Wireless 2012 (Day Two)

Barclaycard. Vodafone. Pepsi Max. Everywhere. Welcome to the world’s most corporate affair. Sold out months in advance, and teeming with gazillions of scantily clad revellers in caps, we also notice the bountiful Essex bum on display, but that’s another matter.

Fajita in hand, AlunaGeorge are the first band we see, playing to a virtually empty Barclaycard Unwind Stage, and in spite of major sound drifts from the Main Stage, they manage to resonate as clearly as a klaxon. The marvellous ‘We Are Chosen’ comes across like Katy B’s poppy UK Funky but underpinned with post-dubstep clicks, whilst the endearing humps and sways of single ‘You Know You Like It’ dead ring for early Sugababes. A fine – if curt – set, the main attraction for the audience appears to be Aluna’s amiable belly button; iPhones wave in awe.

It’s not too sodden, so we saunter over to the Main Stage where Rita Ora is playing that tune she played on CBBC’s Friday Download. Says it all, really, and on hearing one crowd member’s declaration of “YOLO”, we move swiftly on, mainly out of dread.

After catching an ounce of Ozzie middle-aged rap troupe Hilltop Hoods’ atrocious set, interspersed with clichéd hollers of “Make Some Noise!”, the Pepsi Max Stage begins to overflow for D’Banj, who Mistajam introduces as “the King of Afrobeats”. It’s early days for this new wave of Nigerian pop in the UK, but with extraordinary backing singers, didactic “put your hands in the air”s, enviable moves and the advent of sun rays, his set is a bona fide winner. Afro grooves and manic dance-offs galore, closer ‘Oliver Twist’ is a massive mid-arvo party tune.

We subsequently endure an unpleasantly smelly crowd crush, and Ortis Deley’s detailed big-screen clarification of what a ‘Barclaycard Payband’ is, to watch Wiz Khalifa on the Main Stage. Dressed like a lost Rolling Stone, all denim jackets, head hankies and ridiculous tattoos, the polemical fella kickstarts his vaguely fun set by uttering: “Who’s gat the best weed out der?” He continues in similar fashion, employing unremitting “weed” anecdotes, samey choruses and a load of mass sing-a-longs. The one tune which truly stands out is infectious closer ‘Black and Yellow’, rather obviously. Wrapping up, the girl next to me proclaims: “n’aw, int he cute”.

One issue today – on the same weekend Bloc festival gets shut down for overcrowding – is the number of people here. It feels over-sold, and it’s incredibly tricky to move around the site. Indeed, as we wait to witness the Weeknd’s second ever UK date, Mistajam delivers an important announcement: “if you want to see the Weeknd, please take a step backwards.” Of course, everyone does want to see the Weeknd, but practically no one takes a step backwards. The poor, cramped sods at the front. It’s no use; they give in, and on strides the elusive Abel Tesfaye.

And it’s certified sexy time: despite many a flying Tuborg soaking the heaving crowd, everyone gets down in time to the sub-bass wallows, screeching along to every tune, from those on House of Balloons through Thursday to Echoes of Silence. Such is the shrill uproar that we can hardly hear the music, but as a whole, it’s a triumphant, strobe-lit set in which Tesfaye’s consummate, ululating vocals wow the crowd and reveal a character less enigmatic in person than expected. Borrowing largely from his Coachella set (available on YouTube), he culminates proceedings with a weepy rendition of ‘Wicked Games’.

Affective R n B done with, we head over to see the coquettish Lieutenant-General Minaj, who procures this title by dint of her command of the stage, and the fact she marches on followed by a regiment of semi-naked backing dancers. With a cerise-hued, synthetic stain-glass backdrop, some naff pink graffiti and a sci-fi themed spoken word intro (a blatant Janelle Monae rip-off), it’s as grandiose a beginning as you’d expect from The Walking Slideshow of Facial Expressions.

Clothed in a pink, frilled Barbie outfit, her set features plenty of miming, but that’s no shame given the abundance of tunes on offer: be it Pink Friday standout ‘Beez In The Trap’, the booty shakes of ‘Sound The Alarm’ or ‘Turn Me On’, David Guetta’s only tolerable smash. We can’t understand a lot of what she says in her quick-fire soliloquising between songs, but she certainly seems to tell us that we’re all “sexy” every thirty seconds or so. Rather spookily, just before closer ‘Superbass’, having intoned “bend up and touch the sky” in ‘Starships’, the heavens immediately send forth the rain…

But this is what our subsequent headliner urges us to chant back on the subject:
“I don’t give a fuck about the rain. We’re here to hear Drizzy go insane.”

Indeed, it is time. Fuelled by typical braggadocio, Drake ascends to serenading horns, cheesy drum fills, dropping mass bundles of N-Bombs and telling us simply how wonderful he is. Surrounded by funereal monochrome, two huge screens depicting visuals of volcanoes and blown up apartment blocks, himself adorned in a simple black hoodie and excessive gold chain, our splendid set of lugubrious emo-rap gets underway.

The Weeknd-featuring ‘Crew Love’ is an early, if doleful, highlight, whilst ‘We’ll Be Fine’, also from Take Care, incites mass, tuneless chants. Never falling short of cocky, introducing one song with “whenever I get 60 or 70 thousand people in one place, which isn’t every day, you’ll be surprised to know…”, dedicating another to “women who are destined to become women”, his set is jam-packed with hits and special guests. Minaj galloping on for a glorious ‘Make You Proud’, in a change of dress and straightened wig, is hands down the best tune we hear all day.

Just like Minaj before him, Drizzy is in prevailing control of the stage. For the most part, it’s just him and a mike in clear view, striding from one side of the stage to the other, as if totally unaware of the crammed park in front of him. But his stageshow also comes with its fair share of pyrotechnics. Having shattered my hopes and dreams when Rihanna doesn’t appear for ‘Take Care’, the stage is set ablaze for ‘HYFR’ and dazzling, far-fetched fireworks shoot off into the LDN sky. As he closes with ‘Headlines’, the screens now covered in intricate Mallarmé-esque fonts, we realise what an incredible 90 minutes we’ve just passed. He may well be the coolest motherfucker on earth.