Launching into festival season with a Coachella special. Sorry this is a bit late, I have my excuses. Not quite so Brum-centric but I haven’t been here. Just the usual quality songs.

Silver Skins Episode 7 (Right click ’save target’)

Leave! Little Boots Mix- Little Boots, VV Brown
Golden phone- Micachu
Boyz – M.I.A.
Printer Jam – Mistabishi
It Don’t Move Me – Peter Bjorn and John
Head to head – Miles Hunt & Erica Nockalls
Jestream – Doves
Jump In The Pool – Friendly Fire
Retreat! Retreat! – 65daysofstatic (live)
Alcoholics Unanimous – Art Brut
Failing To See The Attraction – Skint & Demoralised
Obama Song – Michael Franti and Spearhead
DON’T GiVE UP THE FiGHT (SiSTERS) – HKB FiNN & Maya Jobarteh
Stand Up – The Prodigy
Marlena Shaw – California Soul

Contrary to the image that I’d had in my head, Technopolis, the venue for Synch Festival, wasn’t the techno equivalent of the Acropolis. I wanted the building to be made of glowstick pillars with great philosophers debating the most important techno related questions of all time. But learning comes from experience.

Instead, located in an old gasworks, Synch boasts a small but perfectly aligned line-up of intelligent dance or indie music with a groove. It’s been running for around 7 years but perhaps hasn’t become as well known as, say, Sonar because – like the African Botticellian ladies in the publicity material – it’s happy with its shape and size.

On Friday night, we arrive at the venue after cadging a lift with Ebony Bones; the band are far from a chatty mood in the mini bus, so we don’t say a word. I check out Jazzanova then wander around the corner to see my ‘new mates.’ Despite their statuesque disposition in the mini bus, Ebony Bones came to life on stage. The two singers bouncing around in a flurry of rainbow colours accompanied by a backing band of Hoxtonites.

I queue up for beer tokens and spend the evening familiarizing myself with Mythos – a Hellenic beer brewed in the region. It was reasonably well priced at 3 Euros, although the size of said beverage magically depleted throughout the night – despite costing the same.

I rush back to the main stage to catch Florence And The Machine. Lead singer Florence Welch is enjoying herself – bashing drums and singing with bombast. Florence tells us this is the biggest crowd she’s ever played for and is so excited she climbs the stage rigging.

Florence finishes with a superb version of The Source’s You’ve Got The Love.

This marks the shift from indie into dance at Synch Festival and after watching Tortoise’s high velocity jazzy drum breaks we head over to Friendly Fires whose well honed set makes everyone boogie. Lead singer, Ed Macfarlane wiggles his hips in white jeans like a modern day Mick Jagger. Then entertainment goes indoors and the DJs come out to play.

Puppetmasterz are very silly, playing hip hop tracks behind a big curtain whilst paper mache Muppets sing and swear along.

They’re followed by the Fozzie Bear of Hot Chip: Joe Goddard who plays a hearty electro set.

Across the courtyard 3 Chairs: Theo Parrish, Marcellus Pittman and Rick Wilhite are having their own five hour block party with more than a few Detroit classics plus the odd dumb track thrown in to stop all the chin strokers taking it too seriously.

After spending a thoroughly pleasant Saturday on the ancient Acropolis, I head towards the Technopolis. Matthew Herbert puts us in the swing of things with his Big Band tunes sampled and looped back.

In one track he uses the tearing noise of The Daily Mail and for the finale of The Audience he records… the audience.

I leave the festival and head to a nearby café for some tasty Greek food; feta based dishes, calamari and half bottle of Ouzo later,

I’m in the VIP area drinking free booze before steaming backstage to see Squarepusher, who plays a storming set of speedy slap bass tracks alongside drummer Alex Thomas. Sometimes the man’s mind blowing rate can divide an audience but he wins them over tonight and the crowd want more. Frustratingly Squarepusher is made to finish on time despite the other bands overrunning by 20 minutes.

