Raye has quite the assignment tonight. Thanks to some eccentric programming she has found herself sandwiched on the Pyramid between Pulp and Neil Young, neither of whom’s audiences dovetail terribly neatly with her glossy, modern soul-pop. Add to that the fact that she says she is having vocal issues – “it’s so frustrating when your voice doesn’t work how you want it to work” – and you can see why she is “really terrified”.

“We’re going to give everything we’ve got” is her response to this sticky situation. Which means a huge red Vegas showgirl set complete with her name in Edison bulbs and the biggest and brassiest of big bands to fill it. There’s a particular joy in hearing giant orchestration on the Pyramid stage, the way it seems to fill the space in a way even the heaviest riff can’t.

Raye certainly understands spectacle but also has a playful desire to undercut it. She halts songs midway through to deconstruct them, requesting chords at random (“how about a D major?”), and reveals the hand gestures she uses to clandestinely communicate with her players. It’s consistent with her brand of pop - old school grandiosity upended by thoroughly modern genre splicing. But it also speaks to that unfiltered, relentless honest quality that has made her such a compelling, Brit-award snaffling star, someone that you can’t help but root for.

There’s something so endearing watching a performer, dressed to the nines like prime Shirley Bassey, on the biggest stage of her career, stopping proceedings to point at the audience and shout: “Who is wearing goose heads? You lot are sending me off a cliff” before collapsing into a fit of giggles. And remarkable too to see her, close to tears, address the emotional toll of sexual assault, before declaring that “music is medicine” and launching into a vulnerable, orchestra-less Ice Cream Man.

Raye has weathered more than her share of such indignations in her still young career and reached these biggest of stages regardless. As she closes her set out with her biggest hit, Escapism, she promises it will be “as dramatic as it gets”, and follows through on that with gigantic orchestra swells and a performance that ends with her dropping to her knees. The response from the Pyramid crowd is ecstatic. It’s hard to think of many artists who deserve it more.

We’ve updated our news story on Kneecap with a startling detail. From reporter Jamie Grierson:

An Avon and Somerset police spokesperson confirmed the force was assessing comments made by Kneecap during their set.

They told the Guardian: “We are aware of the comments made by acts on the West Holts Stage at Glastonbury festival this afternoon.

“Video evidence will be assessed by officers to determine whether any offences may have been committed that would require a criminal investigation.”

Note that they say sets, plural. There’s been some consternation at comments made by punk duo Bob Vylan prior to Kneecap’s set.

Father John Misty draws a huge crowd to the Woodsies tent in the day-to-night slot on Saturday night, overwhelmingly of men feeling their feelings. It’s rather lovely to see so many of them swaying, arms linked, or – in the case of the pair next to me – literally climbing up the tent poles in paroxysms of delight. Plus it’s a tribute to the passionate fandom that FJM, aka Joshua Tillman, has amassed over six albums of his cerebral, satirical pop.

He bounds onto the stage to start the set with I Guess Time Just Makes Fools of Us All, the new composition included in last year’s Greatish Hits. He’s dressed in a billowing white shirt and black trousers, his beard groomed and resplendent; his band is modest but note-perfect, and the stage is lit with a low red light.

It’s all very lounge-y, lending a late-night vibe to the in fact early-evening set. Only after three songs (Josh Tillman and the Accidental Dose, and Mr Tillman – he’s rather self-referential, is our FJM) does Tillman address the crowd, proposing a brief “wellness check”. “Is anyone spiralling? ... Can I give you some advice? Just dissociate completely. Works for me, every time!”

That’s to introduce Being You, marked by twinkling keys and a sax solo. Tillman seems to assume the role of master of ceremonies more than, necessarily, star or even frontman, down to his deadpan announcement “outro” in the last moments of the song. It’s impeccably polished – but, also, a tad smoky and stiff until song four, Nancy From Now On, when the red light lifts and is replaced with a golden one. The clear acoustic guitar strum and celestial chords are a breath of fresh air; around me the crowd gratefully oohs, aahs and sways.

