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

Being a singer-songwriter is a tricky business. Which route do you take? You can always attempt to bludgeon your audience into submission with the sheer power of your one act show, or you can entrance them with the ethereal magic of your fragile performance. So far, we've seen both sides of the singer-songwriter paradox (well, as we like to call it) in just a few hours at End Of The Road Festival, first with Stephanie Dosen's disturbing, delicate folk and then with John Doe's straight-down-the-line country blues. We catch Dosen on the main Garden Stage just as the rain is beginning to pour - so this is why Dorset is so green. While on record songs like 'Way Out' could easily be too sentimental, cloying or (god forbid) kooky, they're given enough raggedness and immediacy by her all-female band (including a cellist and a violinist) to survive unscathed. Dosen herself, with her nest of bleached blonde hair and torn black dress, is an engaging, if confusing, personality: gaps between her dark but sweet songs are taken up with her bizarre stage banter. At one point, while her string players are finding their music for the next song, Dosen introduces half her band then tells half a 'knock knock' joke, before exclaiming "that's because I'm a fucker!" No, us neither. Meanwhile, John Doe is kicking out the jams in the Big Top tent with his acoustic blues. While Dosen relies on her meticulously fingerpicked melodies, Doe just strums his guitar with the force of an ox. It may not be the most dynamic performance, but the singer keeps the crowd rapt with his low honeyed croon. The highlight of the set is undoubtedly his rendition of a 1920s-style murder ballad about 'the meanest man in the world'. Near the end of Doe's set he's joined by desert-folk legend Howe Gelb and his band for a few thrilling up-tempo hoedowns. It obviously doesn't matter which type of singer-songwriter you are, as long as you're a good one, that is. The paradox is solved. Words: Tom Pinnock