A while back, someone at Uncut pointed out to me that one of the words I overused when writing about music was “feral”. He was right, too: I’d got into a habit of using the term whenever the psychedelia and crypto-primitive folk jams that I listen to so much got a little wilder and smellier, became a bit more instinctual, or at least convincingly pretended to be instinctual. It’s a neat way to mythologise the acid-folk and New Weird American stuff, making the musicians sound like they have lived all their life in a bramble bush, and were accidentally captured in the field by a passing interloper with some recording gear. A fair few of these musicians clearly gun for that illusion of naivety, but I think most are smarter: like the first generation of hippies, their attempts to go wild in the country, slough off the taint of the urban military industrial complex, recapture some kind of formative innocence and so on are pretty knowing. Citay, from San Francisco I think, are part of that scene but distinctly different. Like their debut album from last year, “Little Kingdom” has a vibe which is rustic but plush, more Bron Y Aur than Mesozoic swamp. Listening to it, you’d imagine its creators had spent the last decade or so making giant, opulent stadium rock, then had spent six months getting their proverbial heads together somewhere remote, accompanied only by a fleet of engineers and dogsbodies. In fact, Ezra Feinberg and Tim Green come from a broadly post-rock background: Feinberg used to figure in one of the fluctuating line-ups of Piano Magic; Green is the leader of blocky, post-metal types The Fucking Champs, whose music I’ve always found a bit bloodless. Green is also, though, a fairly sought-after producer, working with Comets On Fire, Six Organs Of Admittance and all that lot. If you like Six Organs, you’ll probably go for Citay, too. But you should also be aware of their avowed intentions with this music: to make something influenced by the point where ‘70s heavy rock went a little bucolic. In the press notes that come with “Little Kingdom”, they mention Popol Vuh, “Animals”-era Pink Floyd, Fripp-Eno and early Mike Oldfield. Mainly, though, like its predecessor, the dominant vibe is that of “Led Zeppelin III”, with the additional input of twin lead/harmony-pedal guitars that have a strong whiff of Thin Lizzy and Queen to them. Feinberg’s vocals drift in and out of the mix, a melodious whisper that lets the ravishing instrumental arrangements take precedence. But, again, the whole atmosphere is woody and inviting, but also purposeful. These songs like “Eye On The Dollar” chug meticulously rather than wandering around in a daze. It can get a bit samey after a while – “Little Kingdom” sounds even more hermetically sealed into its warm brown soundworld than its predecessor. But this is still a very nice place to be; ideal, I suspect, for solitary meditative retreats with a retinue. I think Feinberg rather than Green drives Citay, because Tim Green has a solo album out too. The project is called Concentrick, and the slightly patchy album is called “Aluminum Lake”. Some of it is brilliant, and explicitly related to Citay: “Transillumination” especially, while the opening “Waterfall” is an acoustic fantasia that sounds like a Boards Of Canada song. At times, though, you can sense Green being pulled between the two extremes of Citay and The Fucking Champs, with the chill modal rock-outs and electro-squelch of the latter just coming out on top.

With the Bimble Inn tent's balladeer crown going to Emmy The Great last year, it's deservedly up to multi-instrumental troubadours Johnny Flynn and the Sussex Wit to nab it in her absence this time round. One of the strongest members of the alt-folk scene in London at the moment, Flynn's country-tinged songs showed off the band's versatility, with Flynn alone rapidly switching between ukelele, banjo, guitar and violin during the course of an excellent set. 'Cold Bread' and July's release 'Ode To A Mare Trod Ditch' were received as old friends, with extra applause reserved for a rousing version of old favourite 'Tickle Me Pink'. A record label honcho is later heard to grumble that they were too young to be convincing on a lyrical basis, but ambition never killed anyone - certainly not when it sounds this good. Malcolm Middleton has been around the block enough to know exactly what he's on about. "It's miserable as fuck," he says cheerfully when introducing 'Loneliest Night of My Life Come Calling'. While the lyrics wouldn't argue, Middleton's acoustic band comprising himself, a double bassist and a violinist-cum-backing singer means that the lasting effect is more that of a relaxing dinner party than a teary evening hugging the remote. Hell, he even promotes a Swindon hotel he recently stayed in, praising the all you can eat Japanese buffet and resident Basil Fawlty. New song, the ravishing 'Week Off', does little to change this sedate atmosphere, but then 'Break My Heart' gets Middleton shrieking, "I don't want to sing these shit songs anymore." The old grump's still grumbling, thank God. Sticking my head around the door of The Local afterwards to catch the last few songs of The Young Republic is about all I can do: fans of the Bostonian octet have filled the tent to bursting. As signings to End of the Road's own label, they've played three sets this weekend, and all this has got them enough new followers to warrant ditching their own songs and playing covers. Dylan's 'Highway 61 Revisited' is blaring out as I peer over the shoulders of the heaving throng in front of me, while frontman Julian Saporiti wisecracks in a way that annoyingly fails to translate when written down, before the band finish off with one of their own. More please. Words: Kat Brown

