Its time for V again, and this time, they've brought the sun with them. Plenty of it too. As we enter the site the tone is already being set with shirtless young men and bikini clad young ladies. Unlike the slightly off-kilter madness of Glastonbury and the cider and band fuelled RAWK of Reading, this is more of a weekend in the sun with a few bands and plenty of chilling. V is the consummate training wheels of the festival circuit, nicely within its own niche and full of non-threatening action to excite even the most passing of music fans. No Biffy Clyro or ...Trail of Dead here. The line-up is strictly crowd pleasing and for the Evening Session masses. And that's not necessarily a bad thing on a weekend as beautiful as this. A bit of a meat and veg no-brainer. Even the most 'underground' of bands probably have the rider from heaven. Its a bit of a Smirnoff Ice. You know, booze, but not proper.

The day starts for DiS on the main stage with the island-dwelling inhabitants of the Mull Historical Society. Think of what the Stereophonics could have been if they'd followed the path of their first album and listened to a few more Bluetones albums. I know that sounds horrendous, but its not. It's very good. Singer and guitarist Colin MacIntyre is full of energy as he charges round the stage seemingly ignoring the fact that their audience remains vertical in the early afternoon heat in a sweat drenched appreciation. 'Watching Xanadu' is the first Woooaargghh single of the day and sets the standard for the days action: bright, breezy and tuneful. As well as one new song, we get 'Strangeways Inside', 'Public Service Announcer' and an inspired 'Mull Historical Society' which sounds like a call to arms performed at the Mull island's Mardi Gras.

So that's the new Bluetones then, and they're quickly followed by the old Bluetones. Certain crowd members scratch their heads, not having realised that this lot are still around, others prepare to lap them up like giant ice creams in the heat. "We're gonna play you some new songs, if that's all right" coos Mark Moriss cheerfully. And yet, while for many bands this most dreaded of statements would be followed by the sight of tumbleweed gently blowing across the stage front, they just about get away with it. Louder and more cranked up, the songs sound unmistakeably Bluetones, and they're heartily received by a crowd who are patient enough to tap their toes in wait of 'The Tunes'. We get 'Bluetonic', 'Solomon Bites Worm' and a closing 'Autophillia'. Moriss and co promptly shuffle off; their work here is done. A strangely reassuring fixture half-way up any festival bill, they'll be there for some time to come, quietly lamenting their status as the big-thing-that-never-quite-was.

Elvis Costello is the other side of the coin; the big name 'guest' that appears every year the please the elder (or maybe more discerning) punter. Infamous a long time ago for things that people barely remember, Mr Costello has an album to plug and a selection of hits to play (Oliver's Army, some other ones) and 45 minutes passes by nicely.

Supergrass have an album to plug too, but the band also realise that they have a crowd to please as well. With the trio/four piece (add or delete the ever present keyboardist Rob Combes at your leisure) still looking like a set of well groomed monkey children on the run, we get Pumping On Your Stereo as an opener and set is strewn with others like 'Lose It', 'Richard III', and 'Lenny'. Of the newies, new single 'Grace' is particularly good with its cross of punk and soul. 'Rush Hour Soul' is another hit in the making and limited release 'Never Done Nothing Like That Before' is also swept through in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it fashion. The highlight of the set, and perhaps tune of the day is the 'Sun Hits The Sky'; with the crowd baking in the sun and stoned to fuck (or maybe that's just me) its a perfect summation of the day's events. Supergrass never seem to quite reach the peak of festival performances that they seem so tailor made for, but today is probably the best they've played to an outdoor crowd for sometime after the lacklustre performances at Reading and South Park last year.

Dashing over to the second stage, we witness the closing of a typically hypnotic set by Sigur Ros. The crowd look like they are all topped to the nines on Mescalin as stock still figures and sprawled bodies gaze hypnotically towards the stage as lead singer jón þor birgisson carefully coaxes another deeply unsettling lullaby from ice capped Scandinavian peaks. They have that sort of effect on you. The experimental (for the V crowd anyway,) bent of the evening continues with the appearance of the

Beta Band on the same stage. Still deeply flawed on record, they have reinvented themselves as a truly stellar live act. Locking themselves and the onlookers into a set of fierce grooves, they seem to make each 7-minute-plus tune start and end in half the time. The predictable but never unwelcome highlight comes with 'Dry The Rain'. One of the first things to be produced by the band, the song is unlikely to be topped by them and anyone else in the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, it may only exist on record for time being; "This is the last time we're going to play this song for a very, very long time" warns front man Steve Mason dryly, as if its the 'Creep'-like tombstone hanging round his band's collective neck that it never was. It matters little, as the band has more than enough tunes and ideas in their arsenal to make up for it, as displayed by Steve's unholy rapping towards the end of the set. Never predictable, always entertaining, the Beta Band make little sense in this setting, and that's how we like it.

Ian Brown on the other hand, is the perfect choice for this festival; a crowd pleaser who seems to be running on legend and charisma alone. A once promising solo act appears to have petered out, and he has been peddling the same set of material for a few years now. Tellingly, there is little material from his last LP, 'Music Of The Spheres', and we get to hear 'Corpses', 'Dolphins Were Monkeys' and 'Love Like A Fountain' for the umpteenth time. Of course it doesn't help that the man can't emit any semblance of a tune, not one that varies from flat, anyway. Not anywhere near as a his confused and laconic appearance at Glastonbury, but even his newly shaven skull and natty Bathing Ape and panama hat combo can distract away from the fact that the man so revered by many here has little to bring to the table any more.

And then its the choice between Badly Drawn Boy, the Chemical Brothers and the Manics. BDB manages to rule himself out through word on site that the arena he is playing in is fit to burst and hotter than jalapeno sandwich. So, if we are going to ignore that fact that the last 5 years have happened at all, then we may as well do it in rip roaring style. Naturally we plump for the inconspicuous figures of Tom 'n Ed Chemical.

Its the same set they've performed at the 2,456 gigs they've played this year, and their last album hardly set the world alight, but Jesus, do this guys Rock. Yes, they rock like the sons of Satan on a cocaine fuelled extreme sports stag weekend for Genghis Khan. Distinctly short of the visceral chunks of giant beats from their 'Exit Planet Dust' album, the set is a fluid reworking of their past few albums. Every song is ripped up, reformed and re-fed to us with the vocals of messrs Gallagher, Sumner and Ashcroft shredded to fantastic effect. 'Star Guitar' flows by in a euphoric rush, 'The Sunshine Underground' is Orbital taken to another, more organic, level, and traditional set closer 'The Private Psychedelic Reel' is more hpynotic and body jarring than ever. The Chemicals are refreshing proof that it can still be just about the music. They have nothing to offer the world as personalities (although I'm sure they're lovely people) and you'll never seen them on page 7 of the Sun, but wheel 'em out and sit 'em in front a crowd of 40,000 people and they'll never let you down. Like many of Saturday's acts, their popularity may have peaked, but unlike Brown, the Bluetones and Costello, they can still walk out of a festival with their head held high, and a mass of casualties in their wake. This can only be a good thing. The Chemical Brothers kicked this main stage's collectively retro, guitar lovin' tuneful white boy ass into touch. And they'll do it every time.