The beer kicks in and the night whizzes by in a blur I see A Mountain Of One, from a cast iron draw bridge, Biomass induces nodding stupor in the auditorium, I spend twenty minutes staring at an art installation on insect flight. The eighties boogie dancing fever kicks with Hudson Mohawke, plus some craziness from Shit Robot, with Fennesz and a final Belgian mash-up from Aeroplane.

I stumble back on the metro as the sun rises. As I watch Athens’ rosy fingered dawn stroke the streets from my hotel balcony, that nagging feeling of detachment begins to form. Another busload putters past on it’s way to the Acropolis again and I remember my experience at the top of the city in the baking heat the previous day. My thoughts move to the weekend’s activity: the mindblowing music I’ve seen and the friendly interesting people I’ve met. Synch doesn’t need a deep philosophy, the experience is truly tangible.

Received wisdom has always told us that the English like queuing but based on our first impressions of this Californian festival, Americans seem to quietly accept them too. Thankfully some still break the rules.

It took us two hours to get out of LA, then another two and a half hours waiting in traffic in the small town of Indio, then we queued for press passes, then camping passes, including a queue for a camping bag search – which is as rigorous as the airport check. As we’re shepherded into a strictly regulated space by a ‘campsite counsellor’ we’re feeling a bit penned in.

We queue for the festival, and realise we have to get in another line for an ID wristband so we can buy alcohol. Then, due to licensing laws we have to drink in a fenced off area. From our cage we can see Franz Ferdinand in the distance, but we’re more impressed by the green verdant grass beneath our feet, the lush green polo ground rebelling against the hot desert sun.

N.A.S.A. smash the soundsystem with a mash-up of hip-hop party anthems which, like their excellent debut album, included great cameos including Fat Lip.

We head back to another cage for a drink and listen to Leonard Cohen. We break out for Hallelujah which finishes as Morrissey hits the main stage. As a former LA resident, Morrissey seems to have taken on-board his former home town latent rebellion tactic of complaining. First he’s fed up with the sound on stage, then he’s thrown by the smell of burgers wafting across the field. “I can smell burning flesh and I hope it’s human,” announces the renowned vegetarian before launching into a version of Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others. The sight of Morrissey dry retching the words will haunt me for some time.

Morrissey was also probably upset to be supporting Paul McCartney but Macca blew him away. Okay, the new material mid-section wasn’t what everyone was there for (although tracks from The Fireman stood out). And the set hasn’t really changed in the four years since I last saw him – starting with Jet, finishing with a literally incendiary Live And Let Die – but it clocked in at two and a half hours crammed with classics. The three staged encores with fireworks brought the field to its knees with the combined mite of Helter Skelter and Day In The Life. A well executed exercise seems to be the way to beat the system.

After being forced from our tents by the scorching Saturday sun we enter the arena in time to catch a bit of Drop The Lime but midday raving is a tough one. We’re drawn to Helios Jive because at The Do Lab stage you’re artificially rained on by an array of sprinklers and water guns.

We walk back to the cage for more beer drinking and chilli- cheese-fries, our festival staple. The first band we freely watch is Michael Franti And Spearhead who got us jumping and dancing as the temperature finally began to drop.

More mariachi kicks and mellowness comes from Calexico as the sky turns red and we move into a tent to catch a bit of living legend Booker T.

Despite a welcome cover of Outkast’s Hey Yah it’s a bit wine-loungey, so after Green Onions we move to Fleet Foxes. They’re wonderfully mellow and beardy but a toilet break dictates that I miss the end of the set to pop to the restrooms and have the vibe obliterated by James bloody Morrison singing Wonderful World.

On the main stage, DJ Blaqstarr introduces M.I.A. who steps up to a dictator-style press podium flanked by an army of neon clad dancers. The dancers then start throwing loads of luminous accessories into the crowd and M.I.A. helps them. “My lawyer says if I throw these at you you’ll sue me, but fuck it” she shouts as she throws out large day-glo horns in an attempt to educate the LA crowd about the world outside America. Her truly rebellious move comes when she invites the audience up on stage. My favourite moment is as a security guard is manhandling one punter off stage, he turns around to see 30 other ravers filling the stage.