It’s followed up with another hit, Chateau Lobby #4 (in C for Two Virgins), perhaps the song that best showcases the loveliness of Tillman’s songwriting and arrangements. Tonight it’s is elevated for the occasion with thumping drums and a stirring sax. Follow-up Mental Health is rapturously received by the crowd, while She Cleans Up, a rockier number, ramps up the intensity. From its confident staccato stop, the band launch into Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings: a song that seems both fresh and also classic, from its arresting, gold-standard opening lyrics: “Jesus Christ, girl!” It’s one of those songs that doesn’t modulate or build, but maintains a foot steadily on the pedal, leading into Mahashmashana, from last year’s album of the same name. It’s voluble even by FJM’s standards, but the fans lap up every word.

“I won’t forget that any time soon,” says Tillman, visibly grateful, at the song’s end. His set concludes with a crowd-pleaser, perhaps his biggest hit: Real Love Baby. The lighting lifts once more to cast a golden glow, like the sun setting behind Tillman and his band – a lovely note to end on.

Skepta has turned up to the Other stage, and indeed turned up – he tears straight into his new track with speed garage auteur Sammy Virji, Cops & Robbers. Given he wasn’t even going to be playing this set until a scant few hours ago – Deftones pulled out due to illness – he’s absolutely at match fitness, rapping with the speed and exactitude of a jungle MC. Then it’s into That’s Not Me, his triumphant trashing of an entire failed persona: he aimed at the charts, failed, went back to grime and wrote one of the great defining anthems of the genre. What with Raye on the Pyramid, this is an evening of artists who have learned the hard way how to stay true to themselves.

“Let them know Ezra Collective was here,” says footballing legend Ian Wright in a prerecording before the London-based jazz quintet emerge on the Other stage. It’s a strong co-sign from a national treasure but, truly, Ezra Collective need no such introduction to this crowd, which you might imagine is overwhelmed by attendees camping out for Charli xcx’s headlining set, but is in fact bursting with eagerness to see these young men in action.

Perhaps no group has captured the goodwill and conscience of the nation like Ezra Collective. They have been central to a contemporary jazz revival – in 2023 they became the first jazz act to win the Mercury prize – and their kineticism and meshing of Afrobeat, hip-hop, calypso and soul has won them an audience that feels like a broad coalition of Britain’s diverse demographics. When they come out they wear matching football shirts bearing their band name, like a national team ready to make their country proud.

And you cannot help but feel proud of these boys and fall in love with them. Their tunes are groovy and delightful, from up-tempo brass, rapturous drums and relaxed, mellow bass. Lead band member and drummer Femi Koleoso tells the crowd “we are currently at the greatest festival in the world” and asks “who is ready to dance?”. No one can resist jumping, whining and flailing their limbs at their infectious music. Though Koleoso is the frontman, each member has a moment to shine with solos and direct engagement with the crowd - it feels truly democratic and like a real brotherhood (Koleoso’s actual brother TJ is the bassist, but the sense of family is shared between all). Renditions of Damian Marley’s Welcome to Jamrock and Fela Kuti’s Lady are particular highlights, as is their take on DJ Luck & MC Neat’s garage classic Little Bit of Luck. Guest appearances from Kojey Radical, Loyle Carner and Sasha Keable emphasise this as a celebration, not only of the band but of the movement and culture they’ve created and those who have embraced them along the way.

There are some incredibly heartwarming and intimate moments – Koleoso speaks of getting his first drum kit at eight years old from a member of his church, who is in the audience. And they bring out a youth club to dance with them, saying that the band is a “tribute to every teacher, youth member, social worker, sports coach… every single [person] that loves pouring into young people like we do” (the collective themselves were born out of the jazz youth programme Tomorrow’s Warriors).

The collective want to soak in the greatness and victory of this moment, they speak of their dreams of performing at Glastonbury, but they also want to transport you. At one point Koleoso launches into a speech about “heartbreak and destruction every single time I read the news” (he doesn’t refer to anything specific – Palestine? Last year’s race riots in London? Climate change?), and he speaks of joy as an emotion that is more powerful than sadness or happiness. It feels a little directionless, but that’s no bother – you’re then transported to Brazil with their track São Paulo and its samba-licked sound.

