At nine o'clock, the omens are not great. Sly And The Family Stone are meant to be starting their headlining set right now, and the strict curfew on this inner-city festival is 10.30. On the main stage, though, Chris Stein has decided to add a five-minute guitar solo to "Rapture", while Debbie Harry looks on with a sort of professional vapidity. Blondie, in all their lumpen, functional weariness, aren't going to be finished any time soon. It is, then, nearly 9.50 before Sly And The Family Stone arrive onstage. Actually, it's just The Family Stone. And if we're being picky and going to believe the Wikipedia entry, it's not even The Family Stone, but a tribute band fronted by Stone's sister, Vet, who until recently were called The Phunk Family Affair. Of course, we were expecting nothing more. Sly Stone's recent and highly unlikely return to the stage has provoked a bunch of mildly outraged reviews, as collated on that Wikipedia page. We know the form: the band will play a few of his hits, then Sly himself will wander on for a couple of perfunctory tunes. Maybe the band will carry on for a while, but that'll be it. It doesn't sound like a great deal, but the prospect of seeing this strange and reclusive man, who at least was a genius once, is irresistible to me. Barely sighted onstage in over two decades, Stone is playing just down the road from home in Hackney. However ill-advised it may sometimes be, I can't resist going to see the old heroes, the reformed bands I give a damn about; it's almost an urge to collect heritage scalps, I guess. So anyway, here are the band playing "Dance To The Music", as you might imagine, and to be honest a lot of the crowd don't seem to have noticed that the leader is absent. They're a decent funk showband, a little too fond of taking solos, and fronted by a woman - Vet Stone - who's a capable singer but who doesn't have much in the way of presence. It's OK: the edge of those old records is missing, of course, that precarious mix of tension and euphoria. As they roll out "Everyday People" and "Hot Fun In The Summertime", the pleasures are less complicated; those of a party band, not a blazing collective with a revolutionary subtext. But after about half an hour, just as the rain arrives, so does Sly Stone, and everything changes. He doesn't look great, to be honest - hunched and swivelled, seemingly dressed like Flavor Flav, though at least the towering blond mohawk that he sported at the 2006 Grammys has gone. But then he starts singing "If You Want Me To Stay", and it's terrific; fragile and wandering a little, but with all the emotional resonance that he summoned up nearly 40 years ago. It's quite moving, too, and thankfully the band have cut the showy fills. Earlier reports have portrayed Stone as an invalided, Wilsonesque figure, marooned behind his keyboards, but he seems much stronger and stranger than that. Next is "Sing A Simple Song", that impressionistic, wasted mutter still beguiling, and he's doing this shambolic dance, a kind of stooped shadowboxing, round the stage. Watching him, it occurs to me that his short appearances are not due to physical infirmity, quite, but more down to an extreme version of soulman narcissism. We will tolerate fleeting appearances, goes the thinking, because we are grateful to be in the presence of such a stellar talent. The thing is, if you go to a show like this expecting to be disappointed, as I did, you can deal with such primadonna-ish behaviour. After two songs, Stone appears to say something about going for a piss, and disappears. The band look momentarily flummoxed, and the bassist decides to play another solo. But then they just carry on with the set without him, with "Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)". Amazingly, he comes back, and "I Wanna Take You Higher" is great, too. "Stand" is even better, and now Stone is sat on his piano stool, spinning round and round, singing with this great parched feeling, and - judging by the close-ups - an expression of justifiable rapture on his face. Towards the end, he scuttles off without even acknowledging the crowd, and seconds later the curfew shuts down the band. That's it. OK, I didn't pay to get in, so I can't say for sure whether I would have felt ripped off as a 'real' punter. It's not churlish to expect more than four songs from a festival's headlining act, though I personally suspected we might only get three. I do feel, rather sheepishly, privileged to have seen a legend in my own backyard, still with a palpable grasp on his genius. He may be back here again and again, deconstructing his myth with revival after revival. He may never play again. Me, I'm just glad I made the effort tonight.

