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

Afternoon, lovely day here at Latitude, pretty densely populated with singer-songwriters, it has to be said. I started the day at the lovely Sunrise stage in the woods(apparently, its strikingly mellow atmosphere was fractured yesterday when Les Rita Mitsouko got booed off). Right now, though, there's an angsty strummer called Karima Francis who looks a bit like a dreadlocked Justine Frischmann and sounds, I'm afraid, like KT Tunstall trying to do a Jeff Buckley impression. It's a bit grim, but the crowds lying in the undergrowth seem to appreciate such a politely fraught start to the day. Stephanie Dosen is next, a blonde from Milwaukee who could easily be mistaken for one of the elfin stewards who hang lurk in these woods. A certain overproduced preciousness blighted her recent album for me, so this is better - stripped back to acoustic guitar, cello and violin. Nevertheless, the pursuit of the ethereal, and a twee, tasteful aesthetic (in ten years of the Cocteaus-affiliated Bella Union label, they've never signed anyone so reminiscent of Liz Fraser) can grate a little. Maybe Dosen's songs could do with a little more of the curious wit she reveals in her rambling monologues between songs, even if the kookiness gets a bit Phoebe from Friends occasionally. "I dedicate this song to all the owls whose homes were ruined by this tent," she announces. Quite. A swift hike up to the Uncut tent is rewarded with the excellent Elvis Perkins. Perkins doesn't appear to be remotely precious or, here at least, interested in baring his soul to the suffering public. Instead, he writes and plays excellent, roistering folk-pop songs in a distinct Dylan tradition. Perhaps Willy Mason is the closest modern analogue, but I think Perkins - the son of Anthony Perkins, intriguingly - is better than Masdon. It's a swaggering, roistering show from the stealthy opening of "While You Were Sleeping" to the revivalist hoedown finale of "Doomsday". By then, Perkins has been joined by most of Cold War Kids and Alec Ounsworth from Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, while his drummer is cavorting round the stage with a bass drum strapped to his chest. All very jolly, and in the spirit of Michael's bizarre star-spotting here, I can report thatMartha Kearney from Newsnight seemed to be enjoying it, too.

Or, what I did this morning at Latitude. Despite feeling relatively delicate today (ah, bless the pear cider), a gentle stroll round the Latitude site does wonders for the constitution. It's getting really busy here already -- the Comedy Arena was packed by 1pm when Lee Mack came on. I like Lee Mack -- he's got an easy-going, engaging way about him, perfectly suited to the lazy Saturday morning vibe. He does some good jokes about Franz Ferdinand, predictive text and jugglers. Which makes me wonder: does every comedian at every festival do jokes about jugglers..? In the Film & Music Tent, there's Dunya Dinlemiyor, a Turner Prize nominated installation featuring a collection of Turkish Smiths' fans performing karaoke of their favourite Morrissey/Marr hits. It's quite touching, seeing these people sing their hearts out in front of the camera. Then it's back out, and another stroll. I see people dressed as cats, men in skirts, didgeridoo players and the usual array of colourful festival freaks. Farah got some great pictures, too. SOME FAMOUS PEOPLE SPOTTED AT LATITUDE BETWEEN 1pm AND 2pm ** Richard Curtis. He wrote Blackadder and Four Weddings & A Funeral. He is possibly richer than most A list rock stars. ** Don Letts. He practically invented the punky reggae party, don't you know. He was spotted crossing a bridge, sporting very impressive dreads. ** Pat Mills. The man who created Judge Dredd, which makes him a Cultural Legend. This is quite exciting, in a geeky comic fan way. ** The Hold Steady. Ambling through the site, carrying their equipment. And pushing a wheel barrow. This is rock news. Later, I hope to see Dylan Moran in the Comedy Arena, and Roger McGough is broadcasting a special edition of his Radio 4 show, Poetry, Please, which I'd like to catch. Off, now, to see Annuals. More later!

Or the stuff that happens after dark. I'm reporting on Latitude's nocturnal shenanigans, the prime focus of which is Sean Rowley and his Guilty Pleasures empire. Running across all three nights in the Comedy tent (very apt) from 10.30 to 3am, it's the mecca for prety much everyone still standing. Of course, you're either a fan or not. Look away now, if the following information is likely to cause offence: Five records played in the Guilty Pleasures tent between 12.20 and 12.40: Elton John & Kiki Dee -- Don't Go Breaking My Heart Irene Cara -- What A Feeling George Michael -- Faith Salt n Peppa -- Push It Starship -- We Built This City Crap, of course, but great fun -- possibly the perfect late night festival knees up. I also find some chaps in the woods, near the Sunrise Arena, pumping out House music on a rickety little stage. It's one of the great things about this festival -- it's deceptively small, and you think you've spotted everything there is, and then you just stumble across something enterprising happening somewhere you least expect it. Anyway, more later. Off to get some breakfast now...