Somehow,
despite all the campers having arrived on Saturday, Sunday's
traffic doesn't seem much improved, not helped by the comical
efforts of police and stewards to direct us towards Dundee. I
also fail to find a suggestion box in the car park - big supermarket-style
letters 'A', 'B', 'C' etc would be good for locating one's car
after a long day. And cheaper beer.Anyway. We're in, and given the dearth of decent bands in the earlier part of the day (Polly Paulsma? Complete Stone Roses? Razorlight??) we can kick the day off on a high, greeted by a huge grinning Alex Kapranos on the main stage screens. They are Franz Ferdinand and they're clearly very pleased to be here. Largely unhindered by the variable big-arena sound, they deliver a set of crisp and sharp hits, wining over cynics in the crowd and leaving their hard core fans - plenty of them here - smiling as much as Mr K himself.
On the earlier recommendation of Someone Who Knows About These Things, we battle our way down the hill and past the throng (which numbers approximately 10,000 too many for the arena). The Killers are on the NME stage, and they are not at all bad. A very 80s sound, there's bits of the Psychedelic Furs, Smiths, and Irish should-have-beens Whipping Boy (though our source's observation of Flock of Seagulls influences happily isn't apparent). There are even a couple of "heard this one somewhere before" moments, meaning that either the Killers have been getting regular radio play, or that they have the knack for an instant hook. Possibly both, but more likely the latter.
Given the amount of people who have looked out their old Pixies Ts for the occasion, one thing hits me when we arrive at the Tuts tent for the end of Tim Booth's set. No James shirts. Not even one of those big cartoon 'flower' images, which sold a million shirts and sparked a massive tax investigation of the singer when a NME-reading government snooper became aware of this. We're there too late to formulate a theory that he'd tipped off the audience he'd be playing all-solo stuff; certainly I never heard any in the 3 or so songs I caught, but there are plenty of James fans in the audience, though. And the James-like towering choruses in what we did catch will have left them happy enough.
I
commented on the odd scheduling of the first day, and how Booth
wouldn't have been out of place on the main stage. Likewise,
Amy Whitehouse might have been better placed at Ronnie
Scott's. 
A quick look at Red Bee Society, whose countryish
stylings are outweighed by the sheer good tunesmithery of 'When
We talk Of Horses', and then it's perhaps the weekend's borderline
gig: Badly Drawn Boy. Never seen him live, but have heard so
many reports of how unpredictable the boy Gough is. 
Fortunately the band are well into their final number
when the tent starts to clear for The Pixies, who are
actually very close by, on the main stage. It's a slightly strange
atmosphere - the arena populated for as far as the eye can see,
but many pockets of space to be found. There's no communication
with audience either - nary a word of apology for the debacle
that ensued last time the band played Scotland. But what is clear
- and what was less than evident from the early bootlegs of their
reunion tour - is that the band are back to their old selves,
almost as if 10, 15, 20 years hadn't passed since they were at
the height of their powers. The set falls into odd patterns -
3-in-a-row from Surfer Rosa, maybe 5 or 6 from Doolittle - each
song almost seamlessly running into the next. But, for the audience,
it's a largely unsatisfying affair. It's usually neds and missile
throwers who ruin outdoor festivals like this, but there were
previous few this year, but still the event's high spot - should
have been - is ruined by other factors. Stuck in a massive field,
the trademark guitar lines are lost, songs sounding as if they've
ended prematurely only to fade back in, and die again. The breeze
also had another unwelcome effect - quieter moments like on 'I
Bleed' are almost drowned out by a dull thudding from what we
assume to be the Slam Tent and destroying any hope of atmosphere.
Maybe it'd have sounded better down in the mosh pit, but that's
far from ideal. But then, maybe I'm a gig idealist. All gigs
should take place in the 13th Note - the old one obviously -
and preferably rebuilt brick-by-brick just down the road from
my house. For now, I guess I'll just have to keep looking out
for the next Pixies at dodgy venues with smelly toilets, but
rather smaller stages...