At nine o'clock, the omens are not great. Sly And The Family Stone are meant to be starting their headlining set right now, and the strict curfew on this inner-city festival is 10.30. On the main stage, though, Chris Stein has decided to add a five-minute guitar solo to "Rapture", while Debbie Harry looks on with a sort of professional vapidity. Blondie, in all their lumpen, functional weariness, aren't going to be finished any time soon. It is, then, nearly 9.50 before Sly And The Family Stone arrive onstage. Actually, it's just The Family Stone. And if we're being picky and going to believe the Wikipedia entry, it's not even The Family Stone, but a tribute band fronted by Stone's sister, Vet, who until recently were called The Phunk Family Affair. Of course, we were expecting nothing more. Sly Stone's recent and highly unlikely return to the stage has provoked a bunch of mildly outraged reviews, as collated on that Wikipedia page. We know the form: the band will play a few of his hits, then Sly himself will wander on for a couple of perfunctory tunes. Maybe the band will carry on for a while, but that'll be it. It doesn't sound like a great deal, but the prospect of seeing this strange and reclusive man, who at least was a genius once, is irresistible to me. Barely sighted onstage in over two decades, Stone is playing just down the road from home in Hackney. However ill-advised it may sometimes be, I can't resist going to see the old heroes, the reformed bands I give a damn about; it's almost an urge to collect heritage scalps, I guess. So anyway, here are the band playing "Dance To The Music", as you might imagine, and to be honest a lot of the crowd don't seem to have noticed that the leader is absent. They're a decent funk showband, a little too fond of taking solos, and fronted by a woman - Vet Stone - who's a capable singer but who doesn't have much in the way of presence. It's OK: the edge of those old records is missing, of course, that precarious mix of tension and euphoria. As they roll out "Everyday People" and "Hot Fun In The Summertime", the pleasures are less complicated; those of a party band, not a blazing collective with a revolutionary subtext. But after about half an hour, just as the rain arrives, so does Sly Stone, and everything changes. He doesn't look great, to be honest - hunched and swivelled, seemingly dressed like Flavor Flav, though at least the towering blond mohawk that he sported at the 2006 Grammys has gone. But then he starts singing "If You Want Me To Stay", and it's terrific; fragile and wandering a little, but with all the emotional resonance that he summoned up nearly 40 years ago. It's quite moving, too, and thankfully the band have cut the showy fills. Earlier reports have portrayed Stone as an invalided, Wilsonesque figure, marooned behind his keyboards, but he seems much stronger and stranger than that. Next is "Sing A Simple Song", that impressionistic, wasted mutter still beguiling, and he's doing this shambolic dance, a kind of stooped shadowboxing, round the stage. Watching him, it occurs to me that his short appearances are not due to physical infirmity, quite, but more down to an extreme version of soulman narcissism. We will tolerate fleeting appearances, goes the thinking, because we are grateful to be in the presence of such a stellar talent. The thing is, if you go to a show like this expecting to be disappointed, as I did, you can deal with such primadonna-ish behaviour. After two songs, Stone appears to say something about going for a piss, and disappears. The band look momentarily flummoxed, and the bassist decides to play another solo. But then they just carry on with the set without him, with "Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)". Amazingly, he comes back, and "I Wanna Take You Higher" is great, too. "Stand" is even better, and now Stone is sat on his piano stool, spinning round and round, singing with this great parched feeling, and - judging by the close-ups - an expression of justifiable rapture on his face. Towards the end, he scuttles off without even acknowledging the crowd, and seconds later the curfew shuts down the band. That's it. OK, I didn't pay to get in, so I can't say for sure whether I would have felt ripped off as a 'real' punter. It's not churlish to expect more than four songs from a festival's headlining act, though I personally suspected we might only get three. I do feel, rather sheepishly, privileged to have seen a legend in my own backyard, still with a palpable grasp on his genius. He may be back here again and again, deconstructing his myth with revival after revival. He may never play again. Me, I'm just glad I made the effort tonight.

Just got back from an incredibly frenetic show by !!! - the US dance-punk outfit were incredible. Singer Nic Offer fuelled with helium sneakily passed onstage by CSS' Lovefoxxx who was still waiting in the wings having just played another technicolor show, welcomed the baying crowd squeaky high - and the show was on! Power to the site was rectified shortly after the last post, but apologies for the delay in getting back to the laptop - simply had to go get infected with the hi-energy brand of !!!'s dance with loud guitars. The stage was filled with at least nine members of the Sacramento band - with at least three drummers on the go at any one time - and the rhythm was certainly infectious. Abusing/utilising my pass for the first time this weekend, I watched from the side of the stage, and the crowd in and out of the tent stretched far into the horizon, all with their arms in the air. Offer introduced "Shit Scheisse Merde Pt 1" in his newly learnt Spanish, but the crowd didnt really understand, and went very quiet for the only time during the band's stage roaming. Rapping, singing, shouty vocals, it was all covered and more. I've woken up now, and raring to go, The B-52s are onstage now - hope they play the lobster song! I'll file my round-up of this evening's bands a wee while later - highlights so far include Camera Obscura's Tracey Ann guesting with Peter, Bjorn And John, and Os Mutantes brought their psychedelic latin-beats rock to the festival - feel privileged to have seen them as it was one of their rare appearances in Europe. I'll tell you all about it later. Anyhoo - B-52s are calling my name.

