Despite VF’s support, The Burn have failed to ignite a great amount of press interest. It’s surprising given that their fiery northern psychedelia is no more derivative than any other northern guitar act. They’ve got some anthems in waiting though, and hopefully this may help them come around. Still, whilst major labels are handing out massive advances to bands like 22-20’s all is definitely still mad with the world. Three worlds: grow an imagination. Hendrix is dead and White Stripes have been doing this better for years. But as neither is here today, The Burn are a more than satisfactory opener on this glorious summer's day.
Gemma Hayes is a firm favourite with a lot of people here. She’s shed her indie-girl attire for a more glossy demeanour but her appeal to those seeking beautifully heart-felt acoustic solace is unwavering. Her voice is better than her songs, but then how can you resist something so sweet?
When At The Drive-In trashed a thousand emo hearts and split, their twin attack of blunt rock and complex passion broke right down the middle. With The Mars Volta chasing the prog-rock dragon through a maze of pretension, we are stuck with early afternoon prospect of the other half. The boring half. Sparta. Regulation emo hair and regulation emo chords will get you nowhere, but hey, at least they're not making funk-punk and calling themselves The Spartas. And 'Cut Your Ribbon' is at least a half-decent effort.
Bouncing on to the stage with near-illegal levels of chirpiness come The Thrills, Dublin's favourite exponents of ecstatic Americana. Sounding like a more upbeat incarnation of Dylan's buddies The Band, they churn out blissful melodies with abandon, and the likes of 'One Horse Town' and 'Big Sur' look set to be Glasto anthems in the future, the latter so sun-kissed it burns.
Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster are a completely different proposition, of course. Fresh from headlining a gig that featured live wrestling bouts and free candy floss, their dark rockabilly-tinged rock is no doubt an acquired taste. But the indie kids, black-clad neo-rockers, and (presumably lost) normal punters all seem to be getting something out of EMBLD (or 'Eighties etc.' as the officially programme lazily labels them)'s exhilarating and perverse super-speed rock. 'Celebrate Your Mother', 'Alex' and 'Psychosis Safari' whizz by in around a minute each, and only the brainless, sexed-up "WooOOOHHH! YeeaaaHHH! WoooOOOOOOHHHH! Yeah!" chorus of 'Giant Bones' dares to linger for a second longer. Exhausting.
Taking a rather more careful approach are the least irritating of the New York scenesters, in the form of bespoke hippie-baiters Interpol. Their contribution to a second stage line-up full of nutty and off-kilter pop is, as ever, considered cool with a heavy nod to Joy Division. Cerebral, down-tuned indie always works best when it wears suits, and the Factory-era warblings of 'Obstacle No 1' are a great warm up for the kings of seriousness (Radiohead) who will later be headlining the Pyramid Stage.