It may well be that it's not where you're from but where you're at that counts, but where Sigur Ros are from is sliced across the faces of 35,000 people.
Mid-afternoon in the humid, fleeting rain and thunder threatened South Park and the gorgeous, voluminous beauty of the Icelandic explorers wafts delicately in the ether.
While this is clearly just too 'out there' for some, others, perhaps like those who've embraced the vision of Radiohead on their last two albums, consider it a rare joy and a commendable choice.
As the maudlin strains and gigantic emotional swathes of their music - mostly taken from debut album 'Agaetis Byrjun'- drift overhead - you think of their isolated, barren and terminally landlocked Icelandic roots and you wish it was dark. Then you hear the Whales-mating affirmation of 'Staralfur' and you think of nothing at all.
Supergrass, meanwhile, are an entirely different proposition, and far less about the head than the body. Though patently overshadowed by their gigantic local hosts and still grappling with the reality that they've grown up but are forever young - particularly in the carefree burgeon of their sound - you can't deny a canon of strident pop classics.
However, while tracks like 'Caught By The Fuzz', 'Richard III', 'Moving', 'Pumping On Your Stereo' and 'Going Out' inject much needed oomph into the day, the one new track played and a mild sense of malaise make you question whether their time and best days may already be behind them.
Not a handicap you would associate with Beck, who has previously claimed he's light years ahead of himself, let alone us. Fresh from a string of barnstorming live UK 'pantomimes', replete with the phenomenally elaborate Beck and the Family Stone live circus, today is a decidedly different proposition.
And, depending on your mind-set, his 'turn' is either a life-affirming acoustic evocation of his Greenwich village, Woody Guthrie heart, or a drab but mildly engaging strum through some unquestionably tremendous tracks.
Playing alone, and at times with a couple of other musicians, the decidedly low-key - and not at all Beck in the 21st century - performance, draws heavily from what many consider to be his high-water mark thus far - '98's brilliant 'Mutations'.
The eternally chilling 'Nobody's Fault But My Own' - which Thom Yorke will later loop into 'Everything In Its Right Place'- a charmed 'We Live Again' and the glorious melancholia of 'Static' are all an antidote to the ludicrous queue for the - wow! No Logo!' - bar or the trying mission of finding your friends amidst the scrum.
Elsewhere, the likes of 'One Foot In The Grave' and 'Beautiful Way' give some perspective to the fact that Beck wasn't always a rather convoluted and confused assemblage of every sound, shape and style that has existed since the birth of rock and roll. Sometimes it's better to think than just thwack.