Dinosaur Jr are one of the veterans playing this year's festival - we are still looking forward to seeing Animal Collective and Calexico this weekend. J Mascis comes on to greet the main stage with long (natural) platinum blond locks, and plugs in his guitar... Like many ‘older’ bands, Dinosaur's musicianship is in a different league to many of the young upstarts currently hogging ‘the scene’. It felt, as he played, that all good artists today have been influenced by the sounds inside J's head. They play a stage completely stacked with Marshall amps and the sound is amazing - it's a wonder they have any hearing left after playing so long. The set list was: 'Almost Ready' 'Heaven' 'Lou#1' 'Fury' 'Been There' 'This Is All I Care To Do' 'Feel Pain' 'Wagon' 'Freakscene' Fast walking to The Klaxons payed off, squeezing into the side of the far too small tent, the anticipation in the air was pretty exhilerating, despite the heat. Starting with “Your Name’s Not Down, You’re Not Coming In”. And indeed, if you’re not alraedy in, you'd have no chance, as the crowd spilling out into the fields around the tent are still straining to see in. Squashed against the tarpaulin of the tent,we still made enough space to have a little dance to the band's muggy sounding riffs. The hits like 'Golden Skans' and 'Gravity's Rainbow' drive the crowd mental. And as a bonus people handing out time multicoloured glow rave bracelets as presents, added to the mental club feel. With the crowd this over-excited, they could have played 'Ace Of Spades', and got away with it. On my way back through hospitality, which is, in true Spanish style, VERY hospitable, we happen across Human League frontman, Phil Oakey. He kindly fronts us a drink, whilst telling me they’ve flown in a whole day early, not fussed about enjoying the delights of the festival, but purely to see Devo live! And then… Devo take the stage. And from the first moment, the crowd are with them; drawn into their world. Middle-age spread doesn’t even register. Three songs in and ‘Secret Agent Man’ gets even the new converts dancing. ‘Satisfaction’ follows with the weirdly sedate vibe. Then the boilder suits are ripped from band members arms during ‘Uncontrolable Edge’, ending with the characteristic group dance. The older fans get far too excited as ‘Mogoloid’ follows, with much robot dancing in the audience, and confused looks from those unaware of the background. In the final section, it’s down to boxers, Devo t-shirts and shin pads, as it all goes a bit psychadelic. The experienced genre-defining musicians onstage rivalling modern electro outfits with their cutting-edge blips and bleeps. From this point on, genius status clearly established and accepted, they could take us anywhere… We are D-E-0V-O! Additional reporting: Genia Davy

Just got back from seeing the best band I've seen in a while. Hey it's Wilco - I know we gushed about their set at Latitude last weekend but, wow, watching 20,000 people go mental just now was icing on the Uncut cake. Sounding like the best bits of Creedence Clearwater in parts, especially during 'Handshake Drugs' - I learnt the word for melt in Spanish - 'Derritir' - that's what Nels Cline's guitar combined with the band jamming behind him made me and thousands of overs feel like. Wilco, as John said so eloquently last weekend, fucking rock. I lost myself spacily in the proggy guitar sounds, and the vocals, and the swathed in mist, woken up between songs by the crowd chanting 'Ole Ole Ole Ole' - a chant started by Tweedy from the start. Very similar set to what we saw last week in Suffolk; 'Side With The Seeds', Spiders (Kidsmoke)' and 'I'm The Man Who Loves You' - but with thousands of people dancing, waving lights and flags, the atmosphere is amazing - Wilco deserve a crowd like this - what a difference a few miles makes. Devo are in the hallway to the press area, all in red builders hats, - very surreal - they are about to do a press conference before playing Benicassims' headline slot a bit later. Off to see Dinosaur Jr now - saw Mascis again about half hour ago - he still hasn't sorted his set list! Hope there's plenty of 'Bug'!

