I must admit, I find it hard to throw myself willingly into the arms of Martha Wainwright. This isn't necessarily anything to do with her song craft -- which is sleek, consummate, and delivered with commendable laser precision. She is, I guess, part of a lineage of perfectly respectable quality singer-songwriters who can find an equilibrium between a more benign, FM Radio 2 friendly audiences and those searching, perhaps, for something that's clearly in tune to profound emotional feelings. The crowd, then, who pack the UNCUT Arena to the gills, are inevitably older and wiser than our friends who bounced along to Black Kids. They remind me of a certain strata of Stoke Newington folk -- I half a expect a farmer's market to be erected in the middle of the tent, accommodating those seeking, say, celeriac or other seasonable vegetables. What, perhaps, is most interesting -- maybe inevitable -- is that is pertinently a female event. "I've got feelings too," says Martha, and later, "I spend my time trying to forget you." So, mothers clutch daughters, some kind of genetic message is passed on, and chaps smoke fags and monitor empty push chairs outside the tent. Headlining, meanwhile, are Franz Ferdinand, a band I've seen and thoroughly enjoyed -- particularly at a very messy Benicassim two years hence. I'm also a sucker for anyone who opens with a song whose chorus beckons: "Come and dance with me, Michael..." Anyway, here they are with a backdrop featuring 1930s style cartoons of each member -- arguably more ITMA than indie. In another point of reference, I'm inexplicably drawn to their haircuts, which predominantly resemble Bernard Sumner's at various points during Joy Division and New Order's career. Save for their drummer, Paul Thomson, whose looks like Morrissey sometime in the early Smiths. There's also something strangely stiff upper lip about them. I can imagine them going down nobly in a Noel Coward/David Lean film, plucky chaps manning the deck as the ship sinks, all hands lost. As a slow drizzle begins to fall, they do their best on the main stage. Masters of pacing, they interspace the hits with newer songs, or songs from the second album, You Could Have It So Much Better. So, "Matinee" -- dedicated to Death Cab To Cutie -- causes much mass pogoing amongst the audience, as does "Take Me Out". There's even a cover of Hall & Oates' "Maneater", just for the fun of it. Their precision is faultless, their stagecraft energised. As I drift away from Franz, I pass the Comedy Arena, where the tent -- shut off while the Guilty Pleasures dancers practice their routine -- is suddenly bumrushed by the crowd, desperate to shelter from the rain, that's beginning to come down in what you'd call buckets. Anyway, off for a gentle beer then, hopefully a rave in the wood...

Who’s that playing,” said one male member of the packed crowd at one point. “Crystal Castles,” said his friend. “But there’s nobody on the stage,” the first objected. Crystal Castles are weird, squiggly, electronic noisemakers with sporadic vocals and you could easily mistake them for DJs if just wandering through -- but don't be dissauded, they are actually modern geniuses at making fantastic modern dancefloor fillers, despite perhaps being better known for remixing others' records (Klaxons, Bloc Party) and also being remixed themselves (HEALTH). But tracks such as 'Crimewave' speak for themselves, especially in this tiny tent, tucked away in the woods. It’s not as if she hasn’t already come in from the cold critically, but Yoko Ono received definitive affirmation when Alice Glass took to the Sunrise stage and hopped, bopped and screeched her idiosyncratic way through a set as one half of the Toronto duo. The pair’s music is indebted not only to Ono but to the whole sonic ethos of early-1980s New York post-punk, fed through a very modern, or at least modish, dancefloor filter. In fact, Glass was present throughout, but so wired and unpredictable is her stage presence, never mind her singing style, that you could easily miss her in the blink of an eye. Younger fans waved glo-sticks thoughtfully provided them by their parents; stage-diving duly occurred, but no injuries were reported. But the overwhelming aftertaste was that the Canadian band simply get the old dance-punk staples right: hit them hard, and hit them mad. Twist, in other words – and SHOUT.

