The line-up looked impenetrable. The hill in Bristol's Ashton Park looked like a worthy hike.
Arriving for the Dance day there seemed a choice; six tents, the tents which do the rounds for the rest of summer between raves and festivals, seeing enough maelstrom to curl up into a rent-a-tent warehouse and hibernate all winter - only to be woken up for another summer of chaos the following year.
Orbital donned their traditional goggles for another set of the more of the same.
Busta Rhymes seemed to have got lost in the fug of Bristol valley skunk smog, going so slow people fell over.
De La Soul didn't turn up, apparently due to the promoter's inability to provide them with Business Class travel.
As usual the Bacardi Bar seemed to be the grooviest arena for smiley, beautiful people who sipped tunes from Ross Allen, Phil Asher and BasilBlack II Basic's drumming.
A five decked Gilles Peterson and Earl Zinger, did the Good Times with an attitude set.
Local lad Roni Size was disappointing purely because he just turned up with a bag of records - and MC Dynamite.
Mostly it was fine, but as the genres separated into different tents, the sounds started to aggressively compete with each other.
The hard house lot (Judge Jules, Sonique, Tall Paul) did their job, but the lack of vibe started a fairly malicious rumour of failure beamed from mobile to living room across the country.
Roots day, surely, was going to bring some nice, sunny happiness to those forking out either a compulsory tenner for guest list or thirty-five quid for a day in laid back Bristol.
Was everyone going to show up? We're aware James Brown is here because there's enough security knocking about backstage to put Bin Laden to shame.
Down at the back of the field, it is strictly furry boots roots. Kitachi turns up late, apparently because of 'the ladeez', but kicks a mean acid tweaking dub tune spectacle.
Mr Hermano sends shivers up the spine in the Jazz tent. Awesome dresses, good traditional acid jazz meets nouveau house. It's a well rehearsed set which gets the crowd feeling like we're at a festival worth being at again.
Then it's a schlap up the hill to the main tent again where we look for Nitin Sawhney. But he's just burnt off a few home built CDs.
Beautiful as the sounds were, he's hiding in the corner drinking water whilst flipping through a traveller's CD case.
So to Blak Twang we go. Wicked. The Mobo award winning home grown MC is the best thing many have seen so far.
Speaking from his album (out this week) the vibe is positive but it's a shame the B-Boys in the audience can't catch the mood as they assume their hardman-hands-across-crotch stance.
Meanwhile Asian Dub Foundation showcase some additional members of their crew back up the hill.
As ever, ADF rock. Mean faces, ridiculous star jumps from bassist, Chandrasonic. Everything we love about them is reborn. Finishing with 'Free Satpal Ram'. The crowd want more.
Another highlight is Carleen Anderson. Like the smallest jazz legend ever she perches over a piano initially then limbers over the mike for a small hour.
Pharoah Sanders is mind-blowing.
He's recently recorded his muso's sax sound for bands like the Primal Scream and artists like Arthur Baker. Beautiful. His quartet exhibit a lifetime's expertise. The sound even surpasses the chin-strokers.
But there's another string of no-shows. Pharoahe Monch, Biz Markie, Lee 'Scratch' Perry, and a load of others. The customers can't complain because legally only one of the advertised bill has to show. Hell, why not put The Beatles, Stones, Bob Marley and a naked Madonna down?
But James Brown is the highpoint for most people here.
True he's still got the same hair, same suit and a tight band (the ladies complete with a thousand costume changes). And also true his gig in London the following night costs the same a ticket for everything we've been enlightened by today. But still it's a lacking experience.
The Essential is billed as a festival. It felt like a rave which never peaked - apart from that hill.
Why the organisers decided to put the main tent at the top, we may never know, but it is perhaps indicative.