Where was everyone? In 1978, closing in on 100,000 people marched six miles from Trafalgar Square to Victoria Park in East London to see The Clash headline a benefit concert for Rock Against Racism. Last night, RAR celebrated its 30th anniversary with a show at the Hackney Empire and when the evening started there probably weren’t enough people in the venerable old hall to fill a bus – not that this stopped a parade of veteran RAR activists regaling us at windy length and often at great volume with heroic tales of past battles with the National Front and BNP and their various Nazi allies, the lot of them hoarse and misty-eyed as the din of bygone conflict roared no doubt in their ears and banners flapped before them in an imaginary breeze. There were also several among last night’s musical cast with longstanding links with the organisation – Carol Grimes, who headlined the very first RAR concert, Tom Robinson (with TV Smith on rhythmn guitar), who with TRB supported The Clash at Victoria Park all those years ago, as well as tonight’s ostensible bill-toppers, the ‘legendary’ Misty In Roots. You can probably attribute the somewhat less than meaningful turnout to the absence of a more obviously popular headliner, but there’s interest a-plenty from some quarters in the section of tonight’s show curated by Babyshambles bassist Drew McConnell, which includes an appearance by The View who busk breezily through spunky acoustic versions of “Superstar Tradesman” and “Face For Radio”. The main point of interest here for me, though, is the projected first appearance in what seems like years of Patrick Walden, the guitar genius who fired Babyshambles classics like “Fuck Forever”, “Pipedown”, “Up The Morning” and “Eight Dead Boys”. Pat left the band around 18 months ago for what we’ll call health reasons and has been since recovering. He was due to appear earlier this year at the Cheltenham Jazz festival with bush-haired drummer Seb Roachford, but at the last minute pulled out. Seb’s here tonight, playing drums with Drew – and here’s Drew at the microphone, with an announcement that causes some considerable excitement where I’m sitting. “I’ve been waiting to say these words for a long time,” he says. Adding simply, “Pat Walden.” And out comes Pat, looking a far cry from the skeletal guitar hero of yore, the hollow-eyed spectre I’d last seen when Babyshambles played Shepherd’s Bush Empire in February 2006, after which date Pat dipped out of sight. Pat these days is clearly in thankfully rude health, looks frankly robust in rumpled black shirt and jeans, hair a fashionable mess. He plugs in for a furious takes on Babyshambles’ favourites “The Man Who Came To Stay” and “8 Dead Boys” – one of my favourite tracks from Down In Albion. I got a bit of a sniffy reaction from a lot of sceptical readers when in a review of Babyshambles at Brixton Academy, I described Pat as a cross between Keith Richards and Jimi Hendrix, many people thinking I was merely taking the piss or possibly trying to wind up Jeff tweedy. I was doing neither. Walden’s just a fucking genius guitar player. No one I can think of at the moment quite sounds like him and even though tonight he’s low enough in the mix to make me want to hold a gun to someone’s head and tell them to turn every dial in the house up to 11, he still shines, his playing a thing of burnished metallic wonder – the serrated riffs on “The Man. . .” are electrifying and “Dead Boys” just fucking rocks, man. It’s over too soon, of course, and Pat squats stageside as Drew, looking relieved at last now that Pat has actually appeared, introduces first a buoyant Ed Larrikin who turns in a rousing version of the Waterboys’ “Fisherman’s Blues” and then Ali Love, who precedes the brief but very welcome appearance of The View. His name’s not on any of the posters or flyers, but word has gone out that Jerry Dammers is going to appear – either with his new big band or as DJ. In the event, he’s nowhere to be seen tonight and I rather get the impression that his name’s been spread in a last minute attempt to bolster ticket sales. Which tactic would have worked on me, if I hadn’t already been going to see the very welcome return of Patrick Walden.