After yesterday's blazing sunshine, the near-continuous drizzle has come as a bit of a shock. Lunchtime open mic sessions at The Local got the last of the dry weather, with covers of Herman Dune and Ace of Base's 'The Sign' alongside jazz and some godawful wailing from a man who seemed to have confused Americana with Bon Jovi. In the Big Top tent, London's Pete and the Pirates gave cause for the crowd to start telling their favourite pirate jokes, despite the indie-rockers looking about as seafaring as milk. Singer Tommy Sanders was unimpressed by a heckler's suggestion that the band meet up with The Local stage's similarly-named Peggy Sue and the Pirates - "Who is she anyway?" "My mum," was the guitarist's helpful suggestion. After some tasty gravidlax from the Swedish food stall we wandered over to the relative calm of the Pavilion to check out comedian Josie Long, or as it turned out, the queue waiting to see Josie Long. The biggest draw of the weekend's comedy line-up was standing outside chatting to a camera crew while those waiting to see her amusingly failed to notice her (as did we until she suddenly appeared next to us). We headed back to the Garden stage for ex-Gorky Euros Childs, now well out of the shadow of his former band. With two albums released this year alone there's plenty for the Welshman to draw on, and it's a shame that he's only got 45 minutes to play. Despite increasingly killjoy amounts of drizzle, Childs is on his usual charming, if rambling form. "We're going to turn into the Pet Shop Boys now," he announced brightly, "in the sense that we're both playing synths, not that Neil Tennant had an organ." Childs' myriad influences usually make for a jukebox of a set and today's is just as varied. After a cover of The Sweet's "Chop Chop" and the cheery swing of "My Country Girl", only Childs could get away with the title track from his latest album "The Miracle Inn", a 15-minute long suite with pauses between each section. "Don't clap," he warns. "Because it's not finished. Or, you know, do. It's not obligatory." It would have been churlish and downright wrong not to. Words: Kat Brown

The great thing about small festivals is that you can flit between stages in less time than it takes an I'm From Barcelona balloon to be passed around the crowd. That's what we did this afternoon at End Of The Road. After taking in some of Swedish oddballs I'm From Barcelona and Joan As Policewoman with a trusty cider in hand, we decided to stick around for Scottish folky King Creosote. KC, aka Kenny Anderson, played today with a three-piece band, which unfortunately seemed to limit his usually fluid performance. Only taking to his trademark accordion near the end of his set, the Fence Collective lynchpin didn't seem to really grab the crowd with his songs. Perhaps languid and subtle folk songs like 'There's None Of That' were never really going to excite the crowd out of their tipsy stupor, exhausted after the madness of I'm From Barcelona and the driving Scandi-pop of The Concretes. Another day, Kenny, another day. We then rushed over to the Big Top Tent to see David Vandervelde. Backed by his Moonstation House Band, the young singer, who channels 70s rock in the vein of Marc Bolan and Neil Young, was high on our must-see list. However, when we got there we found a group who most definitely weren't Vandervelde and co on stage. Hmm. Disappointed, we then dawdled over to The Local stage to see Reigns, an instrumental post-rock trio. Augmenting their drummer-less setup with a drum machine and some bizarre samples, their tranquil (if slightly disconcerting) glitch-indie was perfect for the fairy-lit, dry ice-filled tent. Definitely worth checking out if you like your post-rock especially glacial. Keep checking back to our Uncut blogs and news stories for more on End Of The Road Festival, including the definitive review of headliners' Super Furry Animals' performance. Words: Tom Pinnock

While End of the Road has definitely got bigger since last year, the stages are still so close together that you can fall into a band without even realising it. If you were the band in devil outfits playing thrash metal at the Bimble Inn at 1am this morning, our photographer is dying to reach you. One of 10 unsigned(ish) bands to win a slot on The Local stage, Fortuna Pop signings My Sad Captains' almost implausible summeriness was a gift on an afternoon as baking hot as this one. 'Here and Elsewhere' and the title track from June's 'Bad Decisions' EP showed off slacker indie pop sensibilities that singlehandedly steal back the "doo-ron-ron" from McDonalds and herald an inevitable radio takeover in the next year. Over on the Garden stage, Joan Wasser, or Joan As Police Woman as she's known to her careers adviser, was grinning at the crowd through the most enormous pair of sunglasses. "I got a shock when I saw the peacocks," she said, in tones that could stone a hippie at 100 paces, "I didn't believe they existed in the real world." Leaving the rest of her band at home, Wasser's ensuing solo set proved that she's the focal point for a reason. Stripped down to piano, vocals and the occasional stamp of Wasser's foot, the idle strut of 'Save Me' gained new power, while the weakest track on last year's 'Real Life' album, 'Christobel', ("Once and for all, this song is not about Chris De Burgh") got a new lease of life on pared-down guitar. Dedicated by Wasser to its subject Elliott Smith, a heartbreakingly pure 'We Don't Own It' succeeded in silencing the crowd - or at least the first 20 rows - before 'Eternal Flame' ended the set. "I always think I'm Bob Dylan during this part," giggled Wasser during its introduction. Rare solo sets like this prove that she can handle an audience just as well. WORDS: KAT BROWN