Let’s start at the end. Julian Cope is standing onstage in the Uncut Arena. The power has just been pulled on him for over-running. He has started half an hour late after a doomed attempt at soundchecking, played two newish songs and a bizarre medley of some old songs, sacrificed a guitar to the goddess, challenged God, Jehovah and Allah to a fight, and ended by announcing, “Children, tell your grandchildren that people like me once walked the earth.” No wonder, I suppose, that he hasn’t played a festival in years. Cope is tonight unveiling a new configuration of his sound. The band might feature old hands like Donald Ross Skinner and Holy McGrail, but initially, the musicians are playing three acoustic guitars, a drumkit, a marching band bass drum, and two Mellotrons. The repetitive, hypnotic jangles and drones are as dumb and gonzoid as the glam metal he’s been playing live these past few years, but somehow more intense and witchy. The band, by the way, mostly look like ‘80s Budgie roadies; a delightfully nuanced detail. Anyway, after a couple of these songs, they reorganise slightly for a brilliant drone-funk version of The Teardrop Explodes’ “Sleeping Gas”, with Cope leading the way bullishly on bass. After about ten minutes, he smashes his bass, sacrifices it the gods (I am paraphrasing here), goes into some absorbingly garbled rant about religion, playing with his brother and some other stuff. By now, the band are pulsing barely audibly, and Cope is hanging off his ancient climbing frame of a mic stand and appearing to start “Reynard The Fox”. This tapers out into another rant and, fantastically, he starts mimicking the crowd by aggressively heckling himself. Appearing to relent, he decides to play “Pristeen”, when the band lose power, and he’s left proclaiming his own legend to a half-cheering, half-baffled crowd. I loved it of course, not least because while Cope often talks about his music being necessarily confrontational, he rarely takes that music to an audience that isn’t immensely tolerant of his digressions. There’s a tension here that illuminates the mythological clowning, and an imagination to the rearranged music – even in that vast Jim Morrison-esque breakdown – which elevates it even further. But of course I might be in the minority thinking that.

Mildly strange afternoon here at Latitude, which culminated in what a few of us are optimistically calling the Ross Noble Riot. I was wandering across the arena when suddenly about 2,000 people came charging down the hill, as if there were a fire in the comedy tent. When they reached a veggieburger van, they all started chanting "NOBLE! NOBLE!" Ross Noble (vaguely Paul Merton's hairy stepson, if memory serves) then started jumping on the burger van, and proceeded to try and crowdsurf his way back to the comedy tent. Pretty rock'n'roll, I suppose, and rather more rock'n'roll than one or two of the bands I stumbled upon today (not a big fan of The Do, for instance, since I was never much partial to Hazel O'Connor). Anyway, apparently Noble had just ended a mass crowd rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody" with a conga out of the tent, which soon turned into a hell for leather sprint across the field. The crowd gathered outside the tent for him actually drowned out a fair bit of a self-deprecating Beth Orton set, which featured a fine version of the deathless "Katie Cruel". What else? I discovered that my Blackberry only works during comedy science shows in the children's field. I managed to arrive at the screening of Grant Gee's Joy Division film at precisely the moment when Ian Curtis died. And I also found out that while The Go! Team are still playing virtually the same show they were playing three years ago (behaving as if that so-so second album hardly existed), that show is still tremendous fun. Two drummers! Thurston Moore guitar! Cop themes and buffalo gals! A peculiar and invigorating Brighton concoction of big beat and indie! It's hard to imagine a more energising - if potentially teeth-rotting - festival band, and it occurs to me that it's something of a shame that CSS seem to have stolen some of their thunder. First great gig of the festival for me.

