Despite being an American country rock linchpin, with 11 Grammys and an Elton John collab to her name, today’s opening slot at the Pyramid Stage is Brandi Carlile’s first Glastonbury experience. And she seems genuinely thrilled to be here: she frequently breaks out into a huge smile and gushes about the festival’s crowd and ethos. “It’s hard to fathom this many peace-loving, free-thinking people all in one place! A sight for sore eyes!”

Carlile’s music feels just right for a still-languid early afternoon crowd. It’s a tough slot to fill: one likely filled with more new listeners than fans, but her steady, gently climatic Americana is enough to gently nudge people into action; the crowd noticeably swells throughout the set.

Tracks are interwoven with heartwarming stories about family life — her “tight foursome” back home in Seattle. She opens up about her eldest daughter’s rocky coming of age to segue into her solo ballad You Without Me, which is performed on an empty stage with just an acoustic guitar.

For the rest of the set though, she’s joined by her brilliant, tight rhythm section, which is bolstered by strings a few songs in. They saunter between the fuller, rockier end of her material to straight-up country, like the jaunty Hold Out Your Hand, which she plays in tribute to Dolly Parton’s Glasto 2014 performance. She jokes that she’d like to be just like the household name —“if Dolly had tattoos”. There’s a few covers scattered throughout too: Radiohead’s Fake Plastic Trees, and Joni Mitchell’s Woodstock (which she adapts to address Worthy Farm).

Carlile’s impressive vocals really do shine throughout the set, gliding between rich, soaring high notes and raspy country-style yelps. Tracks like The Joke show off her range best, as does the piano-led You Without Me, of which she says: “Oh I know it’s too early for that level of sad lesbian drama, but it’s never too early for that when it comes to me!”

It may be a tough slot to fill, but Carlile rises to the occasion. It’s a lovely, quietly energetic start to the day.

Of the wave of young women who have defined the last few years of alt-rock – along with Soccer Mommy, Snail Mail, Blondshell et al – 25-year-old singer-songwriter Beatrice Laus, AKA Beabadoobee, has been one of the most successful, perhaps due to the way she mixes sweet and sharp.

With a pink guitar and a row of pink cherry blossom trees behind her, there’s a deliberate prettiness to her dream-pop vocals in songs such as 10:36, but they’re offset with really hard, crunching rock chords. Care has a chorus a bit reminiscent of Nirvana’s Heart-Shaped Box with its blaring loud-quiet dynamics, but the rest of the song sounds kind-hearted.

Ever Seen has the kind of earnest, searching vocal melody that Matty Healy would covet, and builds from gentle to rollicking, buoyed by excellent punchy sound from the Other stage team – she says it was inspired by Glastonbury, and it does carry all the romance and elation of the fest at its best. Her band also bolster her, with the bass determinedly pushing the songs along and her lead guitarist firing off a series of solos full of curlicues and intricate detail.

Other songs such as Further Away suffer from the affliction of a fair amount of dream-pop, which is that it coasts on haze and vibes rather than memorable melody writing – but for the most part this is perfect sunny-afternoon fare, a heat haze of noise moving across the vast field.

You couldn’t call Anohni’s set last night at the Park stage a gig in the classic sense – it was more audioscape than tune, more funeral than partay. That transcendent voice, lovechild of Nina Simone and Jeff Buckley, sings for itself, but there was an explicit theme: Mourning the Great Barrier Reef. Between each song, a scientist described, in the starkest imaginable terms, the irreversible bleaching. Then Anohni came in with – to use the technical term – a dirge. It sounds derogatory, but there’s no other word for it. These were songs of ecological grief.

The intensity, orchestration and commitment were engrossing. Issues were juxtaposed in ways that didn’t need to be spelled out. Motherless Child – key lines: “your hatred for me makes my eyes round and wide” – came right after a clip of a baleful scientist saying that he thought his job was to create pieces of hope that he didn’t believe in. There’s a trans rights flag; another scientist, despairing of vested interests; the arresting recitative – Anohni’s voice is more and more operatic – that the coral looked like the city of Gaza.

You could distill the ideas behind this set really simply: this planet is being desecrated for profit and out groups are pummelled to create the drama needed to distract from that, while a new necropolitics takes shape. Of course, if you just said it bald, it wouldn’t land – setting it to this voice is emphatically not uplifting, but it’s strangely beautiful.

Fcukers make fun, sexy party music for people who have enjoyed such short, charmed lives that hearing someone sing in white-girl patois – as Fcukers singer Shanny Wise does, on her hyped NYC duo’s breakout song Bon Bon – over an electro-clash beat can feel like pure transcendence.