We try and finish the night with Chemical Brothers DJ set but it seems like everyone has the same idea, so we watch Flying Lotus in the dome before we realise we can listen to his doom laden dubstep from our tent over a bottle of contraband wine we managed to sneak in. Outlaws.

Sunday began with an extremely active set by Friendly Fires but temperature-wise this is the hottest day yet so we have to retreat to a cage for our daily ration of beer and chilli fries. We stayed in the shade (having some interesting chats with friendly locals) and saw Lupe Fiasco, Lykke Li and an impressive set from Peter Bjorn And John. Their new album is great and a show of confidence is playing Young Folks midway through the set with no real loss of punters.

As the sun once more eased Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ provide another impressive set particularly as lead singer Karen O shimmers in a mirrored ball dress.

The setting sun this time belongs to the heliocentric Paul Weller which is topped by a an appearance of Smiths’ guitarist Johnny Marr for A Town Called Malice.

It does justify the rumour that the Smiths were reforming for the festival but it does make you wonder why he didn’t guest appear with Morrissey on Friday? My Bloody Valentine bring on the drone which drowns out the terrordrome of Public Enemy who perform Nation Of Millions… in its entirety.

We finish the night with The Cure who are possibly influenced by the Valentine’s and play a free form endless dirge which is mostly hit-free. From our over-heated beer-frazzled and still jetlagged state in the cage it has the effect of sending us to sleep. And not even the truly subversive effects of Throbbing Gristle can keep us up. We finish off our illegal wine and quietly shuffle to bed, defeated.

A special lovers mix but I’m not talking slushy stuff – just new music I’m passionate about and hope you’ll fall in love with too. This is a podcast for people who want to keep listening to new music. But even though we go with the new flow we also know the rocks that we’ve got. Talking of which this edition has a special feature on the West Midlands’ Home Of Metal bid.

Silver Skins Episode 6 (Right click ’save target’)

Walking on a Dream – Empire Of The Sun
I Heard Wonders Andy Weatherall Vocal Mix – David Holmes
Coming Clean – The 39 Steps
Cradle (KYTE remix) – The Joy Formidable
Runaway Town – Keith
Dennis Bergkamp – Guildean Gang
Home Of Metal teaser
Johnny Got A Boom Boom – Imelda May
Hurry for the Sky – Robyn Hitchcock & The Venus 3
When I Last Spoke To Carol – Morrissey
Ballad of the Unsent Letter – Aiden Moffatt and The Best Of’s
Absentee – Emmy The Great
Love Song – Dent May And His Magnificent Ukulele
La Ritournelle – Sebastian Tellier

This is the full version of a piece featured in Metro Midlands Life section on Tuesday 20th January 2009. I enjoyed writing the piece very much and thought you might like to see the full family affair.

Although Robin Grierson has been taking photos for over 20 years, his work, both exhibited and published commissions, concern themselves with the briefest moments in time. Like his heroes Robert Frank and August Sander, Grierson has concentrated on catching his subjects quickly, with no posing or pretence.

‘Documentary photographer is a bit of an overused term but I take a very instant sort of photo,’ agrees Grierson ’I don’t use lighting or spend much time composing or framing the shot. It’s my job to show what’s really there. I suppose newspapers were interested in using me because I found some kind of truth in the people I was photographing – some element of a famous personality that you don’t usually see.’

This Light House exhibition has been almost as long in development as his career. Family Pictures turns the lens on his nearest and dearest, but the pictures on display were never intended for public view. As Grierson explains, he was merely taking the photos that any normal doting father might take.

‘When Daisy was born there was this compulsion to take as many photos as I could of her and my family. I’d take hundreds every day. I never thought I’d be a father, and when it happened my whole world was turned upside down. She became the most important thing in my life.’

From thousands of negatives and hundreds of contact sheets Grierson printed 80 for the exhibition. In general, Grierson finds it difficult to emotionally detach himself from his work – he admits he’d find it difficult to be a war photographer, for example – and he’s turned down commissions where he hasn’t been able to identify with the subject. The process of stepping away from these photographs was even more difficult than usual.

