Reuben but with a Brontide-like modular construction. God, that sounded pretentious. Sorry. Anyway, heady and fabulous stuff. And the perfect companion to more yet more Cotswold cider. 

Continuing with the laconic, spiritual and glorious sunny morning vibe, next up are the cello-driven Pirate Ship Quintet***1/2** And they continue the group seduction with a chilled, multi-layered and textured blanket of loveliness. Hmmm.

Vessels***** do their Vessels-like thing next and manage to hold on to what's becoming a nomadic crowd while entertaining them with a splendid tapestry of big harmonic and melodic huggery.

But it's TTNG***** who really get Saturday smiling. And, indeed, probably the whole weekend. A totally spellbinding and magical smirkfest beguiles and stupefies the huge crowd. They are in their own perfect bubble. Not rushed, phased, worried or seemingly aware of what's around them. But not in a distant or an aloof way. In fact, completely the opposite. They are charming, engaging, enthralling and delightful. Tim Collis's legendary and peerles tapping, sliding, intricate and totally effortless brilliance on the guitar provides the canvas on which his brother Chris's sublime drumming and Henry Tremain's delicious vocals and equally majestic fretwork paint masterpiece after masterpiece.

Breaths are genuinely taken away and a hazy mass delirium settles on the bucolic Saturday afternoon pastoral scene. An absolute privilege to be here and one of the most genuinely memorable and beautiful experiences imaginable. Genius. Just genius.

Now this is the only major clash bummer of the weekend. Who, in their right mind wouldn't want to see the incredible and other worldly majesty of Nordic Giants? Who? Well, no one. But a major gaff on the line up meant that I only catch the merest whiff of the moving brilliance which is a real sickener.

So, sad, but undaunted, I reach for one of the best possible cures: the ever-brilliant Arcane Roots****1/2* Now, the clash gods have also been unkind to Kingston's world class trio and the Bixler tent is not as full as they rightly deserve. 

Unbothered, Mssrs Groves, Burton and Atkins climb into a fizzing and aggressive set which gets the pits opening up and arms and legs flailing like a speed dictation exercise at a sign language conference. All hell breaks loose and the huge-bollocked riffology of Resolve, the visceral madness of Second Breath, the sing-a-long glory of You Are and the utter arrhythmia-inducing set closer Million Dollar Que$tion are among the highlights of the whole weekend. Amazing stuff, amazing band. Slightly out of water among the post rock math fish in this particular lake, but a fabulous and engaging performance. As always.

Another traipse back to the main stage, this time to be wowed by the ever-sensational Three Trapped Tigers*****

It's always tempting to put  fantasy supergroups together when you see so many brilliant bands in such close proximity. But, despite there being such an embarrassing wealth of amazing drummers on show (however expected that might be at such a tech/prog/math event) Adam Betts will always be first on the team sheet. He is, to put it mildly, one of the most incredible dummers on the planet. 

It's as disingenuous as it is unfair to label TTT as Bett's band, but he is the prima ballerina. The controlling genius midfielder. The general. The showy-offy, better than everybody else, goody two shoes, creepy bum-lick bastard. And what a show he and his two buddies Tom Rogerson and Matt Calvert put on.

Putting the noise into noise-rock, they assault every organ. Overload every sense. Hyper-excite every nerve ending. Huge sub bass growls, brown-notes, spiralling arpeggios and thudding, teeth-rattling riffs completely captivate and seduce the bewildered but beguiled crowd. It's not the stuff you put on the hi-fi at a standard semi-detached house party, but man, it rocks and given the adoration and adulation it engenders this evening its certainly a party starter in this part of town. Er, country.

A quick mention again about the festival in general, but mainly the food. As already mentioned, the organisation and layout is bang on, but I just want to run the rule over the spectacular food: Dorset Smokery ***** amazing bacon Pie Minister***** pies don't come much pie-ier. Delicious. The Fernhill Farm Outlet ***** Honestly, the tastiest shoulder of lamb I've ever tasted. Sublime. Glastonbury Wood Fired Pizza Van Thing ***** Pizza From a wood burning oven. Say no more. Apart from Pepperoni. Hmmm. Cotswold Cider ***** Hic.

On the home straight now. And what better way to start winding things up than with Ulster's triumphant instrumental legends ASIWYFA*****?

Right from the off, there's a super-special vibe in the absolutely crammed main stage. Barriers are broken down (and lovingly restored by the terribly well-behaved but seriously rowdy crowd) as the human remains in this Somerset field collectively lose their shit.

The band look as though they've never been happier as they stride through a masterful set jammed as full as a bull's bum with explosiveness, joy, vim, power, passion, energy and bucketloads of fun. As atmosphere goes, this is the one this weekend. There is a telepathy between the crowd and the band. It's like the masses of gyrating, thrashing and whirling bodies are sync-linked to the sound output. It's truly awesome to be part of. Pits, moshing, dancing, gay abandon. Heavenly oneness. A true musically and heart-driven shared experience never to be forgotten. World class.

Well, that's me done. Try to get into a rammed tent for the always excellent Tall Ships***** but have to settle for watching them from afar (see what I did there?). They're bloody good to be fair. Have a look at Bo Ningen***** Nah. Not happening. Go to see Fuck Buttons***** Not my kind of thang. Too many computers. Not enough real. But impressive light show. But, after ASIWYFA, nothing is going to work. Even a Zeppelin reunion. So to the Shisha tent. Hmmm. Humanfly.

Crashed. Burned. Staggered. Astonished. Spellbound. Fucked. What a totally amazing weekend stuffed with some of the very best music one could ever hope to be exposed to. 

A total triumph of curation, organisation and delivery. Need to recover before next year. Can't wait.

Bring it on.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Pictures and shit: Because my phone ran out of charge earlier than expected, I've had to 'liberate' some of the pics used in this post from other sources including screen grabs and stills. I hope you don't mind. Would have been even duller without them. Don't send me to jail. I don't want to shower with Mr Big. Or play mummies and daddies.