Reader, I’m talking about myself – but it’s clear I’m not the only one who feels this way. Woodsies is absolutely rammed for the duo’s early afternoon set, and – true to the spirit of Fcukers’ delirious, affectedly silly club music – it looks as if quite a few members of the audience haven’t slept. [Editor’s note: Are you talking about yourself here, too, Shaad?]

No worry: Wise and her bandmate Jackson Walker Lewis are energetic and captivating, even when the muddy Woodsies sound fails their songs. Admittedly 45 minutes is a little too long a set for a band with only an EP to their name, and you can feel the crowd’s energy flag around the 30-minute mark. But there’s no doubt that Fcukers kicked off the day’s party with a bang.

The heat at Worthy Farm has sent many scuttling towards the shade: the well-covered Glasto Latino tent surely has rarely had such a big takeup for its daily salsa lessons. Nearby on the West Holts, shade is at a premium but there’s still a surprisingly robust early afternoon crowd there for Nilüfer Yanya. In fairness the South London musician serves good counter-programming for the baking sun: her frosty, minor key – yet rarely downbeat – alt-rock a balm in these conditions.

Three albums deep, Yanya has evolved into an intriguing proposition: her sound is familiar but unique, a blend of grunge, trip-hop, post rock, jazz and R&B that doesn’t really sound like any of those component parts in isolation.

Today she seems to adjust the formula a little, almost as if she’s responding to the conditions. The Dealer – a pulsating, mile-a-minute listen on record – wisely has the sting taken out of it a little here, the tempo dialled back a notch, the breakbeat percussion simplified and softened.

And fortuitously, just as the heat intensifies, she settles into a series of quieter, softer ballads, though there is a brawny Like I Say (Runaway) to perk things up a little.

If Yanya wears her influences lightly, they are visible should you look hard enough: she covers a clear touchstone, PJ Harvey, here with a quietly brooding Rid of Me. Outside the songs, words are kept to a minimum, but for the final track, Midnight Sun: a banner proclaiming “more action, more noise, less fear, free Palestine” is brought on to the stage and flashed up in capitals on the screens.

PA reports: Kneecap’s performance at Glastonbury festival will not be livestreamed by the BBC, but is likely to be made available on-demand.

A number of politicians have called for the Irish rap trio to be removed from the line-up and Keir Starmer said their performance would not be “appropriate” after one of the members was charged with a terror offence.

A BBC spokesperson said: “As the broadcast partner, the BBC is bringing audiences extensive music coverage from Glastonbury, with artists booked by the festival organisers.

“While the BBC doesn’t ban artists, our plans ensure that our programming meets our editorial guidelines. We don’t always livestream every act from the main stages and look to make an on-demand version of Kneecap’s performance available on our digital platforms, alongside more than 90 other sets.”

It is understood the BBC needs to consider the performance before making a final decision. The band said on Instagram: “The propaganda wing of the regime has just contacted us... They WILL put our set from Glastonbury today on the iPlayer later this evening for your viewing pleasure.”

When Ichiko Aoba was a child, experiencing loneliness and isolation, she lost herself in the fantasy worlds created by animation studios such as Studio Ghibli and Disney. The Japanese folk singer-songwriter further nurtured that interest in intricate world building as a form of escapism through creating her music – and despite its niche and experimental composition, she has found global popular appeal built up from a significant cult following.

She sings entirely in Japanese so live I cannot dissect her lyrics, but you can parse her themes from the visuals and from her tone: the stage is draped with willows and Aoba’s airy vocals are atmospheric and expansive, bringing to mind the serene and tranquil ancient forests of Japan like Aokigahara or Yakushima. You half expect a deer to gallop on stage and be fed by her hand. Aoba certainly looks the part of a nature deity: she is donning a laurel crown and she wears a shimmering, long ruffled dress with iridescent and metallic colours. “That must be so warm,” says a woman sat next to me, and indeed Aoba acknowledges the “sunny day” and sips from her bottle.

She switches between a piano and a guitar, each instrument pairing stripped back melodies with her tuneful, mellifluous voice, creating a piercing, dream-like, sometimes haunting quality (and sometimes pitchy, though that seems down to early shakes). That acoustic folk tone also sometimes leads to more upbeat and bouncy moments, though the tone of the show is more pensive and reflective. At times are insights into Aoba’s mind: she says to the crowd “my best friend … creatures”. She introduces one song, Dawn in the Adan, and a translation of the opening lyrics reads “the murmur of dawn no one is here as the falling stardust returns to the eastern sky.” It charts the disorientation and emptiness that one can experience when waking up. Though Aoba may now be an international force, her music is still very much for all the lonely children who find their solace in other worlds, real and imaginary.