‘I did have some reservations about displaying them because they are very private. I worried how it might affect my family giving them that exposure,’ he concedes. ‘In the selection process I had to think about what they might mean to others. That’s why they’re still looked at; nothing is set and meanings are always evolving. I’m eager to get these pictures in a book because then I feel you can make even more links and see subtle themes emerging.’

The prevailing theme is age. The pictures document a family over time, often returning to the same holiday places but slowly growing old together. In the pictures of the children you begin to see them adopt similar characteristics to their mother. Grierson no longer takes so many photos of his family, although one character trait has certainly been passed down from father to daughter.

‘My one daughter has picked up photography and she’s taking photos of us now, so she’s more understanding about what I’m trying to do. On the whole they don’t seem to mind that I put these photos on display or in a book. They just let dad get on with it.’

24 Jan to 13 Mar 2009, Light House, The Chubb Buildings, Fryer Street, Wolverhampton, Mon to Fri 9am to 8.30pm, Fri and Sat 1hr before film screening until 8.30pm. Tel: 01902 716055. Online details

A special New Year edition of Silver Skins. We keep things fairly festive – but don’t worry we haven’t crammed the show with your typical seasonal fodder. Just Silver grade tracks.

Silver Skins Episode 5 (Right click ’save target’)

Sabali – Amadou and Mariam
Tumbala – Novalima
Sweat Shop – Neon Neon
Disaffected Youth – John Shuttleworth
Nausea – Beck
Happy Man – Seasick Steve
Let Us Be Loving – Alice Russell
Tiny Dancer – Elton John
Getting Up – Q-Tip
Christmas Eve Montage – RJD2
A Collection Of Miserable Thoughts Laced With Wit – Dälek
Stay Where You Are – Ambulance LTD
Sand – Hush Arbors
The Rest – Sixtoes
Iain Woods – Gospel
The Greatest – Cat Power

Hello and welcome to the 4th rip of Silver Skins. Your monthly-ish exploration into music new and old for the mature listener who’s still a bit childish in places. This episode marks the end of festival season and a move into winter gigs so we’re going to have some tracks which recall the sunshine of Shambala and wet love of Bestival . We’ve got the standard boat floaters of new tracks and some winter chillers to top it all off.

Silver Skins Episode 4 (Right click ’save target’)

David Byrne & Brian Eno – Strange Overtones
Friendly Fires – Paris
Vampire Weekend – A-Punk
The Hats – Red Pike
Mr Blend – Message To ODB
Fat Freddy’s Drop – The Camel
Little Palm – These Girls
Ben Folds – Free Coffee
Oasis – Falling Down (Chemical Brothers)
The Verve – Columbo
Real Tuesday Weld – One More Chance
The Essex Green – Rabbit
Ed Harcourt – Shadowboxing
Massive Attack – Hymn Of The Big Wheel

Bestival has basked in Indian sunshine for the last few years – but this year it bathed in mud. However, the acres of brown ooze didn’t dampen the festival’s spirits. People happily stomped around, grinning in their sailor hats.

Pendulum puts the main stage into swing on Friday night, live drum‘n’bass tearing through the field with impressive force from the drummer’s frenetic tub thumping. The rain competes with the BPM’s – so refuge is sought in Santogold. She certainly looks the part, flanked by her empowered Public Enemy styled ladies but the experience is underwhelming. The beats are fat and the tunes are instantly recognisable but in contrast to Pendulum’s full force it feels like a flimsy set up.

A torrential downpour would have suited My Bloody Valentine but the clouds are blown away by the band’s increased amp-age. Through swathes of Kevin Shields’ feedback, a delicate tenderness breaks through. They stick to the classics sparing the audience from last tour’s full earplug requiring volume and the alienating 45 minutes-of-formless-noise.

Jeffrey Lewis cancels on Saturday, which moves all main stage events forwards. Instead of skiffle siblings Kitty, Daisy and Lewis, dan le sac vs Scroobius Pip play. According to Scroobius, this is their first large stage set, and they don’t really fill it. One novelty-hit single doesn’t sustain the crowds and instead of falling on a strong back catalogue, they play a lame cover of Sugababes’ Push The Button.

