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I was feeling mildly pessimistic about going to see Rodrigo y Gabriela. As from around 9am there was a steady torrent of rain, which, coupled with my hangover from the previous day’s excesses meant that my get up and go had got up and gone. Under usual circumstances I’d dive back underneath my duvet and resurface when I felt like it, however not being in a comfy bed but a cramped tent meant the arms of Morpheus would avoid me. Therefore I had to hope that the rain would abate and the hangover would pass. I sent up numerous prayers to Chiuta, Zeus, Raiden and Branson to cease the rain. Eventually the Gods relented and I crawled from the tent to the V Stage.
 
It was a reasonably sized crowd considering the damp conditions and the immediate thing which struck me was how unassuming the two were. Rodrigo was wearing T-shirt and jeans with Gabriela in a black vest and trousers. Looking more like a couple that have popped out to get a coffee and the Sunday papers, than international musicians I started to wonder whether leaving my canvas womb was such a wise idea. These thoughts were quickly dispelled as soon as they began playing. To put it quite simply, they were incredible.
 
To begin with the understanding between them was telepathic, occasionally they would look up nod or wink to one another and fall straight back into the music. In fact the only time something went slightly awry was during ‘Diablo Rojo’ (an atmospheric, steamy piece of number) when duff note thudded. They both recoiled slightly, jolted from the flamenco rhythms. “Sorry,” said Gabriela in her sexy, breathless Hispanic voice, “the fucking string broke.” Then to everyone’s surprise as soon as she was handed a new guitar they picked up from the exact point from where the string broke, bang on time with the same intensity. This drew enthusiastic applause from the crowd, who by this point (which was only about 10 minutes in) were captivated. When the song finished to whoops of admiration they merely had an air of steely determination, seemingly irked by the string malfunction.
 
By now the sounds which they were creating on two acoustic guitars left many agog, you could see a few lads who fancied themselves as ‘Guitar Heroes’ shuffling uneasily as it dawned on them that they were a fair few leagues away from this standard of musicianship. As if that wasn’t enough Gabriella was also tapping fast drum beats out on the base of the guitar – her hand seemed to become almost a blur – whilst Rodrigo finger-picked as though his life depended on it. From this we were transported from a grey field in Essex to a fiesta in Mexico, with a soundtrack so effortlessly cool it felt like a Tarantino movie.

After standing for twenty minutes trying to get something good out of the excruciating mess that was The Hours (all try too hard emotional vocals and embarrassing frontman ‘entertainment’), and with scant regard for seeing James Morrison, we trudged to the Session Stage for the Tiger Picks. An effervescent and photogenic pair of Manchester lasses, their shouty brand of nu-rave flavoured glitter-disco-punk was commendable - and they tried at least to get a bit of a party going at two in the afternoon. Unfortunately, with no discernable and catchy, bite-sized wonders, it all nondescriptly blended into itself, leaving us with glazed expressions on our faces and aching to see the Cribs.

“We’re the Cribs and we’re from Wakefield.” How can the Cribs’ black-floppy-fringed scratch-punk ever fail to disappoint? Certainly not today, as Ryan Jarman dedicated ‘Men’s Needs’ “to all those of you who didn’t think seeing James Morrison was a better idea than being here.” Good on you Jarman, we couldn’t agree more. At the end of the set, he threw caution to the wind – and the bulldog security – by stripping off his top, jumping the yawning gap at the front of the stage and diving into the crowd, only to be dragged back and reprimanded by the bore police. He ignored them and gave us all a wave. Without wanting to stay for Mark Ronson and his brass band we made off to the Virgin Mobile stage.

I had noticed a bit of hype about Cherry Ghost, especially as posters for their album ‘Thirst For Romance’ seemed to be absolutely everywhere on the Tube, however I really didn’t know what to expect.

In truth they were a decent act; proficient with their maudlin, whimsy musical outlook. They also seemed not to be too reliant on trying to create a big ‘epic’ sound. Whether this was due to limitations of the equipment or not, some of the more standard, verse/chorus/verse tracks were quite a refreshing change from the vogue of creating an emotion-driven wall of noise sound, certainly with hints of some early Smiths. However whilst they are not Teenybopper faves My Chemical Romance, they are also not too far off it. Every song did seem to make an attempt to yank at a heart string or bludgeon a tear from your eye. Now I’m not suggesting that this is insincere on their part, but pretty much every song was pitched at this ‘emo for the post-pubescent’ level. After a while most songs blurred into one another and if you were happening to be sat outside the tent you could be forgiven for thinking this wasn’t actually a set but a screening of the OC or some other such mopey drama.

On the one hand Cherry Ghost had one or two decent sounding tracks, but on the other most tunes didn’t sound particularly original. To be fair to them these are very early days in their fledgling career and they certainly have potential to deliver a very good second album indeed. Or are they after being sound tracked on an advert, film or TV show to then fuck off somewhere sunny with the royalties? Overall, there more questions were raised than answers given.

With the entire area in front of the main stage bursting at the seams for the Fratellis, we opted for the Virgin Mobile stage, where the refreshingly honest Remi Nicole played to an intrigued audience. “I’d like to tell all the journalists that just because I am black, doesn’t necessarily mean I like hip-hop – in fact, I find that attitude quite racist,” she said before launching into ‘Rock and Roll’, a razor-tongued attack about the preceding subject. Sod Allen and Nash – Remi’s the real thing.