The final day, then always heralds rain and though itís rather humid weíre treated a bit of The Rain Bandís post-New Order indie stylings. Unremarkable, but promising all the same. For the more fragile among us a dash of alt-country is the ideal way to cure a bitching hangover. My Morning Jacket arrive just in time, waving their slide guitar like a damp cloth to a feverish brow. The palliative effects of 'Just Because I Do' are undeniable, all forlorn wailing and 60s wistfulness. Sometimes weirdy beardies from Kentucky are just what the doctor ordered.
If there's a band whose music IS liable to make you hurl on today's Other Stage it's probably the turgid, lumpy rock churned out by joyless yanks Sugarcult. They seem to have MTV piped straight into their veins and college rock glowing out their eyeballs, and their dumbass melodic pap is enough to put you right off your, er, pap-burger.
Unlike Sugarcult, Damien Rice oozes sensual charm, and, unlike Sugarcult, he won't be headlining at next year's Download festival. Sporadically dipping into falsetto, the Irish singer-songwriter type is not nearly as dull as David Gray, but not nearly as transcendent as he'd like to be. Putting the 'plain' back into 'plaintive' then.
Next it's time for this year's hipcats to eat up the middle period of the afternoon. The Rapture hit the Other Stage, bringing their garage fuzz with them in large doses. People are fickle by this stage in the weekend, but the NYC punks can keep some of the people happy some of the time, without being that inspiring. The Rapture sound wired, tearing through 'Louie Louie' with reckless abandon, but feel a little tired. Still, if itís cool, itís Ďcoolí.
Grandaddy, on the other hand are old, bearded and uncool but they are undoubtedly where it's at. The original weird men in beards - you're a little late to the party, Kings of Leon - provide all of the festival thrills you could hope for. Delicately railing against the confusion of modern life in 'The Software Slump', and always hiding deeply mournful sentiment in an upbeat cascade of guitar and keyboards, their new album 'Sumday' seems to have a lighter feel. Shorn of any extraneous input, fireworks, or furry animal costumes, their wistful psychedelia is one of the highlights of the weekend.
Watching Dave Gahan is not like watching Kevin Rowland. Not much of a surprise in itself, admittedly, but you've got to be a bit suspicious about an eighties band leader gone solo in a new millennium. After Rowland's horrific comeback at Reading a few years ago the omens should be bad, but given that synth-punks The Faint are so head over heels for that Depeche Mode malarkey, Gahan feels very 'now' somehow. This turns out to be false optimism alas.
Drawing heavily from his debut solo album Paper Monsters, there's not enough grrr in his growl or mince in his mincing to sustain a set which feels like it's dragging its feet. Recent single 'Dirty Sticky Floors' has a certain degraded charm, but the hunt for a decent food stall is more enticing.