Gary Numan on the other hand, performs a dramatic live set, which draws on his expansive 20-year history. Strands of synth-pop, Goth, electro and rock are all expertly woven together while Numan’s eyeliner dramatically dribbles down his face.

Gilles Peterson gets people shuffling and sets the tone for the rest of the afternoon with his sunshine filled Brazilian beats in the gratefully warming Bollywood tent. Later on, old-timer DJ Derek rolls out classic reggae ska. And South Rakkas Crew followed by A-Trak drag the tent into depths of bass line with enough classic dance-track remixes to keep everyone happy.

The Specials are easily one of the best performances of the festival. The boys run around the stage dancing to, Too Much Too Young, Monkey Man and Gangsters whilst Terry Hall looks on with his trademark glum reticence.

Hot Chip are also a highlight, hitting the stage dressed as Knight’s armour. They perform their pumping tracks, expertly mega-mixed together before dipping into their tender love songs towards the end.

Winehouse turns up 45 minutes late and is worryingly thin and thoughtless. She scats through her songs like Vic Reeves in the style of his club singer.

Sunday is a better day weather wise and the optimism shines through. Beardy auteur Sebastian Tellier’s louche crooning lounge lizard act is transformed into 80’s pop-rocker when he picks up a flying V guitar. Baaba Maal is infectiously celebratory afterwards with two African dancers giving it their all and more percussive beats than you can shake a stick at.

The afternoon is marked by a few cheerful bouts of sunshine as we take a trip up the hill to witness Misty’s Big Adventure crammed into a bandstand. Local band known to many, The Bees finish proceedings on the main stage, and their wonderfully romantic The Sky Holds The Sun left us pining for a summer that never was.

Whilst other festivals taste the credit crunch, Shambala gnaws on a locally sourced oat based, fair-trade chocolate topped, cereal bars. And very tasty it is too.

August Bank holiday often leaves you spoilt for choice but for the last couple of years the only sensible option for me has been Shambala festival. More than Glastonbury, this festival has become a Mecca for me and my friends to come together, get suitably intoxicated, have memorable and lasting experiences, and massive amounts of fun.

It fits that the rest of my review shouldn’t be a generic band shuffle – but rather a holistic, personal and mashed up set of dispatches from the festival field.

Landing
We land in the car park. Ushered into our space by a team of the most efficient and friendly parking attendants I’ve ever experienced. We walk in fully laden to the check-in desk which is, literally, a check-in desk, run by Shamair. Air Hostesses check our tickets, give us a drink and sell us a programme. We’re slightly freaked out when they ask us to run our baggage through the X-Ray machine, as we’ve already stocked up in duty free. But we needn’t have worried, Roses (our new neighbour who offers us a hot toddy as we set up camp), says it’s really funny. She’s meeting her friend at the gate to make sure she gets X-Ray’d too.

Friends
Shambala makes you feel like everyone is connected; and I don’t mean this in a far out hippy manner. Emerging in 1999, the festival has grown from a group of five friends and word has very much travelled by mouth ever since. Okay so the internet has obviously helped but the best recommendation still comes from your mates. This doesn’t mean Shambala is any way elitist – any suggestion of a closed circle is negated by complete strangers’ friendliness.

Kids
As my new friend Brett points out on Sunday night “Kids run this place.” I reckon he’s right, they almost definitely seem to equal, if not outnumber, the adults. And actually they’re the ones hurtling around absorbing the atmosphere, whilst their parents are onto their third hash cake. For the most part it’s a delight; the advantage of a kids friendly festival is you look at everything with their wonder. Just one small gripe is when that energy becomes exhausted. The Sunday morning tantrum was a new experience for me, parents at close quarters had to tell Reuben off for hitting Agnathea. And Toby was just “bored.”

