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. By lunchtime, they've expanded into a big baroque ensemble - who'll have to remain nameless, I'm afraid - who sound rather like Anthony And The Johnsons. Tremendously precious, clearly, but quite a nice start to the day after all the jungle raving in the early hours. The Strange Death Of Liberal England are substantially more raucous, though with a different set of pretensions. Very roughly, their schtick is yelped post-rock sea shanties, a very self-conscious and parochial but quite stirring response to the Arcade Fire and Godspeed You Black Emperor. Occasionally, they turn into a more prosaic indie band, and I'm unfortunately reminded of something blustery and mediocre. It's worth noting, yoo, that the main guy really can't sing. Stil, not bad. Next up on the Uncut Stage are Silversun Pickups, a highly drilled and precise cross between the Smashing Pumpkins and Weezer. It's a slick and probably lucrative hybrid (there's a lot of corporate hype surrounding them in the States, I think), but it's not really my thing. Neither is the snatch of hugely proficient, mildly cosmic, distinctly Coldplayish stadium rock I hear from, I think, Sonic Flyer soon after at the Sunrise Arena. Fortunately, the band who follow them, Wild Beasts, are great. From the Lake District, Wild Beasts specialise in lopsided, manic jangles that remind me of very early Postcard releases, especially those by Orange Juice. As they open with the fine recent single, "Through Dark Night", it strikes me they're one of those bands you'll either love or hate, due chiefly to the singer's fantastically mad voice - a yodelling, wayward falsetto that's a bit like Billy Mackenzie battling laryngitis. God knows how long he'll be able to keep it up without totally ravaging his vocal chords. For now, though, you really should have a look at them.

Last night, we went feral in the woods. It’s not often you see your editor at a rave, and a rave in the woods at that, but last night UNCUT’s Allan Jones was getting down with the kids to all manner of dub-step and breakbeat classics. And he didn’t even mention Nick Lowe until 2.40 in the morning. This was the after hours fun experienced by your dedicated UNCUT team, out in force for Radio 1’s Rob Da Bank, who was hosting the In The Woods Arena. With the trees beautifully lit up, and a huge, happy, up-for-it crowd, it was a great communal way to close the second day of Latitude properly. Headliners The Good, The Bad & The Queen had drawn an audience on the main stage, sure, but they didn't quite engage with them with the kind of excitement you expect from a festival topline act. This, though, was the kind of shared experience that festival memories are made of, about 1,000 people dancing their socks off, lightsticks and whistles in full effect. Aces rave action. FIVE REECORDS PLAYED BY ROB DA BANK: ** Motorhead – Ace Of Spades ** Aphrodite & Mickey Finn – Drop Top Caddy ** Prodigy – Out Of Space ** Nirvana – Smells Like Teen Spirit ** The Clash – London Calling Anyway, nursing a slightly sore head, I'm off to get some breakfast then catch Phill Jupitus in the comedy arena. Come back later, as we'll be blogging about Jarvis, Arcade Fire and all the day's top bands.

It's been a night of being proved wrong, for me at least, at Latitude. As I'm walking across the site, I can hear The Good, The Bad And The Queen, and they sound really good. I'd previously pegged them as a rather self-conscious trip into psychogeography and musicianly fandom for Damon Albarn. But here the overworked fug clears and the elegaic true quality of the songs - and those Simonon basslines, of course - comes to the fore. And then there's Rodrigo Y Gabriela. I must admit that, until tonight, I'd never heard this band, marketed so aggressively as a novelty band predicated on the schtick of heavy rock flamenco. Which seemed like a terrible idea, on paper. The thing is, when you see this furious and largely compelling duo, the schtick proves to be true, but it's also revealed as a surprisingly good idea. Parts of their epic set are like a Balearic rave-up at the Cafe Del Mar; pulsating, hedonistic music where their boot thumps replace the beats. Other parts, meanwhile, suggest how "Led Zeppelin III" might have sounded if Jimmy Page had fixated on Segovia rather than Bert Jansch. Anyway, it works. They're an extraordinarily crowd-pleasing proposition - I can't recall a bigger and more euphoric reception all weekend. As the giant screen behind them focuses in on their blurring fingers, darting over the body of the guitar as much as the strings, the audience spreading far beyond the tent are whooping, clapping and stomping along. When Rodrigo Y Gabriela chuck in a snatch of Metallica, they go wild. When they play a straight version of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here", it seems like everyone is singing along. It's exhausting and exhilarating to watch, and after an hour, I must confess, the relentless virtuosity becomes more of a gimmick than anything else. But still, as I walk home through the woods, past a bunch of lightsticks dancing to the Klaxons, it seems like a pretty good end to the live business for the day. God knows what happens next.

