Latitude, Sunday 17th July 2011

Dear Met Office,

How do you sleep at night? Bastards.

Love,

Simone x

So, despite assurances that we’d be rain free and just a bit cloudy all day today from the Met Orifice, that big black cloud hovering over Henham Park hastens to disagree. Thankfully none of us are daft enough to have put our waterproofs in the car, right? Oh.

Fortunately, two quid will secure you a poncho thing that makes you look like you’re wearing a condom, so finally we join the fancy dress hardcore as a group of prophylactics . Now, if we’re completely honest, the line up today is a little light until the evening, so if we’re sensible we’ll use this opportunity to take advantage of some of the other delights that Latitude has to offer, preferably the ones that involve being in a tent as much as possible. Except we’ve never been best known for our common sense, so instead we’re braving the elements to catch Kele on the Obelisk. Despite the driving rain, which, in case you hadn’t guessed, is now getting a teeny bit tiresome, he’s in fine spirits, smiling through a set that even includes a raved up version of Bloc Party’s ‘The Prayer’, of all things. And he’s wearing shorts. That’s got to bring the sun out? Right?

Wrong. It’s still some sort of monsoon out here, so we give up and hot foot it to the Literary Tent for a bit of Mark Thomas. Introducing his set, Diane Spencer is the proud recipient of one of the politest heckles of all time; “Please stop talking”, a sentiment echoed by all those crammed into the tent, and taken as an excuse by Ms Spencer to unleash a potty mouthed comedy set on us. And we’ve just visited the Modern Toss Activity Centre too, our Dad is going to kill us when he finds out. It’s not very ‘Latitude’. Anyway, Mark Thomas sets about explaining his ramble across the Israel slash Palestine wall, which is all very funny and direct and all, but no one said it was two hours long, and we’ve got a date to keep with Iron and Wine, you know.

Who, as it happens appear to be engrossed in some kind jazzy wig out on stage, facing each other in a circle, and barely noticing that we’ve run out on Mr Thomas for them. Not really engaging the audience, at least there’s a great big rainbow to warm our hearts, as the sun makes an attempt to break through the rain. Disappointing, certainly, but you get the feeling that if no one else is massively enjoying themselves, at least Iron and Wine are entertaining themselves.

After snatching a few moments of Ghostpoet and some very nice pasta, we head back to the Obelisk to view the car crash that will surely be Glasvegas. In true Spinal Tap style, it appears that poor old Glasvegas’ appeal is becoming more selective, although the heavens opening up again might not have helped matters. It’s fair to say that the set, heavy with tracks from that barely selling second album, isn’t greatly received, plausibly not helped by James Allen forgetting to sing and instead fashioning some kind of mumbling into microphone style of vocals instead. After being joined on stage by Carl Barat (and Mrs Barat) for a cover of ‘Be My Baby’, which probably sounded like a brilliant idea after that third bottle of red wine, they shuffle off into probable obscurity.

Slightly desperate for something tuneful, and with the Literature tent by now running so late that we miss Louise Wener (for shame), it seems only Lykke Li can save us from ourselves now. Most of Latitude has the same idea too, as for the first time that we’ve seen today, there’s a pretty decent turn out for the Swedish songstress. As she thrashes drums through a smoke ridden stage, finishes off ‘Rich Kids Blues’ with a cover of The Knife’s ‘Silent Shout’ which turns the tent into a veritable old skool rave, before forlornly recanting about how ‘Sadness is a Blessing’. It’s nigh on impossible not to fall for her charms. Thank heavens for broken hearts.

So, the closing ceremony on the Obelisk stage is about to begin, and it’s down to a reformed Suede to perform the honours for our viewing pleasure. Now, they might not be everyone’s cup of tea, and Brett Anderson might have his shirt unbuttoned to his navel (possibly not for the faint hearted), and they’re absolutely pseudo-Bowie, but thing is, they’re really, really good. And by this point, soggy and tired, all we want is to sing loudly, shake our bits to the hits, and generally annoy everyone around us, and cracking open some 90s Britpop is certainly going to fulfil that criteria. Anderson appears to be relishing this opportunity to remind us that he is actually a compelling frontman – and you can’t escape the thought that after the wilderness of his solo career, he’s probably loving this – thrashing around, jumping off speaker stacks, writhing on the floor and thrusting himself at the crowd. Opening with ‘The Drowners’ (appropriate choice, after the weekend we’ve had), before working their way through ‘Filmstar’, ‘Trash’, a quite gorgeous version of ‘The Wild Ones’ and even dusting down b-sides ‘Killing of a Flash Boy’ and ‘To The Birds’, all that’s really missing is ‘Stay Together’ and this would’ve been the perfect ending to the weekend. Well, that and Bernard Butler turning up. Still, we’ve had sunburn, cider, swearing, stinging rain, and Suede. You can’t have everything, right?