Woodland Wilderness
My abiding memory is of a star shape sculpture handing from the trees, extending from each of its five digits (which eerily resemble skeleton fingers) are ropes which you pull and it makes an otherworldly noise and sets off a series of flashing lights. We’re all standing by tugging away at the ropes when a girl comes along and puts her entire body weight into the sculpture and snaps it. She runs off and the lights stop working.

Music
Shambala isn’t a music festival, in fact in many ways I don’t care for bands these days. There’s too many of them, and chances are by the time it gets to August I’ve seen who I’ve wanted to see – and a fair few I don’t care for, too many times (Roisin Murphy robot walks to mind). So Friday’s musical entertainment was provided by a reassuringly retro knees-up from The Beat. But it’s more about making a party than snuggling up to old favourites. Half the crowd cheers when they ask who’s from Birmingham. Half the crowd cheers when nine piece Bristol band Substatic ask the same with regards to their city. There are plenty of great DJs in the smaller tents including Birmingham’s Boogie Dave and Different Drummer’s Adam Regan with Bristol’s Jon Kennard and even Smith And Mighty in the Dome. One slight complaint with S&M is that it descends into Bassline House, to which DJ Rubbish and Cassette Boy are also guilty. It seems that some DJs want to prove themselves to the kids. One sound which is also ubiquitous but much more welcome is that of world music – from the Israeli funk of The Apples, the newly African infused Nizlopi to the catchy Ghanian rhythms of Hélélé to the sweet vocals of Jamaica’s Horace Andy. Closing act Smerin’s Anti-social Club are actually anything but anti-social and they seem to cover a bit of everything and invite some friends who performed throughout the weekend to see us off.

Art
On Saturday morning we wander over to see the commissioned graffiti. Bristol’s Sickboy has made a massive 3D version of one of his signature mushrooms. Birmingham’s Beat 13 and Glen Anderson’s piece are suitably psychedelic. And South Africa’s Faith 47 pulls up a thought provoking message.

Rebel Soul
By the Rebel Soul tent I’m reading a board on British atrocities throughout the decades when I fall into a conversation with a pleasant chap. We chat the usual “Bush is a wanker” and slowly fit the conversation to our own lives. He finishes with “I always love Shambala you always go home and think life can actually be better.”

The Moment
It’s Saturday night. We’ve found a café, a solid structure that resembles a Victorian restaurant with a sense of festival. Upstairs a covered area over-looking a good stretch of the site, on the hill in the distance psychedelic lights are being projected off the stately home which overlooks the festival. In front of house is a lake with people relaxing on a man made beach. In front of us people are huddled around small tree trunks a carpenter has carved so they burn from the inside. The café doesn’t sell booze except with a meal but we’ve managed to buy a liquor hot chocolate. We hear a round of applause and look down to see about 30 fire lanterns being released to the stars.

Not surprisingly after fourteen years of multiplying chills you pretty much know what to expect of this festival. There’s the consistent line-up full of regulars and the crowds of usual suspects – from pleasant family folk, to relaxed hippies and lots of Antipodeans – all served with the perennial dollop of sunshine.

However, when we set up camp on Friday evening it’s absolutely chucking it down. Not only have I prepared hideously for the festival by forgetting my waterproofs we’ve also forgotten the tent pegs. I erect the dome and my girlfriend dives in, leaving me to sneak around our neighbours’ tents and surreptitiously steal pegs. You don’t need guy ropes at a festival anyway. Although I have to admit a pang of guilt when I pull up a peg from a toddler’s miniature tent.

The rain stops and we head over The Big Hill and descend upon the site. It’s fair to say without headliners The Orb, the history of chill-out would be very different indeed and despite a new album release their set reclines back on the old comfy favourites. The inevitable edited down version of epic The Blue Room and Little Fluffy Clouds are played out accompanied by a set of retina searing psychedelic visuals.

After taking in the site and having a boogie to Greg Wilson at the Rizla stage along with a touch of Luke Vibert in the dance tent, we head up to the Art Trail for further visuals . We first see Juneau Projects’ installation, which to all intents and purposes is essentially a big jamming session inviting festival guests onto the stage for some rock antics. We wander elsewhere and get our AV fix, watching footage of horses clomp around a deserted Victorian building. Soothing even if we haven’t managed to grasp what it’s about.