I am emotional, too, reflecting on how these boys capture the very best of London and the beauty of our diversity and evolving culture, which is indebted to and continually shaped by generations of immigration and cultural exchange. Against a backdrop of rightwing attacks on multiculturalism, warning sirens of an “island of strangers”, the band instructs us to say hello to the strangers around us (Hello, Charlotte – you had a fabulous khaki outfit and lovely butter-yellow nails). So many of these beautiful moments are made.

At the close, they pull a girl, Amanda, from the youth club to sing us out - and she beautifully performs their track God Gave Me Feet for Dancing with the same soul, emotion and poise that has defined this set. It feels supernova; their explosion begets another star, who is certain to carry her own light to audiences around the world.

As a longtime fan of TV on the Radio it’s a bit disappointing to see the Woodsies tent so sparsely populated when the band take the stage early Friday evening. As anyone who’s seen them perform will know, they’re a force to be reckoned with live, teaming intricate melodies and unexpected instrumentation with not only energy but power. I saw them 10 years ago at the Sydney Opera House, a horrible venue for rock bands, not least those as vigorous as this one – yet they still managed to blow the crowd out of their plush velvet seats and into the pews.

As if to demonstrate what they’re capable of, impervious to the gaping holes in the tent, they open their set tonight with Young Liars, off their 2003 debut – a circling, slow-burn of a song that builds bit by bit a formidable wall of sound. It’s from the slower and heavier end of the band’s oeuvre, the other being fast and thrashy, and they draw liberally from both buckets tonight.

After the heaviness of Young Liars, Golden Age, from 2008’s Dear Science, is dancey and propulsive, the skittish melody brought persistently to heel by the hi-hats. The band – currently without founding member Dave Sitek, but with vocalist Tunde Adebimpe and multi-instrumentalists Kyp Malone and Jaleel Bunton, plus touring musicians – is confident and energetic, but the leaky sound of the Woodsies tent doesn’t present them at their best. An attempt to reimagine Dreams from the close-mic’d, slightly sinister recording into a belter comes at the expense of those layers, details and dynamics that have elevate and define TV on the Radio; it’s all a bit soupy sounding, even Adebimpe’s distinctive, far-ranging voice and the moments of trombone.

Happy Idiot, from fifth album Seeds, gets the crowd moving, the projected visuals of cartoon lions and demons setting the tone of playful menace. Though more than a decade old, Malone makes explicit the parallel with today’s political leaders. “You guys think we can steer clear of world war three?” he asks nonchalantly, looking every inch the sage with his long beard, colourful robes and jaunty hat. (Adebimpe, unfussy and muscular in a black vest, is his perfect foil, visually as well as vocally.)

Malone then leads the crowd in a chant of “Free Palestine” over driving guitar, introducing Could You: a song that asks what you are prepared to do – what costs or inconveniences you are personally willing to weather – in order to build a better world. Later, Trouble intersects those same themes of cautious optimism, or hopeful doubt, with its anthemic refrain: “Everything’s gonna be okay/Oh, I keep telling myself/Don’t worry, be happy/Oh, you keep telling yourself.”

It hadn’t previously occurred to me, but it reveals TV on the Radio as a great band for this moment: apocalyptic, courageous but still capable of joy. The tent does noticeably fill up over the hour, but the front few rows of fans aren’t fazed either way: classics like Wolf Like Me and DLZ are met with ecstatic recognition even if the details and precision that make them so compelling on the recording are somewhat lost live.

They finish their set with Staring at the Sun, making the most of Adebimpe and Malone’s call-and-response, by which point the diehard fans are head-banging and passers-by are popping their heads into the tent. I am reminded of when I saw Phoenix on this stage a few festivals ago, around the same time of day. Both are much-loved, dependable bands with committed fan bases, but you could also easily put them on the Other stage and trust that they’d draw in unfamiliar crowds. Though TV on the Radio deserve a bigger audience (and a better mix), everyone here is a fan who appreciates the breathing room to enjoy them.

