AS JOE BANANAS SWITCHES OFF THE LANTERNS ON THE BLANKET STALL

Bouncing around the four screens of music streaming on BBCi (we're not quite sure why having access to 6Music is counted as an extra screen - it's on channel 870 anyway, isn't it?):

Bloc Party just look like they've been assembled to slot in front of a Glastonbury stage; Kele is all smiles; Matt's taken his shirt off and written "Hello Mum" down his arm. Probably a better band than we deserve, they're the first thing we've seen so far that's been more interesting than the weather - this could be their tipping point; it certainly feels now like the moment they started to become as crucial as a few people were predicting back at the start of the year.

Steve Bays might just edge out Kele in length of hair, but the songs don't have the same bounce to them. Hot Hot Heat don't really rise much beyond the luke warm; the Zutons are pretty much as you'd expect.

The sound quality is much better on the John Peel Stage - which probably comes from being virtually indoors - and Secret Machines make the most of it. Since we've wandered down the path of using hair as a set-judging metaphor: almost as good as their fringes.

The White Stripes - playing live as I do this - are a bit flat, actually. Meg still drums like her head isn't attached to her body, but Jack has clearly been stung by those gags that he was turning into Michael Jackson and is now busily transforming himself into a 1930s silent movie villain. Which wouldn't matter, except he's not making any real effort to entertain: he keeps insisting on doing his silly falsetto thing instead of actually proper singing; he dahses from instrument to instrument (piano! xylophone! bones made into skeletons!) but it comes across more like watching a mildly talented kid being forced to put on a show by his parents - like he's not even that arsed about showing off, but he doesn't know what would happen if he stopped. Someone, please, get Meg a neckbrace and a solo career.

MIA seems to have been elaborately over-promoted with her slot just a Willy Mason south of The Tears; she's been remorselessly hyped on the strength of a fairly solid debut, but live she's the sort of disappointing that veers towards being embarrassing. She's got a mate up with her, and they're stomp dancing around like two Grange Hill kids playing tapes in their bedrooms. At their best, they're almost as good as the Wee Papa Girl Rappers; much of the time, though, they're struggling to be as good as Krush.

For some reason, Jo Whiley is wearing Posh's cheapo cowboy hat.

music glastonbury festivals mia bloc party white stripes hot hot heat secret machines the zutons