It's a criminal shame that one of the finest bands to come out of the planet's lower end should play to a half-empty tent. Australian indie charmers Howling Bells were more than up to the challenge, proving unequivocally that a voice like a loudhailer channelling angels can overcome anything – even having Arcade Fire as their audience competition. With much of the crowd hunkered around the Obelisk stage waiting for the warbling Canucks (more fool them and their failure to multi-task efficiently) it's to the Bells' credit that they played their headline slot on the Sunrise stage like it was their last night on Earth, and not just their tour. Tracks from last year's self-titled debut album were mixed with the occasional new taster, leading to a quest from singer Juanita Stein to find a title for a new track ("Erm, it’s a love song about someone I hate"). The majority of Juanita-struck boys in the crowd might explain the overwhelming preference for titles name-dropping 70s bands rather than flowers and feelings. "Hmm. Come and see me afterwards I think," she says diplomatically after someone shrieks "T-Rex!", before doing the musician's equivalent of coughing loudly and ignoring the whole thing: playing another song. "Broken Bones" elicits the best heckle we've heard all weekend – a bellow of "SUPERB!" from the back rows – and by the time the set ends with a gorgeous "Low Happening", the tent and people littered around the edges are grinning like they've been covered with £20 notes. A wonderful close to a stage that has consistently rolled out some of Latitude's best sets all weekend - well done those Bells. Words: Kat Brown

A lively afternoon at Latitude today, where the conditions are fluctuating between blazing sunshine and torrential rain. It's oddly suitable for Andrew Bird, whose fascination with meteorology led him to call one of his old albums "Weather Systems". I've long been a fan of Bird; a little bemused, in fact, that his peculiar and charming school of baroque pop hasn't been more acclaimed. You could tentatively place him between Rufus Wainwright at his least camp and Jeff Buckley at his most playful, but really Bird is much too idiosyncratic to be easily pigeonholed. Not least because he tries to play as many instruments as possible in each song. With just a rhythm section to back him (though the drummer does lean over and have a go on the keyboard from time to time), the responisbility is on Bird to recreate his ornate chamber pop by himself. He does this by sampling himself on violin, guitar, xylophone or whistling, then looping the results until it becomes a thick, intricate backdrop. The effect is intriguing rather than showy, since Bird's songs are strong enough to handle such gimmickry. "A Nervous Tic Motion Of The Head To The Left", from his "Mysterious Production Of Eggs" album is particularly striking. But really, like so much else at this fine festival, it's all good.

Down by the lake this morning, there's a large band dressed like bad mime artists in boho pierrot gear. At ten thirty, the flute and oboe players are making bird noises at each other from opposite banks of the lake. By lunchtime, they've expanded into a big baroque ensemble - who'll have to remain nameless, I'm afraid - who sound rather like Anthony And The Johnsons. Tremendously precious, clearly, but quite a nice start to the day after all the jungle raving in the early hours. The Strange Death Of Liberal England are substantially more raucous, though with a different set of pretensions. Very roughly, their schtick is yelped post-rock sea shanties, a very self-conscious and parochial but quite stirring response to the Arcade Fire and Godspeed You Black Emperor. Occasionally, they turn into a more prosaic indie band, and I'm unfortunately reminded of something blustery and mediocre. It's worth noting, yoo, that the main guy really can't sing. Stil, not bad. Next up on the Uncut Stage are Silversun Pickups, a highly drilled and precise cross between the Smashing Pumpkins and Weezer. It's a slick and probably lucrative hybrid (there's a lot of corporate hype surrounding them in the States, I think), but it's not really my thing. Neither is the snatch of hugely proficient, mildly cosmic, distinctly Coldplayish stadium rock I hear from, I think, Sonic Flyer soon after at the Sunrise Arena. Fortunately, the band who follow them, Wild Beasts, are great. From the Lake District, Wild Beasts specialise in lopsided, manic jangles that remind me of very early Postcard releases, especially those by Orange Juice. As they open with the fine recent single, "Through Dark Night", it strikes me they're one of those bands you'll either love or hate, due chiefly to the singer's fantastically mad voice - a yodelling, wayward falsetto that's a bit like Billy Mackenzie battling laryngitis. God knows how long he'll be able to keep it up without totally ravaging his vocal chords. For now, though, you really should have a look at them.

Last night, we went feral in the woods. It’s not often you see your editor at a rave, and a rave in the woods at that, but last night UNCUT’s Allan Jones was getting down with the kids to all manner of dub-step and breakbeat classics. And he didn’t even mention Nick Lowe until 2.40 in the morning. This was the after hours fun experienced by your dedicated UNCUT team, out in force for Radio 1’s Rob Da Bank, who was hosting the In The Woods Arena. With the trees beautifully lit up, and a huge, happy, up-for-it crowd, it was a great communal way to close the second day of Latitude properly. Headliners The Good, The Bad & The Queen had drawn an audience on the main stage, sure, but they didn't quite engage with them with the kind of excitement you expect from a festival topline act. This, though, was the kind of shared experience that festival memories are made of, about 1,000 people dancing their socks off, lightsticks and whistles in full effect. Aces rave action. FIVE REECORDS PLAYED BY ROB DA BANK: ** Motorhead – Ace Of Spades ** Aphrodite & Mickey Finn – Drop Top Caddy ** Prodigy – Out Of Space ** Nirvana – Smells Like Teen Spirit ** The Clash – London Calling Anyway, nursing a slightly sore head, I'm off to get some breakfast then catch Phill Jupitus in the comedy arena. Come back later, as we'll be blogging about Jarvis, Arcade Fire and all the day's top bands.

It's been a night of being proved wrong, for me at least, at Latitude. As I'm walking across the site, I can hear The Good, The Bad And The Queen, and they sound really good. I'd previously pegged them as a rather self-conscious trip into psychogeography and musicianly fandom for Damon Albarn. But here the overworked fug clears and the elegaic true quality of the songs - and those Simonon basslines, of course - comes to the fore. And then there's Rodrigo Y Gabriela. I must admit that, until tonight, I'd never heard this band, marketed so aggressively as a novelty band predicated on the schtick of heavy rock flamenco. Which seemed like a terrible idea, on paper. The thing is, when you see this furious and largely compelling duo, the schtick proves to be true, but it's also revealed as a surprisingly good idea. Parts of their epic set are like a Balearic rave-up at the Cafe Del Mar; pulsating, hedonistic music where their boot thumps replace the beats. Other parts, meanwhile, suggest how "Led Zeppelin III" might have sounded if Jimmy Page had fixated on Segovia rather than Bert Jansch. Anyway, it works. They're an extraordinarily crowd-pleasing proposition - I can't recall a bigger and more euphoric reception all weekend. As the giant screen behind them focuses in on their blurring fingers, darting over the body of the guitar as much as the strings, the audience spreading far beyond the tent are whooping, clapping and stomping along. When Rodrigo Y Gabriela chuck in a snatch of Metallica, they go wild. When they play a straight version of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here", it seems like everyone is singing along. It's exhausting and exhilarating to watch, and after an hour, I must confess, the relentless virtuosity becomes more of a gimmick than anything else. But still, as I walk home through the woods, past a bunch of lightsticks dancing to the Klaxons, it seems like a pretty good end to the live business for the day. God knows what happens next.