Remarkably, after an almost five-decade long career, this is Gary Numan’s first Glastonbury appearance. Though it’s perhaps not so surprising: his moody synth pop is more suited to dark, smoky goth clubs than sunny farms.

He makes no concessions for the occasion. Dressed in drainpipe jeans and meshy layers, he doesn’t bother with the usual Glasto pleasantries: he’s too busy stalking the stage and flailing his limbs about as though he’s limbering up to be nailed to a cross. We only hear his Essex twang when he introduces his suitably gothy teenage daughters, who take it in turns to join him on the mic, about 45 minutes in. But what he lacks in patter, he makes up for in dancing.

Unfortunately for The Pleasure Principle purists, Numan’s set is a heavy trudge through his later, rockier material. Even the few beloved ‘79 hits he squeezes in (M.E., Down at the Park, Cars, Are “Friends” Electric?) are given the sludgy rock treatment. Thick, shreddy guitar riffs wrestle against the soaring synths that make Numan’s music so great. It’s a complete vibe switch from the original record, and not necessarily in a good way – although you’ve got to respect his commitment to doing his own thing.

One thing that impressed me so much when I first saw Numan play several years ago was how strong his signature whiney vocals still sounded. Annoyingly today, they’re severely undermixed – often hardly audible beneath the swarms of noise. Even in the spoken interlude in his wisely chosen closer Are “Friends” Electric?, his voice comes across as more of a whisper than the cocksure snarl it should be. Likely it’s the fault of the stage engineers rather than Numan, but it’s one issue too many. Some might say it’s the nail in the coffin.

As expected the sisters Haim are the TBA set over on the Park stage. They march onstage shouting “come on!” before the stuttering, rootsy riff for The Wire starts up.

Alexis Petridis’s verdict on that much-discussed Kneecap performance has landed. You can read the whole thing below, but here’s a snippet:

It’s probably too late to say that it would be a shame if said controversy completely drowned out Kneecap’s actual music, but the point stands. Behind the furore, the trio are really good at what they do. Mo Chara and Móglaí Bap are impressive rappers – raw-throated but dextrous, far funnier than you might expect if the only stuff you heard about Kneecap revolved around recent events. And, live, their sound comes into its own, a fizzing stew with a bassy intensity that has a hint of the Prodigy about it.

Time for a grizzled veteran of the countercultural 1960s to play some roughed-up electric guitar and sing in a distinctive croon – no, not Neil Young just yet, but rather Creedence Clearwater Revival bandleader John Fogerty, who turned 80 last month but has the spirit and hairline of a man 20 years younger.

This is a joyous, raucous set, featuring some barnstorming long-form blues rock, including a song with a guitar solo by Fogerty’s sideman that achieves the extraordinary feat of being at least five minutes long and enthralling all the way through. And though Fogerty might not have the universal name recognition of some others of his generation, CCR actually have more than twice the listeners on Spotify each month than Young thanks to a clutch of eternal classics. It would almost have been worth a downpour to make Have You Ever Seen the Rain one of those magical triumph-against-adversity Pyramid moments, but it remains euphoric, with thousands raising their voices for its big kindly chorus.

But there’s real bite, too. Fortunate Son, written in 1969, was infused with the anger at poor men being drafted into the Vietnam war while the privileged could easily dodge it, and Fogerty still fills the chorus with its mix of indignation, fear and bewilderment. Between songs he explains the saga of him earning back his song catalogue from late mogul Saul Zaentz, crediting his wife – “She stood in the face of every fuckin’ lawyer” – and his own vitality and indefatigability: “I had a plan, and the plan was to outlive those sons of bitches.” He sounds genuinely emancipated as he toasts the crowd with a glass of champagne and trails his new album of rerecorded CCR songs.

And then it’s back to purely good vibes with Bad Moon Rising and Proud Mary, the latter an instant entry into the annals of great Pyramid singalongs. Your move, Neil.

