Gig played on 24/25/26 June 2005

It can be hard to tap into the spirit of Rock'n'roll when you're ankle-deep in 10 inches of mud gateaux. Unfortunately Friday morning's Biblical epic of a storm is barely over when the Undertones demonstrate where John Peel found its most vital essence, in the simple punk joy of "Teenage Kicks".

Thousands believe tabloid regular Pete Doherty holds the Rock key. But we suspect that, whilst he once had a bunch of them, like so many briefly burning stars, it all slipped away whilst he was gazing in the mirror. This weekend, The Rakes look ready to run with it for a while.

At the John Peel stage on Saturday, and then spectacularly amidst the Latte-supping of the Guardian tent on Sunday afternoon, they give an object lesson in the cheap thrills of the punk four-piece. Frontman Alan Donohoe displays an absence of ego that startles you into accepting his Ian Curtis-on-a-pill stage routine as entirely unaffected. Tracks like "Retreat" tap into the regret-tinged hedonism of the Babyshambles generation without overlooking the 'fun' so woefully. He leaps about possessed, bug-eyed and inspiring a quasi-rave of pocket proportions in the front rows. At the back, others are still reading Monty Don and Nigel Slater.

Less 'Rock', is Tom Vek's performance in the same venue on Friday. In fact, his polite genre-hopping is perfectly suited to the surroundings. The 'Blue Peter' musical constructions of his debut work just as well live as they do channelled through the rigor of the sequencer.

And Keane. Well, we need hardly draw attention to the rock deficit here. Yes, they know it but as soon as he realises the massive crowd is with him, not against him, chief nerd Tom Chaplin can't keep himself from gushing through the set. Still, it brings the best out in their operatic take on bedwetting sans guitar and they play as if conducting a gigantic "F*ck You" to the neighsayers. As they deliver the quite lovely mid section of "Somewhere Only We Know" accompanied by half the crowd, vindication sounds sweet.

Nerdy, but in a wholly more credible way, the crowd for Four Tet is made up of a tiny cabal of men noisily proclaiming his genius. And, whilst you wouldn't want to be one of their long-suffering girlfriends, they certainly have a point. Hebden's live set is in its natural habitat here. "As Serious As Your Life" is stretched out to epic proportions as he mashes electronic and organic sounds into a modal whole and "Sun Drums And Soil" locates the spirit of rave in Kanye West. If two Viao laptops and a Pioneer mixer is the new guitar, bass and drums, then Hebden's restless sound surely qualifies as 'Rock'.

To add confusion to our lazy hypothesis (Bingo - Reviews Ed) the Go-Team throw in the laptops, mixer and decks as well as guitar, bass and drums. Unfortunately, all this technology doesn't bode well for the mud-logged electrics in the slurry-blighted field. A power cut sees much of their crowd wander off. When they return there's just time to run through the wonderful "Panther Dash", "Everyone's A VIP" and "Junior Kickstart" before the Pilton neighbours insist on bedtime.

Van Morrison takes a very different approach to Veterans Day Sunday to the pop orgy (not exactly) conducted by Brian Wilson. He opts to give the crowd a little of what they want rather than exactly what they want. You have to wonder why he even bothers to play "Moondance" and "Gloria". As ever, his band is so dispassionately perfect they can't help themselves cheekily nodding to Miles' "So What" and, even, the 'Batman' theme as they noodle the once great man's catalogue into pub standards.

Primal Scream, who at one point just stop playing, so affronted are they by the reaction to their sludgy "XTRMNTR"-heavy set, explain themselves by pleading, "we're a f*ckin' rock'n'roll band." In fact, they're a rock'n'roll parody and hopelessly spannered. The plug is pulled but Gillespie lingers onstage throwing mic stands and invoking garbled political posturing with all the belief of a kid swearing for effect. Rock'n'roll, evidently, ain't all it's cracked up to be.

The graceless meltdown of The Scream consigns the search for Rock to the bin. In its aftermath The Beautiful South and a nice flat cider seems the perfect festival comedown. As Billy Joel once sang, it's all rock'n'roll to me. Roll on Guilfest.

by James Poletti