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Excuse me for throwing my toys out of the pram, but this just isn't on. Returning to Larmer Tree Gardens for the second edition of End of the Road is like stepping the wrong way through the Looking Glass. Stalls have moved to new places, the incredible ice cream van isn't there at all. The piano on its abandoned stage is bigger. Suddenly there are all these people here and I'm a girl who doesn't play well with others, let alone share.
Selfish lip-trembling aside, considering the organiser, Simon Taffe, nearly bankrupted himself putting last year's festival together, this influx of the curious and the returns is immensely positive. Last year's festival was something to treasure, and this year's expansion reflects the effect that really good reviews and word of mouth can have.
As well as return visits from some of last year's favourites (and British Sea Power), the comedy tent has got bigger acts, there's a new stage - The Local, dedicated to new bands - and Howe Gelb seems to be playing at least one set on each stage throughout the weekend.
Scout Niblett kicks off this writer's End of the Road experience with a set that belonged in a far later slot than it got. A headline performance if ever there was one, searing guitar and a perfect understanding with her bandmates showed off a singer who is just getting better and better. Shame she spoiled it with a truly dreadful solo version of 'Wolfie' as a finale, the grave sadness of the song giving way to the hysterical angst of a pissed-off MySpace kid but given how embarrassed and happy she looked at being cheered, she can have that one.
With just his guitar and pedals to back him up, John White should be dwarfed by the new, larger Garden stage doing a British Sea Power and covered in leaves this time round. Instead, he spends most of his set rambling in broken, engagingly loopy tones about life, his daughter and a suicidal encounter 15 years ago which gives me enough time to explore the mini cars and wire animal heads dotted around the fairy-lit glade towards the back of the gardens. Then 'Take Me Away' kicks in and brings an already captivated audience back to earth - relentless and hypnotic, it's hillbilly blues at its best. "I'm not sure whut tuh do," White says engagingly as everyone shrieks applause, then embarks on another rambling anecdote before finishing with a song dedicated to his daughter, 'Bluebird'. "I wanted to write a song about how much I loved her," he hawks, his voice nearly given out, "but I still ended up writing about junkies and motels." Continue doing so, pleasethanks.
Jim White leads on to new stage The Local, just around the corner from the Garden stage, and the tail end of Sons of Noel And Adrian. A preposterously good-looking orchestra crammed onto the small stage, they were playing the sort of bewitchingly good alt-folk that made me kick myself for not having hated Jim White and gone to see them instead. We'll hear more from them in the future, without a doubt.
Instead we heard far too much from Midlake. Admittedly the poor band had flown in from Chicago that morning and were flying out again after their set as well as mislaying their soundman and were distinctly unamused as a result. Their set sounded flawless, but was played on autopilot. 'Roscoe', 'Moscow' and 'The Jungle' all made the audience happy, but this was essentially a set to use as background music for a long chat.
Yo La Tengo did the exact opposite. While exchanging the same minimal chatter with the crowd as Midlake before them ("Hello" "Thank you" "Goodbye" etc), it had a totally different effect because they played their bloody hearts out. One song blurred into another in a haze of feedback and concentration, but with the clear starry sky above the stage it was like being in a Pink Floyd song come to life. Or so the third hot and spicy from the Somerset Cider Bus told me anyway. Bloody apples.