A surreal cab journey from Valencia airport. Fifi Trixibelle, sister of Peaches Geldof, is in the back of our cab on the way to the Benicassim Festival site, and we arrive to the sight of Iggy & The Stooges creating a massive stage invasion which desperate security tried to hold back... Now accustomed to playing festivals, since the Stooges reformed a couple of years ago, they've been clocking up shows at the rate of knots. This one is pure adrenaline, muscle and all the riffs you can air guitar to, "No Fun", swiftly followed by "I Wanna Be Your Dog", cements the fact that we, have, indeed, arrived. As a Beni virgin, it's a lot to take in. It's dark, it's loud, and there are palm trees and haystacks to sit on. There's a swimming pool too. I've heard that of the capacity crowd, 75% of tickets were sold to non-Spaniards, a festival record. Even more surprisingly, 65% of those were sold to Brits. Which by my late night calculations works out at just over 40% British music fans here to see Muse, Arctic Monkeys et al, without wading knee-deep in cow manure. Bright Eyes came on at midnight, in a flash of white, dressed to the nines in suits, and with more instruments than you can count - Conor Oberst plus a nine-strong-ish string and brass orchestra behind him. It was more Arcade Fire, than Arcade themselves. Intense, lush arrangements, plus bastardisations of tearjerking acoustic numbers like "This Is The First Day Of My Life" into extreme country and western surprised but impressed the festival's maxed-out first night crowd. Recent single "Hot Knives" pumped up and spun the crowd into a dancing frenzy - which tbh is not what you'd expect from their recorded material. Will file setlist from the Bright Eyes show in the morning, having computer difficulties... Off to see the best band you've, and I've, never heard of, huge here in Espana apparently, Los Planetas, on the main stage - catch you in the am, with pics and everything. Vodka fanta limon if anyone's at the bar.

I've blogged previously about Grindhouse's abysmal showing at the American box office, and last night I finally got to see the version of Tarantino's extended Death Proof segment that's getting a UK release in September. Grindhouse was intended as a tribute to the cult movies of the Seventies, the Italian horror flicks, exploitation movies and the post-Easy Rider crash-and-burn road movies. Tarantino's Death Proof is a pretty nasty spin on the latter two -- woman are indeed exploited, in a way that borders uncomfortably on the misogynist, and cars are raced and chased through the badlands of Texas and Tennessee. It revolves around Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell), a scarred, bequiffed vet of TV shows like The Virginian, The Men From Shiloh and Vegas. He has a big, black, reinforced 1969 Dodge Challenger with a death's head painted on the bonnet in which he pursues and kills girls, four of whom we meet in the Texas Chili Parlour, drinking shots and talking, talking, talking about getting laid and getting stoned and a weekend trip away. It's a kind of white trash Sex In The City jam, and it lasts for at least 20 minutes. Sure, Tarantino has written some crackling movie dialogue -- the Madonna speech in Reservoir Dogs, the Grand Royale debate in Pulp Fiction -- but these zippy, sparky exchanges have previously been restricted to 5 minute chunks and surrounded by equally memorable action scenes. Here, the dialogue just goes on and on. t's like telling a guitarist he does really good solos, and then he goes off and makes an album consisting entirely of... solos. It takes ages for anything to happen, and when it does it starts with poor Rose MacGowan being violently battered around the inside of Stuntman Mike's car until she's extremely bloody and very dead. The other girls are equally unfortunate. We cut foward, 14 months later, to another group of girls (including Rosario Dawson), and we get a replay of the first half of Death Proof. Only this time, there's a car chase and the girls fight back. The car chase is brilliant, actually, one of the best things in the film. It's an old-school, non-CGI face-off (or wing off, door off, windscreen off...) between two Dodge Challengers, in explicit homage to one of Death Proof's key references, Richard Sarafian's 1971 chase flick, Vanishing Point. To give it an extra bump, we get real-life stuntwoman Zoe Bell (who doubled for Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, and plays herself here) hanging off the hood of one car as it pelts along at breakneck speed, rammed and battered by Stuntman Mike's own Dodge Challenger. At one point, a car crashes through a hoarding advertising a double bill of Scary Movie 4 and Wolf Creek. Maybe this is the balance QT's aiming for: kinda funny, kinda scary. Truth is, Death Proof isn't really either of these things. I'd also worry slightly about the claim QT (via Zoe Bell) makes for Vanishing Point, which is described as one of the "greatest American movies ever made." It isn't. The way QT refuses to distinguish between high and low art is actually pretty interesting. In his world, Scorsese, Kubrick, Godard and Truffaut occupy the same space as Lucio Fulci, Russ Meyer or Richard Sarafian. It's great, because it means there's no sniffy snobbery in his work, he's likely to be as enthusiastic and passionate about 400 Blows as he is Soldier Blue. But here it feels like he's chosen to riff on a genre of movies that's just not really very good. There's some strong performances -- particularly MacGowan, Dawson, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Bell and Russell. And the car chase is phenomenal. It's just wading through the other 90 minutes that's pretty tough going.