Over on the Pyramid, the worst-kept secret – well one of about five of the wors- kept secrets – at the festival is finally revealed: Patchwork is Pulp. They open with Sorted For E’s and Whizz

The former Little Mix singer confesses that she was worried no-one would come to her debut solo Glastonbury performance – but Kneecap, The Script and various other big names don’t seem to have made a dent in the huge devoted crowd of girls, gays, theys, kids, mums, dads and pretty much anyone with the slightest taste for the corn syrup of pure pop: the crowd spills out of the tent and there’s hundreds more outside, watching on the Woodsies’ big screens.

After the bananas success of her debut single Angel of My Dreams last year, nothing since has really connected on the same scale – and, to be frank, that’s due to some underpowered production and songwriting. New single Plastic Box is a very tepid take on the relentlessly sad pulse of Robyn’s Dancing On My Own, and while Jade sings her cover of Madonna’s Frozen with the song’s requisite drama and nails that deep, sombre “when your heart’s not open”, the backing goes from generic techno to generic trance and isn’t anything like as characterful as the original.

But a switch up to Higher State of Consciousness-type acid and the chorus of N-Trance’s Set You Free ends it all on a high. It’s just one example of how Jade turns to maximalism to get the songs to where they need to be. Fantasy is boringly produced on record, but here it reaches the disco-fabulous euphoria it was aiming for, with Jade’s soaring vocal matched by a barnstorming sax solo. FUFN sounds like Lady Gaga cosplay in the studio, but today sounds like an electro-ska monster that would win Eurovision for Croatia, with Jade getting us to put our middle fingers up while she rails against transphobia and other examples of inequality.

A medley of Little Mix hits – Shout Out to My Ex, Sweet Melody, Woman and Touch – propels even more hands in the air. Jade expertly negotiates the beat switch from peppy pop to Woman’s skanking reggae and hard rock with some strong choreo (although Touch’s line “just a touch of your love is enough to take control of my whole body” still sounds like something an AI boyfriend would tell you). But then Jade declares: “That was the old me – it’s time for something new”. She brings out Aussie trash-bacchants Confidence Man for new song Gossip, which climaxes with the line, “Tina says you’re a cunt” – unlikely to have got past Simon Cowell, this.

Jade ends on Angel of My Dreams, inspired by a time when the industry was getting her down, “so I wrote a cheeky song about it”. Personally I still find this a dog’s dinner, a series of ideas fused with all the skill of a trainee welder who’s just failed their NVQ for the fourth time – though I appreciate this chaos is very much the appeal for the song’s fans, who are in huge abundance here, making game attempts at the genuinely angelic central hook. They don’t get close to Jade, whose voice still has superhuman, un-karaokeable technical brilliance.

While Kneecap cause a blockade over at West Holts, things are a lot more subdued over at the Park stage for Lucy Dacus, where a modest but devoted crowd of people have spread out over the bank.

It’s an appropriate set-up for the Virginia songwriter, whose music is characterised by its cosy quality, all soft indie rock melodies, fuzzy sentiments and mumbly vocals. On stage, it’s a grand yet solidly homely affair: she performs atop a big round rug – and at one point, from a plush blue chaise longue – while the screens imitate the wallpaper and gold frames from the cover of her new album, Forever is a Feeling.

Across the 45-minute set, she meanders through her back catalogue, from early hits like Hot and Heavy and I Don’t Wanna Be Funny Anymore to selections from her aforementioned new album. Some of these tracks stand out: Ankles is both performed and received well, for example, but the rest sort of merges into one big wash of sound.

Dacus’ stage presence is understated, but sweet. “Raise your hand if you love someone,” she says shyly, before playing the woozy, straight-up romantic Best Guess, another brief highlight from the record. “Cool, this song is for you.” She also urges everyone to stay hydrated and top up on their suncream and, at one point, sips from a cup of tea.

It’s a pleasant enough experience, intimate and exciting for the diehard fans, I’m sure, but a little unremarkable otherwise.

Weezer last played here in 1995, right as their vocalist and songwriter Rivers Cuomo was rejecting the buoyant power pop of their self-titled debut (the Blue album), considering quitting music altogether and ultimately readying Pinkerton, a squalling, self-loathing collection of songs that proved to be commercially suicidal at the time but later became regarded as their best album and a key set text in the nascent emo boom.