Excuse us while we go a bit "duuude," on your asses. "This is awesome, the sheep are painted fucking pink. It's so psychedelic, and I haven't even taken a thing," says Reggie Youngblood, singer of Florida's Black Kids, who take the stage in the UNCUT Arena as a spear of late afternoon sunshine pierces the cloud. For all their stoner, American yoot speak (much is "awesome", we are all "dudes"), Black Kids are arguably the best way to spend your first afternoon at Latitude. They're a pop take on post-punk, blending The Clash "Magnificent Seven" style bass riffs with cheeky steals from Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" and something that suspiciously sounds like Bowie's "Sound And Vision". As such, it's perhaps no surprise to see a total, demographic-busting audience here -- mothers, daughters, fathers with tots on shoulders. I'm reminded, variously, of Strokes-lite, particularly on "I've Underestimated My Charm Again", or the endearingly ramshackle fun of the Go! Team on "I'm Not Going To Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You". It's a brisk, cheery 40 minutes. And I kinda wish I could be quite so enthusiastic about Australia's Howling Bells. I have nothing particularly against the notion of Goth indie -- hey, in my patchouli splattered youth, I stood second to none in my appreciation of all things emanating from the vicinity of the Leeds 8 postal district. So it is, I can spot the serpentine bass of Sisters Of Mercy's Craig Adams echoing here, and even the mournful, one-note guitar lines of Gary Marx circa late period Sisters', like "Marian". Elsewhere, there's touches of early PJ Harvey, and even some flashes of dustbowl Americana that remind me of Hazeldine, and particularly their cover of Grant Lee Buffalo's "Fuzzy". All these things, individually, are perfectly fine in my world -- but together, they coalesce into a moderately weird and perhaps entirely unnecessary cocktail. I like, for instance, beer, bacon and chocolate -- but I wouldn't necessarily want them all served up together on a plate for dinner. Anyway, I catch a bit of the Go! Team themselves, who're as ebullient as ever, and the wonderful Lucy Porter in the Comedy Arena, before my mum texts me to tell me, with no little excitement, that the Now Show are currently broadcasting live from the Radio 4 Arena. So it is, the rich tapestry of Latitude continues to unfold itself. Martha Wainwright and Franz to come...

So, I'm happy now! I got my first taste of the music at Latitude and I like it. For a gentle start to the day I decided to lurk around the smaller arenas, blinking in the sunlight like a frightened nocturnal animal. Luckily there was plenty of shade in the woodland setting of the Sunrise Arena and I was happy to see Edinburgh band Broken Records and north England's version of The White Stripes (or so my programme informs me), Slow Club. Broken Records, had a full stage with their seven members playing cello, mandolin, trumpet, glockenspiel and violin as well as guitars and drums. The band, who have been tipped as the next Arcade Fire, played a set heavily influenced by traditional folk music with songs, "Within Reason", "Wolves Hand" and "Slow Praise". Next up Slow Club's army of dedicated fans had filled up the front of stage before Broken Records had cleared their equipment. The duo, made up of Charles (guitar, vocals) and Rebecca (drums, vocals) opened with "If I'm not Married By The Time I'm 22" before playing "Me & You". Rebecca, who uses a wooden chair and glass bottles as part of her kit, agreed to wed an audience member who shouted out "Marry me?" between songs. "Ok. No seriously, yes!" she said before Charles interrupted her with "No seriously don't! You'll live to regret it... I did!" The pair then launched into the crowd favourite "Trophy Room", about which she added: "The last time I played this I just gave up. But it's only two and a half minutes, so can you all just hold your breath or something?". The band will release their debut EP Let’s Fall Back In Love on August 25. The setlist: If we're both not married by 22 Me & You I was Unconscious It Was A Dream Because We're Dead Trophy Room Apples And Pears Slow Club Summer Shakedown NAT DAVIES

So, there's Paul Merton -- no less -- smoking a cigarette and eating a baked potato. This, gentle reader, is the first thing I see at this year's Latitude -- and, surely, as celeb/food/fag interfaces go this might well take some beating. Still, walking out into the site, I head straight to the Radio 4 Arena. If I can confess something to you, I'll be missing this Sunday's Archers onmibus, so I'm planning to spend as much time as possible loitering round the Radio 4 tent, particularly as they're recording Just A Minute live from here tomorrow. Hence, of course, the presence of Paul Merton. Anyway, strolling off in the direction of the Lake Stage, I catch a bit of Bearsuit, from (relatively) nearby Norwich -- bringing their inflatable balloons and blue capes to the pastoral bosom of Suffolk. I also catch a snatch of The Aliens. I was a huge fan of the Beta Band, who featured The Aliens' Gordon Anderson in their original line-up -- and if the Beta Band's debut "Dry The Rain" was the greatest song Primal Scream never recorded, then there's something satisfying about hearing Anderson's Aliens close their set with a suitably psychedelic cover of the Scream's "Higher Than The Sun". Mixed into The Beatles' "Helter Skelter". And the Close Encounters theme. A good start, I reckon, to Latitude 08. Anyway, gotta motor -- there's Black Kids and Howling Bells to come, and if I'm very lucky I might be able to squeeze in a smidgeon of Julian Cope.