Thursday

Latitude: certainly not a festival to rush around, let alone one to rush to at any measure of pace. With Suffolk’s transport system clogged by the bourgeoisie descending on the leafy site near Southwold, the first demographic to stake their claim long before sundown were the hordes of schoolchildren (presumably due to a lack of commitments beyond AS/A2 exams). Still, despite the battering winds- as hardcore as the weather gets at such a genteel festival- most of the new arrivals had plenty of time to set up their generously dispersed pitches before heading to the arena for the opening evening’s entertainment.

Centred around a pristine lake, with two wooded areas running parallel and the fields beyond populated with the tents and food stalls, Latitude’s site still holds some semblance of nature even with a 35,000-strong crowd ready to invade. Well, that is, apart from the dyed sheep, the trees lined with purple uplighting, the strange art installations dotted about, and entertainers contained in giant lit orbs wandering by the entrance. The festival never holds back from being a spectacle.

Angelus Diablo (taken by Anya Burton)

Tom Jones was the guest of honour on Thursday’s lead-in festivities, though his set took place on a small stage in the woods, so many were spared from both his crass songs and his annoyingly smug face, which these days looks like someone drew his features onto a limp balloon before re-inflating it. His performance freed up the rest of the site for the adventurous to prod around strange corners, or prop up the glade bars. The Theatre Tent bristled with late-night entertainment, including an original play performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company- The Thirteen Midnight Challenges of Angelus Diablo- cleverly recruiting a mix of unsuspecting audience members and plants to compete in and be eliminated from a ridiculous series of events. Despite its jocular nature, the thespians couldn’t help but conclude Diablo with the grave message that no-one can dodge the devil eternally.

Friday

Ballet by the lakeside

With the light overnight rain draining into Latitude’s soil, the festival was baking for the first full day of events. And since most bands of note weren’t scheduled to take to the stages till early afternoon, there were plenty of opportunities to sample the other arts on display, be it at the Cabaret stage, the Literary tent or the Poetry arena, where compere Luke Wright led old time poets including Martin Figura and ‘New Voices’ like Tim Cockburn in a sprawling tribute to Philip Larkin. Over in the comedy arena, Russell Kane did a nice job of snubbing the army of preppy students at the festival under their very noses, though in the post-‘Gap Yah’ era, gunning for such unchallenging game seems a little trite.

Here We Go Magic

Here We Go Magic had the unenviable position taking the helm of the Obelisk stage (see main photo) before 3pm, and their generally woozy songs did little to raise a languid crowd from newspaper browsing on the lawns. Not even their boisterously fun single ‘Collector’ could burn off the lethargy, but alas, that’s the risk of playing the mid-afternoon set to an audience of non-fans who are enjoying blissful weather.

With every attendee with still-jangling pubescent voices (and to be fair, a few older fans with bald spots here and there) packing into the Obelisk’s fields, Portlanders Hockey had no such trouble in shaking some fervour from the crowds. Their dance-pop canon is relatively harmless, like LCD for a crowd not wise enough to get the references in ‘Daft Punk…’, or old enough to realise the band’s retro styling is a throwback to far past the Fresh Prince’s heyday.

Spoon's Britt Daniel

Since they are statistically the best band of the last decade, the Texan indie kings Spoon shouldn’t have greeted such an inattentive crowd in the early evening sunshine. The consummately slick four-piece rattled off a scattering of their songs with a reserved, taut brilliance. And with the clanking keys of their upright piano during ‘Written In Reverse’ and the sparse, driving bass of ‘Don’t You Evah’, the audience may have struggled to recognise the band in front of them, but they were no less enthralled.

The first radio-friendly name of Latitude rolled out afterwards; the slight, pale, back-to-blonde Laura Marling leading her troupe of folksters out for ‘Devil’s Spoke’ as a fierce opener. The set lost some momentum when the band departed and Laura was left to fend for herself with soft strumming, but her oaken voice and appearance of contentedness (as she told the crowd, Latitude was the first festival she looked forward to) were a settling experience throughout.

At the Sunrise stage, a tent burrowed in the woods adjacent to the lake, a beautifully dreamy set by often-high surf rockers Girls sadly drifted into a clash with the headlining acts because of delays caused by a structural failure earlier in the day (we assume no bourgeoisie were crushed in the process!). Still, before this reviewer had to leave, there was plenty of time to hear Girls alternating from playful charm (‘Big Bad Mean Motherfucker’) to delicate elegance, with ‘Summertime’ perfectly instilling the lazy conditions of the day.

With the somewhat divisive wailing of Florence & The Machine projecting from the Obelisk stage, the stately, pensive rockers The National headlined the second stage Word Arena. The band must have felt comfortable hemmed under the Arena’s dark marquee, contrasting their recent Glastonbury performance where they took to a bright outdoor stage dressed in black shirts and sunglasses, looking something approaching a group of lost yuppies. The mood that evening suited their grand catalogue, with the band leaning heavily on new release High Violet during the set, but also clearing good space for past gems, including a slow, gauzy take on ‘Apartment Story’, the strangely anthemic lunacy of ‘Abel’ and (of course) that majestic piano line in ‘Fake Empire’. Whilst Florence’s immediate success may have been swifter, after watching The National perform you get the impression their incremental climb to popularity may well be more deserved.

The National