What came next was bizarre: Weezer became a party band. There were jock anthems like Beverly Hills, music videos with the Muppets, Weezer cruises to Mexico and the Bahamas, a Lil Wayne collaboration, a song called I Want Your Sex. Much of it was pretty terrible (Weezer fans will still shudder at mention of the album Raditude) but you had to admire the sheer radical nature of the transformation.

Returning to Glastonbury 30 years on, there’s still a bit of the old Rivers here - shy and mumbly, a little uncertain with in his onstage banter - but otherwise Weezer are a slick proposition. They rattle through a well oiled festival friendly set featuring a lot of Blue, a smattering of Pinkerton (even a Pinkerton b-side, You Gave Your Love To Me Softly) and a few of the newer party hits (Beverly Hills goes down a treat, it must be said). Everything you’d want and expect from a Weezer gig was here: the atypically muscular Hash Pipe, the endless summer Blue Album jams Holiday and Surf Wax America, Pinkerton standouts Why Bother and the Good Life.

A crowd that at first seems a tiny bit lukewarm soon warms up, with a surprisingly young contingent at its centre, singing along to every word and doing the =w= symbol with their hands. The arrival of the big hitters helps of course: Island in the Sun; Say it Ain’t So, probably the catchiest song ever written about a child’s relationship with their alcoholic father; Sweater Song; Buddy Holly, with its capacity to make a whole field ooo-eee-ooo in something close to unison. A big old party in Pilton from the consumate party band. Don’t wait another 30 years for the next one, lads

Ah, The Script: a band that music critics – sneering and pretentious as we are – love to hate. The Irish soft-rock band, led by frontman Danny O’Donoghue, found breakout success with the release of The Man Who Can’t Be Moved (I admit I like this song); previously O’Donoghue worked as a producer in Los Angeles, behind songs for acts like TLC and Boyz II Men. Had O’Donoghue remained behind-the-scenes, perhaps he’d be better regarded.

Perhaps I am being harsh and, as is often the case with critics, there is a mismatch in my lack of enthusiasm and that of the Pyramid stage audience. After all, The Script are commercial giants, but they are just so bland and boring – poor derivatives of Coldplay and Snow Patrol (not that those bands are without their detractors).

O’Donoghue swaggers on, in some kind of baggy ombre blazer, and sings Superheroes, “cause he’s stronger than you know”. Lots of the crowd ooh and clap to moments that don’t feel entirely earned. O’Donoghue introduces Inside Out , which came out last year, and tries to ride off the hook “I’m just trying to get inside out” – but it just never really takes off.

Even when that international smash The Man Who Can’t Be Moved comes on, his singing is so clunky and out of sync with the audience attempting to sing along. So much of The Script’s discography feels like AI slop before there was AI. The band is so earnest, you often feel as though you’re being manipulated into a response. At one point, O’Donoghue honours former lead guitarist Mark Sheehan, who died two years ago, yet his rap delivery is so hackneyed and poor that a moment of silence might have been a better homage.

From there, the set all just descends into awkwardness: O’Donoghue frequently loses his voice and mumbles out lyrics that he seems to have forgotten. He says he’s going to do something that he’s been told is “gonna go horribly bad”, which is to walk into the crowd while singing Nothing – but no one in the crowd knows the words, so they’re just kind of voicelessly filming him pace around.

There are high points: Breakeven really takes off with the crowd, as does Hall of Fame. But the set is so overstuffed with cliches and platitudes that you feel smothered. “I’m dedicating this to anybody who’s going through a hard time right now” – thanks Danny, I am.

It has been confirmed that Sacramento alt-metal band Deftones have pulled out of their Other stage set this evening due to illness in the band. Grime MC Skepta has stepped in as a replacement, saying: “Let’s go!!! No crew, no production but am ready to shut Glastonbury down.”

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 with her “tight foursome” back home in Seattle. Carlile 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 brilliantly 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!