It's a criminal shame that one of the finest bands to come out of the planet's lower end should play to a half-empty tent. Australian indie charmers Howling Bells were more than up to the challenge, proving unequivocally that a voice like a loudhailer channelling angels can overcome anything – even having Arcade Fire as their audience competition.
The festival's most entertaining front man is, by a country mile, Jarvis Cocker. His colourful, between song digressions are frequently priceless and, on the odd occasion, better than the songs themselves.
Here come The Rapture. They are loud, they are rowdy, they are woo-yeah funkay for tha laydeez - but frankly, they are also a bit dull. Come in, let’s be honest, the flavour has drained a little from all this knowingly retro punk-funk now that the formula has been hammered to death by every disco-rock chancer from London to New York and back.
It's a loveable tick of Latitude that you get kids sporting squeaky-clean floral wellies in the same ground as well-heeled WI members. "He’s got lovely tattoos," says one old chap admiringly, pointing at Cold War Kids frontman Nathan Willet's inked chest. Still, while indeed lovely, they're not really enough to keep a crowd visually entertained for 45 minutes.
A lively afternoon at Latitude today, where the conditions are fluctuating between blazing sunshine and torrential rain. It's oddly suitable for Andrew Bird, whose fascination with meteorology led him to call one of his old albums "Weather Systems".
Down by the lake this morning, there's a large band dressed like bad mime artists in boho pierrot gear. At ten thirty, the flute and oboe players are making bird noises at each other from opposite banks of the lake.
The Latitude Kids Area have been organising a carnival type parade this weekend, and the incredibly long and hand crafted dragon wound it's way across the site this afternoon. Led by children beating drum sticks on wheelie bins, it was quite a nice urban/country juxtapostion.
OK, so far today I've caught some fine comedy from Phill Jupitus, and been dragged by Farah towards a showgirl workshop in the Cabaret Tent. Oh, and earlier this morning I bumped into a bloke called Danny Kerwin.
Such has been the drooling media focus on Kate Bush this week, it might be tough to imagine British music journalists listening to anything else these past few days. I'm not, in fairness, exempt from the hysteria: here's...