Saturday night at Latitude. Another festival, another field, and another show-stopping performance from those bouncy Brazilians CSS. Which means another winning mix of weapons-grade disco sarcasm, sloppy-sexy funk and stoopid-kool attitood. Plus an ace cover of L7’s grunge anthem “Pretend We’re Dead” and the magnificent “Alcohol”, the best fall-down-drunk party anthem that Shaun Ryder should have written. Never mind that Lovefoxxx wears the same spangled kaleidoscopic catsuit that she wore at Wireless and Glastonbury. Never mind that she performs the same party trick of sucking in helium from the on-stage balloons before rapping in a Minnie Mouse squeak. Barely a year on the UK radar and CSS are turning into the ultimate feelgood festival band. They have the four-year-olds and the 40-year-olds dancing. If there was a roof on Latitude, they would have raised it. “That was magical and amazing!” they declare as they leave. Correct. Words: Stephen Dalton

Trekking down to Latitude's Lake Stage, I hear that the hotly-tipped Joe Lean And The Jing Jang Jong are the new Television. The bad news is they’re not the new Television, but they are a pretty good Strokes. Lean by name, lean by nature, whip-thin weasel Joe - former Pipettes drummer (wait, come back!) and occasional Peep Show guest star - does his best impersonation of a hip-swivelling, finger-clicking dance machine, while his band, unruly Yardbirds lookalikes, rip out cut glass guitar lines over manic drumming. They might pinch from the New Yorkers, but The Jing Jang Jong are edgier, sabotaging their sing-along melodies with a few cacophonous string-bending sections on ‘Lonely Boy’, and exploring rock’n’doowop on ‘Brooklyn’. They might not be the groundbreaking troupe of envelope pushers I’d hoped, but Joe Lean And The Jing Jang Jong are tighter on their 15th gig than most bands are on their 500th. If you want a party band peddling stylish tales of heartbreak streets ahead of The Pigeon Detectives and their ilk, check them out. Words: Tom Pinnock

It's all gone a bit Late Review round here. In the absence of Tom Paulin, here's UNCUT's Arts Blog. Latitude is not just about music but comedy, literature, theatre, film and cabaret too – plus various hybrids of all of them. Which can mean being assailed by armies of performance-art gonks and patchy student plays about the Iraq war in the middle of a forest. But it can also mean seeing A-list stand-ups like Stewart Lee riffing away about Big Brother, Martin Luther King and sardines on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Always one of the most pop-savvy comedians, Lee announced his intentions to see a last-minute festival addition. “Twenty seven years ago I wanted to go and see The Beat, but I had homework and my mum wouldn’t let me. Well, tonight I’m going to see The Beat play, at two in the morning, and there is nothing my mum can do about it.” Respect. A delegation from the Royal Court Theatre are also playing all three days of Latitude with their “Shuffle” programme of short plays inspired by pop songs. Uncut caught two gems on Saturday, a frothy one-man monologue based on the Eagles soft-rock classic “Hotel California” and a more artful, bittersweet examination of generational conflict between an ex-punk mother and a gangsta rap-loving son. Clever, funny stuff. For festival goers who can’t wait for the Arcade Fire’s Sunday night headline set, Swedish neo-folkies Loney, Dear provided a useful stop-gap on the Uncut stage on Saturday. Proving there is room for rueful reflection and acoustic elegance even in the middle of a giant teddy bears’ picnic like Latitude, these winsome Swedes conjured up a teasing preview of the ecstatic Arcadian bluster that awaits tomorrow night. One of the chief pleasures of Latitude is its relatively compact and manageable size. Which makes it very tempting to drift away from watching big-name bands who have already played half a dozen festivals this summer, and catch a few fringe oddballs instead. They don’t come much odder than Duloks, a cheerfully amateurish Anglo-Canadian trio who played a shambolic set on the fourth stage on Saturday dressed like slightly pervy children’s TV presenters. “Don’t take the brown acid,” singer Mira yelped. “It’s toilet paper with poo on it.” Yummy. But unsigned Leeds foursome Middlemen played a more coherent professional racket on the same stage an hour later. Their reggae-tinged rap-rock close-harmony chat-pop got a small but appreciative crowd bouncing, like a PG-rated Jamie T or Mike Skinner without the drugs. A classic singalong festival band in the making. STEPHEN DALTON