While their late-00s band peers such as Coldplay, Mumford and Sons and last night’s Pyramid stars Biffy Clyro were finding success with whoa-oh-oh choruses, Kaiser Chiefs seemed content with just a single whoa, albeit stretched out to whoooooooooooa. (Even) more annoyingly, they continued pop’s rich tradition of “la la la” or “na na na” choruses but done in the manner of a gang of four-year-olds taunting their rivals at a neighbouring nursery. Bolted on to a type of glam rock that didn’t so much strut as plod, they built a solid, stolid career on a corner of the indie landfill.

They get a huge crowd at this relatively uncompetitive time, filling most of the Pyramid stage field, and some of their material is cheery enough stuff to accompany the day’s first cider can. They open with one of their best tracks, the twitchy Every Day I Love You Less and Less, with an almost electroclash bassline powering a song that conjures someone pacing in circles as their anxiety builds and explodes. But another single, Never Miss a Beat, has essentially the same chord structures and the thinness of the Kaiser’s oeuvre is quickly shown up even in this short set. Modern Way has a very drab chorus that hasn’t dared to dream a better life for itself; Na Na Na Na Naa is as annoying as athlete’s foot; there’s no swing or groove anywhere.

Frontman Ricky Wilson, clad in boating blazer, keeps it all semi-airborne though. Resembling a cross between Simon Le Bon and Jason from Sleaford Mods, he runs and jumps across the stage like a dad attempting the triple jump at a village fete, and has an interesting accent, a bit like an Elvis impersonator from Wakefield.

Plenty of people have evidently been stashing their smoke bombs and flares in readiness for I Predict a Riot, which is undeniably anthemic, and prompts a cloud of multicoloured smoke and people aloft on shoulders. This safe, ersatz vision of rebellion feels apposite for Kaiser Chiefs, who lack any real danger – they’re the “angry mob”, as Wilson has it, but one who would make sure to sweep the glass up after any bottles got thrown.

It’s a bleary-eyed Saturday morning over at the Park stage, but a strong crowd for Yann Tiersen, the French Breton musician-composer who first reached international acclaim upon scoring Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s 2001 film Amélie.

He’s distinct for his multi-instrument compositions, but today he appears with a piano, coming on stage and telling the crowd: “We’re starting with a breakfast mood with the piano, and then waiting for drinks to kick in then we’ll go after-party mode.”

It’s an unfussy, minimalist set of piano melodies that are Tiersen’s signature. A more gentle start to the morning for the sore heads and blistered feet of the crowd, who are near entirely sat down. Hunched over the piano, Tiersen’s technique is exquisite and poised: he employs tempo rubato to glide between pianissimo and mezzo-forte elements without friction or sudden and cheap accelerations of pace.

That also means that his set tracks an emotional journey – you catch your breath at certain peaks, and when the piano keys are mournful and reflective you think of loss or abandonment or heartbreak.

That’s done after 20 minutes, and then Tiersen heads for the decks to go full DJ mode, which is a bit like: yeah, OK, sure, why not? He did say he was going to do that. He then reaches for much grander abstract electronic sounds with trippy synthesisers, percussive record scratching and noisy soundscapes which brings the set closer to the DJ performances at Arcadia, Glade and Shangri-La last night.

People are still mostly seated, bar one man in a mismatched print bucket hat and vest jacket, waving an orange T-shirt in the air. Eventually Tiersen suggests: “Maybe you can stand? I know it’s early!” in the tone of a “no worries if not!!!” email.

The crowd does take to their feet as the set becomes louder and more hallucinatory. Fuzzy, warbling audio distortions echo out from the stage and some people attempt a half-hearted two-step but it’s clearly too early for dancing feet. It is such a contrast to elegant and polyrhythmic piano set; here we have crunchy techno beats and sci-fi like electronic vibes. And then suddenly Tiersen brings out a violin and starts playing with an intense fervour.

Does it all hang together? Not really – but you come to Tiersen for the energetic contrast, like breathing exercises followed by cold exposure followed by star jumps followed by ASMR, not cohesion. By the end that one guy still hasn’t stopped waving around his orange top. That’s the desired impact, I think.

Good morning all, and welcome to Saturday’s Glastonbury liveblog. I shall be your guide through today’s action, and we’ve got a packed line-up ahead, peaking tonight with Neil Young and the Chrome Hearts on the Pyramid and Charli xcx on The Other Stage.

Until then, however, we’ve got plenty to look forward to – starting soon with Kaiser Chiefs. Thanks for following along!