Aside from a couple of b-sides which fall a little on their arse, it’s one jubilantly massive sing-along. ‘Bend and Break’s spiraling melodies blatantly recall Coldplay, but it’s perfect festival music. Tom introduces ‘She Has No Time’ as being something Tim wrote for him to help him over getting dumped. It’s not believable in the slightest, but his commanding presence and perfectly tuned voice capture its mood.

Of course, their singles now reside in the Oasis stratosphere of group vocal bonding, and although ‘Everybody’s Changing’s buoyant emotions and pounding chord changes are meticulously beautiful, it’s closer, ‘Bedshaped’ that steals the show. We stand by our criticisms of the album, but live at a festival, Keane can’t be beat. Read our exclusive interview here.

Elbow aren’t widely renowned as being the most spontaneously ‘rock ‘n roll’ of northern acts, but when Pete Turner’s bass amp folds two songs in, that’s exactly what we get. Peering out from behind his fluffy, stubbled face, singer Guy Garvey begins an impromptu jazz jam on the virtues of the Mines Advisory Group – the logo of whom overhangs the stage. “Buy the merchandise,” he croons, to rapturous applause.

When Elbow get going, it’s the kind of homecoming performance we expect. “You are aware you are the greatest city in the world, Manchester?” Garvey asks. And leaping from the four-four, distorted sunburst of ‘Fallen Angel’ to the sonic miracle that is ‘Fugitive Motel’, Elbow are perhaps the greatest Manchester band of the moment. Combining the blissful highlights from recent LP, Cast Of Thousands, with some startling sing-alongs in the way of ‘New Born’ and ‘Powder Blue’, Elbow are always a pleasure to behold.

Twenty-six years after ‘Killing An Arab’ surfaced, and the original goth-rockers, The Cure, are slapping on the eye-liner and shifting on stage late. Rumour has it that tonight, Robert Smith got his arse stuck in the tour bus. The official line was the traffic on the M6.

Launching into it with ‘Plain Song’, that everlasting look of angry constipation is lifted for a short while as Smith trudges to the front of the stage and stands, beaming, for about two minutes. What follows is a meticulous, if rather mercenary non-greatest hits set – the polar opposite of what the Pixies will grace us with on Saturday. The sparkles of genius in their new self-titled LP are few and far between, and despite ‘Pictures Of You’ and ‘In Between Days’ causing swirls of ecstatic northern delight, the non-appearance of ‘Friday I’m In Love’ is nothing short of regicide. It would be like Morrissey not playing ‘Everyday Is Like Sunday’. While the encore of ‘Boys Don’t Cry’ goes some way to saving the evening, The Cure’s coldness is now perhaps a little too brittle to be headlining festivals.