Kaiser Chiefs: emblem of Britain's woeful preoccupation with bland guitar bands, or bright boys whose articulate guitar-rock has deservedly caught the public's fancy? This sort of polite debate was suspended as the Leeds group headlined one of the biggest shows of their career, in front of about 20,000 fans who had prepared by funnelling down as much lager as they could hold, and splashing the rest over their neighbours.
The Kaisers have been tarred by association with a fanbase that takes their anthem I Predict a Riot as a call to arms rather than a detached view of the social mores of Saturday-night Anytown. It's possible that leader Ricky Wilson encourages it, though, in the same way that Robbie Williams goads fans into acting out; like Williams, he's more entertainer than rock singer, and simply adores being adored.
Leading the crowd through songs that have been drilled into the consciousness - Ruby, Every Day I Love You Less and Less, Na-Na-Na - he looked like a man who'd found his niche. He and his group were made for a communal singalong, and, much as their success might rile, this show made it clear why they're currently the ones to beat. "We are the Kaiser Chiefs," bawled Wilson in parting, as if that explained everything.
They closed the fourth and final day of Wireless (a three-day version ran concurrently in Leeds), a festival that's essentially a shopping opportunity with live music. Sponsored by a mobile phone network, it offered every amenity, right down to a spotless mini-pharmacy - just the job for punters who'd got a headache after coughing up £140 for a make of sunglasses that only looks good on celebrities. Over the four days, the longest queues were invariably for the cash machines, which will surprise parents who packed off their nippers under the assumption that £10 spending money would cover everything.
If Wireless lacked the organic quality that makes Glastonbury legendary, it did neatly assign each day a rough theme. Thursday, headlined by the White Stripes, was about American rock, Friday (Faithless) old-school dance, Saturday (Daft Punk) rave and Sunday Britrock. And Britrock meant Britrock: guitar music performed by skinny-jeaned males whose names began with "the": the Rakes, Cribs, Twang, Pigeon Detectives. Oh, and Editors, who eschew the definite article.
Nothing does for a merry atmosphere like Editors moaning about pestilence and disease, but they were at least distinctive. With the rest, even much-fancied Wakefield siblings the Cribs, it was hard to see the wood for the guitars.
But here are two names to remember: Kate Nash and Good Shoes. According to festival algebra, the more disproportionately large a crowd, the more imminently stardom beckons. In which case, DIY folkie Nash and London rock-drones GS had better start practising their autographs.
It's also worth keeping an eye on Friday's opener, Robyn. This Swedish ex-teen star is going through a dirty-lyrics phase, adding a hip-hoppish jolt to her catchy pop. And even Faithless showed that old ravers could be taught new tricks during an unadvertised acoustic set. Unchained from Sister Bliss and her aciieeed keyboards, they reeked slow-burning menace. Who'd have thought?
Saturday felt most like a festival, with sets from Daft Punk, Klaxons and Brazilian wonders CSS. The crowd turned out in the lycra/neon mishmash that 16-year-olds have adopted as a uniform.
Everyone else was either admiring CSS singer Lovefoxx or forcing their way into a tent to see Klaxons, whose self-imposed "new rave" label has become an umbrella term for a noisy little movement. And a stirring set of machine-music from two Parisians in steel helmets - that would be Daft Punk - was an apt finale.
