LATE REVIEWS ROUND-UP

You can understand the reluctance of even the digital presses to roll too soon with the Sunday reviews from the festival - it's like your spoonful of ice cream; something you want to make last as long as possible, to savour the moment. Plus, you don't want to have to face the massive queues snaking out the carpark, so there's no rush.

But sooner or later, you have to get to grips with it. So, the nme finally brings us its last day round-up. Barry Nicolson found some charm in Jools Holland and his Rhythm and Blues Orchestra, despite it being "one long smug ego wank"; Dan Martin seems to have been the only person to have actually bothered to go and see Van Morrison and Priya Elan witnessed a very hungover Martha Wainwright forget her own songs. Tim Jonze seemed taken with the Dresden Dolls:

Songs about coin-operated boys and juvenile lyrics about fucking people in the ass seem to make so much more sense with our minds in such a frazzled state.

You can hear the Jonze-Town Gang over on LiveJournal exploding at the moment, can't you?

Dorian Lynskey looked into the eyes of Bobby Gillespie:

He announces, "We're a punk rock band and you're a bunch of fucking hippies", says "fuck you" to any Kylie fans in the audience, and accuses everyone of being complacent cattle. The only way he could have caused more offence would have been by wheeling on an effigy of Michael Eavis and setting fire to it.

The Guardian let their reviewers wander more than the NME, so Dorian also got to see Sons and Daughters on the Peel stage:
Their threatening punk country may have the bite of the White Stripes or PJ Harvey, but their intensity and charisma are singular. Clad in a mud-defying white dress, singer Adele Bethel somehow manages to make a heavy Glaswegian accent sound rivetingly sexy, especially on Dance With Me's hypnotic tribal churn.

music glastonbury reviews