It was a bit like the good old days of festivals: like-minded music fans amiably milling around on a glorious autumn afternoon, drinking from overpriced cans and smoking their variously pungent materials.

Wolfmother turned it on and turned it up early in the day for a blast, in every sense, through the furious Sabbath riffs of Woman, White Stripes rip-off Apple Tree and more metallic bangers than you might remember them having. With a demonic glint in his eye, main man Andrew Stockdale even played a bit of White Unicorn for the young woman in the crowd dressed, as you do, as a white unicorn. Legends, the both of them.

Then came the inevitable wait for Teenage Dirtbag, starting with Wheatus’ aptly titled, knowingly chosen Temporary Song. But their set of New York indie-ish rock passed quickly enough, thanks to Brendan B. Brown’s adorable nerd-charm, plus a cute Aussie detour into Kookaburra during Leroy.

Brown played a magnificent trump card, during a break in the song we’d all stopped by to hear, of pulling on the bucket hat he wore in its video in time for the heroic, loser-gets-the-girl final verse.

These various flavours of rock book-ending the show gave way to various electrifying shades of new wave in the Psychedelic Furs’ set alone.

Backed by sweet synth lines, howling guitar and thrillingly precise drums, founding Butler brothers Richard (vocals) and Tim (bass) came off like London’s answer to the Cars, with anthems for the John Hughes generation (Pretty in Pink, obviously, but most of the others also fit the profile), to boot.

But it was the high priestess of, well, not just new wave but where pop first seduced punk rock, too, who could have stolen the show without singing a line.

Admittedly, Debbie Harry struggled with some of them, but that didn’t really matter. Her charisma and iconic presence alone still make her a NYC superheroine, while her band, Blondie, had more proper hits than anyone else all day.

Powered by her only other OG Blondie cohort Clem Burke, typically breathtaking on drums, and a ring-in from the frickin’ Sex Pistols on bass (respect to you, Glen Matlock) – with some younger folk bringing the melodies on guitars and keytars – Harry was a delight, whether pulling off the rap in Rapture or riding the irresistible twanging riff of Atomic.

So, by the time we got to that man called Alice, whose songs rarely lived up to the supreme stagecraft (maybe Poison and, go on then, School’s Out, with its brief segue into fellow teacher-baiting anthem Another Brick in the Wall), we’d had a pretty hearty fill.

Sensational effort, Pandemonium.

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