Features

A slightly neurotic start to the biog which accompanies this one. “Next year,” it begins, “Marcus Lambkin, aka Shit Robot, will be 40 years old. If (which it shouldn’t) this fact bothers you, please stop reading now.”

Another busy week; busy enough to put me off expending any energy on the ritual travesties of the Mercury Music Prize. Then again, I guess holding out hopes for a Voice Of The Seven Thunders nomination would’ve been more deranged than optimistic; and there have been worse shortlists. Fingers crossed for Wild Beasts, or, indeed, for “critics’ favourites” the XX. Finally playing These New Puritans, as I type…

The defining moment of this year’s Lovebox – possibly, even, of any festival this year – comes about 10 minutes into Peaches’ Sunday afternoon set. It’s already got off to a colourful start. We’re greeted by the sight of the electro provocateur arriving on stage wearing a head-to-toe coat that appears to be made of raggedy fibres. This is soon dispensed with, and she cavorts in what resembles an S&M bra and panties kit, wearing some kind of gimp mask. So far, so odd. Then it gets really weird. This, it transpires, is not Peaches....

Profuse apologies, once again, for sketchy service over the past week or so: a lot of grappling with the print mag on my plate, which has meant the blog’s been passed over, unfortunately.

This sounds familiar. It’s a blast of Aaron Copeland’s “Hoedown”, a loud orchestral stirring the faithful many here tonight recognise immediately as the taped introduction to his shows he’s been using now for at least the last 10 years that still never fails to thrill and make you also laugh out loud. The voice of his long-time tour manager, Al Santos, follows, mock-serious.

When I get to Hop Farm on Saturday still blessed-out on memories of Van Morrison’s set the night before, I find it a very different place.

Quite an interesting list this week. A little glossing necessary, maybe. Maximum Balloon is the David Sitek side project, which I must confess to having been pretty sceptical about (much love for TV On The Radio notwithstanding), but which, on the basic of the five tracks I’ve heard, sounds terrific. Not unlike TV On The Radio, especially when the guys from TV On The Radio sing.

Chances are if you’ve heard of Cornbury, you’ll know they call it “Poshstock”, an upper and middle class weekend jaunt in the bucolic Oxfordshire countryside which boasts Waitrose as a sponsor, Jamie Oliver as the chef de jour and a guest list that habitually includes Princes Charles, William and Harry, Jeremy Clarkson, Kate Moss and PM David Cameron, who showed up again this year, family in tow, bemoaning the fact that he’d missed the Blockheads.

Like the many thousands who will eventually be here this evening, I’m still on my way to the Hop Farm when Los Lobos play, which is why when I get there, the band’s David Hidalgo, instrumental star of the last two Bob Dylan albums, is already in the hospitality bar, deep in conversation with a couple of confederates. Things moving to a strict schedule here and people going on surprisingly early means I’ve also missed Dr John and have in fact made it just in time for Blondie, who have just stepped out on the main stage to a great cheer.

The week’s gone by at such a clip, we’re nearly at the end of it and I still haven’t, I’ve just realised, written about this show, which was frankly too good to let pass without comment, however belated.