The Streets please the Lounge On The Farm crowd on the opening day

The sky hangs grey and ominous above Merton Farm on the Friday, and occasionally the heavens open. By the late afternoon, things clear up a bit, and I nip over to see La Shark on the Meadows stage. Those support slots and toilet circuit trawls have paid dividends, with sixty onlookers paying attention to their synth heavy indie pop. To their credit, La Shark have the decency to turn into a party band, drafting in barrier jumpers as dancers, backing vocalists. The whole show has a strong, unscripted feel to it.

If only new folk hadn't become an ad man's wet dream. Daughter, have filled the Farm Folk tent by the time I get there, and lyrically, they're sensational. "...Our minds are troubled by the emptiness, Destroy the middle it's a waste of time; from the perfect start to the finish line..." Someone out there is figuring out how to sell a car with those words. Simple acoustic work mingles with post-rock shadows; crossing over from bedroom tears to get crushed in the real world. I'd say 'watch out for them', but that's a cosmic kiss of death. Listen out instead, you'll hear a clean, clear girls voice, and faintly in the background the sound of money men rubbing their hands together.

Sitting down in the food area, I sample the fare. Not much in the way of burgers or half eaten trays of noodles, more foodstuffs for the modern gentleman. Olives, halloumi, falafel, houmus, japanese dumplings. Pricing is on the far side of reasonable, and I hear people discussing how they want their food and drink budget to stretch further, with a bit more mass for their money. Later in the day, ordering a pint of cider and not receiving change from a fiver, I see their point.

On to the sheepdip for Tennis. The American trio seem to punch above their weight in terms of the size of venues they play in London, so how they go down in Canterbury should prove interesting. While hopes aren't exactly dashed, today they seem a band in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their sweet, jangling tunes are note perfect, but they receive polite half century applause from people happy to talk through their set.

Over on the Main Stage, Devlin has pulled a big, big crowd. This is the public face of UK grime, the band seeming to run to tape, drummer playing to a click track. The kids love him, and when he spits '64 Bars' almost in one breath, it's a mesmerising sight. He must practise that one in his sleep and wake up sweating. He'll pick up some Streets fans for himself today.

The Vaccines follow after him, but fail to ring as true. Their punkier takes on The Strokes, ala 'Wrecking Bar' work, but when the tempo slows, they fall flat. They're better than well drilled, and the audience takes to them. But outside of standard rock poses, their performance seems hollow. That said, they prime the audience for The Streets. Not that they need any help, having the one thing that's been lacking so far, big chart hits. 'Don't Mug Yourself' is energetic and delivered with gusto, and the couple of songs drawn from Computer Blues go down nicely too.

Skinner is an experienced showman now, comfortable playing in front of thousands of people. How odd that at the peak of his powers he wants to call it a day, and on this evidence, what a shame. As a counterpoint, walking back to the tent I see Cast squeezing the last few precious pennies from the corpse of Britpop on the Meadows stage. As rain pelts down, those assembled to watch them are treated to a couple of new tracks, and their numbers dwindle to a thin smattering of diehards. By the time they start playing 'Walk Away', most people already have.

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