Saturday kicks off with the much hyped new talent of Lykke Li. Armed with a drumstick to bash along with the drummer, the Swedish pop princess delivers some infectiously catchy nuggets to bring on the boogie in the afternoon sun.

Along with seemingly the entire festival crowd, we head down for Bill Bailey at the Big Chill Nights. We arrive in the field and can’t get close to the tent let alone inside it. Instead we listen to the set relayed via the onsite radio station. Bill provides a solid festival set aping Jay Z’s Wonderwall entrance before playing some new parodies and some firm sing-a-long favourites.

Beth Orton makes a welcome return after a self imposed baby-hiatus. Accompanied by a guitarist and occasional violinist (who resembles an Electric Dylan), Beth delicately and timidly picks her way through her back catalogue.

The Mighty Boosh are playing the main stage equipped with quick costume changes and plenty of references and in-jokes to the main show. Though maybe I’m too chilled out to really enjoy it.
Back in Big Chill Nights Adam Buxton sums it up succinctly before he gets down to the business of performing a version of his Bug night. “Anyone can do that can’t they? Wear face glitter and sing songs about shit.” We’ve come to see Buxton play interesting and incredibly surreal music promos – but his re-telling of Youtube comments about shoe gazing is the highlight.

Once again in the mood for a live act we march back to the Castle stage for Matthew Herbert’s Big Band. They bombastically blast out future soul jazz standards twisted by Herbert’s many gizmos and he treats us to The Audience at the end of the set.

Ever true to tradition the night is topped with the broken-beat noodling and trademark doodlings of Mr Scruff; and the usual Sunday brunch is supplied by Norman Jay, though sadly this year not served sunny-side up.

Although we miss a set from John Shuttleworth, Graham Fellows’ other alter-ego Jilted John takes once more to the stage after thirty years in retirement. He does have one new song about Kiera Knightley [eat your dinner] which does sound like a slightly more aggressive Shuttleworth track. Jilted is at his best when he’s playing the songs about getting dumped. He closes with Gordon Is A Moron, which annoys Gordon who these days is backing singer in the band!

We meet up with friends at the Cocktail bar and take in some more Jay Z, lovers rock and heavy dub courtesy of Don Letts – listening from the confines of the tent as there’s an extended downpour outside.

The sun’s out again and the afternoon gets back into swing with another female pop auteur in the tangerine tunic’d shape of Camille. Supported by a group of vocally dextrous singers and beatboxers she playfully knocks out a distinctive set resembling a hybrid of Medula era Bjork and Saian Supa Crew. Camille is zanely idiosyncratic and multi-talented – at one point she runs around in a tight circle whilst barking like a dog. As the sun sets we consider seeing Leonard Cohen but decide to head to the Big Chill Nights for some comedy instead.

We catch the end of a superbly twisted set from Tony Law who has a deep knowledge of worldwide accents to draw upon when playing up to national stereo-types. Offsetting the potential right wing element by explaining how easy it is to get a festival crowd on your side – you just have to slag off the Daily Mail. Adam Buxton’s next up performing his Famous Guy and has a difficult act to follow, and although it’s a sign of plenty more material for the character seen on the MeeBOX pilot but unfortunately it doesn’t click tonight. Our final comedy turn comes from Radio 4 regular Mitch Benn who takes us through his satirical repertoire – which he jokes is somewhat strange when it’s no longer in the news.

The festival finishes in style with a unique collaboration between improvisational dance band The Bays and the staggeringly technically proficient The Heritage Orchestra. Tonight, a score is written on stage and projected to the conductor and onto the orchestra’s flat screens whilst The Bays jam alongside them. Throughout the night the musicians breeze through dub, techno, electro, house and finish with a blast of drum and bass. All regular festival motifs, delivered by two solid favourites, are shaken up and re-shaped to sound completely fresh and new. That’s the beauty of The Big Chill, even after fourteen years.