REVIEW OVERVIEWS: SATURDAY

We were a bit pissed off last night that BBCi's coverage of the night promised Ash, but then kept dropping them from the line-up of coming next attractions. We're relying totally on NME's Priya Elan:

Ash played a mainly greatest hits set, featuring the likes of 'Girl From Mars', 'Shining Light' and 'Goldfinger'. The band did a stripped down version of 'Teenage Kicks', dedicating it to John Peel and Joe Strummer. Before the classic 'Kung Fu' Tim Wheeler told the assembled throng to check out Thai rock god Sek Loso on the John Peel stage tomorrow

Cat Goodwin was muted in her praise for Keane (Pompous onstage gushes from Chaplin aside ("It’s amazing to see the spirit of you people"), it must still be said that the piano-rock shenanigans of the melodic Keane are making grown men cry here.), but seemed warmer by the time Coldplay came on:
Lingering among the fading fireworks of a glorious ‘Fix You’ is feeling that here is a band who, with their mix of simplistic intensity, human universalism and pure grace, could unite a whole generation. Or, at the absolute least, define the sound of Glastonbury 2005.

Hmm... is it us, or have fireworks at the end become a bit of a dull, routine thing to do at festivals now? Jesus, even Green Day set off some rockets and a couple of bangers at the MK bowl last week.

We're still trying to work out if Dan Martin really thought describing KT Tunstall as "Norah Jones meets the Levellers" was a positive thing to do. Alex Needham, meanwhile, blows one of the fastest growing Glasto myths out the skies:

The compere announces the Bob Geldof is on site, to loud boos from the audience.

So, not wall-to-wall quiet nodding in agreement, then.

Over in The Guardian, Betty Clarke finds Kasabian polarising the basis of their very existence:

For some, their Madchester beats and clunky way with words is testament to their limited talents; others simply throw their hands in the air and dance themselves silly.

Razorlight, you'll recall, were widely tipped (not least by us) as band least likely to make it through the year. Clarke's report of their set leaves us more convinced than ever:

Razorlight have become an impressively tight band, every note perfectly placed and with nothing left to chance. The problem is, both music and mood revolve around Borrell. A spotlight hovers over him at all times. Then there's that white outfit, which leaves him standing out like a light sabre against his anonymous band mates. They just don't get a look in. When one of the band does attempt to speak to the crowd, Borrell quickly steps in and talks over him.

Dorain Lynskey proved he was all man by volunteering for the Keane-to-Coldplay shift in front of the Pyramid stage. For him, Keane was the hardest to bear:

To me, every song sounds like it should be soundtracking slow-motion footage of a weeping child, but even some way up the hill, fans are mouthing every word of Everybody's Changing and Somewhere Only We Know. Chaplin's obvious elation at being here is admittedly endearing. "Man, I could get used to this," he gasps. "It's such a ridiculous sight." In a way, Keane are a radical proposition, stripping rock music of its guitar, bass, funk, muscle, wit, flamboyance: basically, everything people usually want from it. They're the world's biggest piano recital and people love them.

He did get New Order as a treat, though: he even didn't mind the business with Keith Allen riding a pantomime horse.

In the end, though, it takes James Smart to give us a sense of what went on with Ash:

They don't quite catch today, held back by a set that is a little too heavy on their weaker recent material and an eddying wind that makes it sound like someone is fiddling with a giant fader switch... the fact that a large chunk of the crowd are more interested in watching two people wrestling in mud by the side of the stage speaks volumes.

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