Gig played on 24/25/26 June 2005

It's at precisely 11.11am on Friday that a member of our already weary entourage makes his announcement. "I wanna go home", insists our beaten soul. We've been here little more than 12 hours. However, we've also just witnessed the kind of storm Judas would've required as a backdrop for his shonky antics. Across three hours, carved fork lightning has scared the living hell out of Glastonbury. Tents are now desperately attempting to float home. Around 100,000 people have paid good money for this experience. We await, forlornly, a turning point.

Editors are, unfortunately, not that moment. However, if you've been seduced by Interpol's cloaked zerox of the Joy Division heart of darkness, this is a start. Their sharp, dark intensity reaches a peak on the blitzing "Munich" and "Camera", providing the first moment of drama at Glastonbury 2005, beyond the hellish umbrage being wreaked by 'The Man Upstairs'.

Elsewhere on the Other Stage, Bloc Party bid to remind us why they're current darlings. Exhume your sopping foot from that quagmire for a second and, in jagged belters such as "Like Eating Glass", "Pioneers" and "Modern Love", it makes sense. Crucially though, they lack any charisma, and as the wind howls across their sound you're struck principally by the devastating force of drummer Matt Tong, rather than the angular chops. In fact, he's so dazzlingly propulsive it seems the rest of the band can't keep up and are, in fact, all playing different songs.

At this point it becomes obvious we're standing on the lowest area of the site and seek refuge and inspiration at the Jazz World Stage. There we find, er, jazz legend Rodney Smith, aka Roots Manuva, trussed-up in a fluffy pink romper suit. So much for his terrifying mental demons. Clearly, this man could have fun inside the head of a manic depressive on a comedown. Akin to the James Brown cabaret act, Rodney rips through choice cuts from "Awfully Deep", before magically turning the mud into a field of freshly mown grass with a rocking "Witness The Pitness". Ladies and gentlemen, we have a turning point.

Come Saturday, spirits are on the rise and I Am Kloot are in no mood to let the momentum dip. Greeted like heroes, Johnny Bramwell might suggest he has neither "the wisdom nor the guile" to transport us skywards, but "Proof", "86 TVs" and "To You" say otherwise. You're left pondering the deification of The La's when we have a band at least as brilliant in full working order. Perhaps a man who embraces boozy bonhomie rather than drug transcendence can never be discussed in the same mythical headspace.

Next up, in the astutely renamed John Peel tent, The Longcut and The Earlies take their turns and while the Manc baggy-psychedelicists impress with their cyclical build and release, peaking on the interstellar crash of "Transition", they cannot possibly compete with the Texan/Lancashire 12-piece. Truly, The Earlies are something to behold, as they draw static twitches alongside grand piano strikes and onto euphoric harmonising in a mesmeric exhibition of sound + ambition = fantastic. At this moment, it seems unlikely the 'Wizard Of Oz' sonics of "Wayward Son" or "One Of Us Is Dead" will be matched by any music played elsewhere on Earth this weekend.

Naturally, Coldplay have something to say about that. Three years ago, Chris Martin smashed down the door into rock'n'roll Heaven and now he's sat right next to God. Well, Bono's not here this weekend and Bob Geldof's already been and gone, so we're witness to a holy display of anthemic sound and hydrating emotion that is water pure. "Square One", "Politik", "Yellow", "Clocks" and "Speed Of Sound" are delivered with furious intensity, before Martin scrapes-up our run-over forms with his humbling, inclusive style and sprit. We're then levelled again by the band's triumphantly epic rendition of Kylie's "Can't Get You Out Of My Head", which spears the track's pop bubble with a yearning, blunt guitar blade. We stumble to our tents determined to make a fire no matter what, left wondering what all the fuss was over this supposedly bothersome rain.

Entering the final straight and it seems nothing can prevent Glastonbury 2005 going down as an absolute classic, particularly if you had the patience to queue for the Ghost Train. As Tony Benn rants spectacularly yards away at the nonsense war fought in our name, we are felt-up in the dark by blood-soaked vixens and watch a dead-eyed she-devil swallowed whole into an earthy pit. Excellent!

Back to the music, and The Dears prove themselves to be some considerable distance from their enticing billing as 'The Orchestral Smiths', whilst Brian Wilson understandably ditches the abstract right-angles of "Smile" for a pop selection as hot as the volcanic sun which has now taken residence in the sky.

Primal Scream, meanwhile, and Basement Jaxx, are charged with filling the not inconsiderable void left by the world's favourite pop rocket. Both flounder, to a degree. Jaxx suffer from the obvious pressure put upon them, but, with the likes of "Where's Your Head At" and "Red Alert", they do snatch any remaining energy we may have left in our drained bodies. The Scream, however, are a different matter entirely, as Bobby Gillespie's filthy mood/rock'n'roll act seeks to offend the apparently "fu*king complacent" crowd. The bulldozing good-time orgy of "Rocks" and "Move On Up" and the futuristic head-smash of "Kill All Hippies" and "Shoot Speed Kill Light" only tighten the noose around Gillespie's vein-bulging neck.

Go for it Bobby. We've dealt with far greater forces than you this weekend. And we came out smiling like you would not believe...

by Ben Gilbert