Fran Rodgers has been breaking hearts with her beautiful voice for several years in Leeds now, so it is a long overdue event to see her reach a wider audience on a bigger stage. A much bigger stage. In fact, it swamps her. Then she opens her mouth and the tent fills with her rich, clean, heart-rending tones, augmented with acoustic guitar and lap dulcimer. She buries the needle. Harmonies loop and fold like musical origami as she overwhelms and is in turn overwhelmed. Then, the moment of truth as a security guard wipes away a tear. Result. Meanwhile, a member of These Monsters is in floods. I come close when she dedicates ‘This Is Dedicated…’ to her parents. The French bit breaks me. Beautiful, simply beautiful.

I roll in a daze to the Introducing stage – Dave from Wintermute has suggested I check out the Situationists – and catch the Tripwires from Reading. It is a competent performance but fades into the melange of Stereophonics/Kaiser Chiefs emo-laced indoe rock. I’m sure they are lovely lads… maybe that’s part of the problem. It’s okay for an innocuous scribe like me, but a band needs to be… striking.

The Situationists are living proof of parallel musical evolution. Four nerdish, self deprecating young men playing angular but poppy math music that is so tight you could serve pear cider in it and not spill a drop. Sound familiar? Okay, I’m referring to Wintermute – bit obscure, but if you read the previous paragraph you might have a giggle. The crowd are lapping it up and rightly so as this fare has an undeniably catchy indie groove riffs threaded with some neat fills from drummer Ralph. Fidgety Futureheads/Foals rock that is almost as good as their Leeds counterparts, Wintermute. Almost.

I have only one sentence written down for Henry Rollins: See fucking awesome. A mite trite, but perfectly justified. His delivery is constant but well paced, his humour self-deprecatingly charming, his passion palpable, his content hilarious, anecdotal and frank… he is the sort of person you could listen to all day and, considering the man’s penchant for work, the sort of person who would talk all day. And night. It dawns on me that this is Bill Hicks true heir without the drug references or perverted sex fantasies. So not perfect, but still… fucking awesome.

Unlike Be Your Own Pet. Considering that this is one of their last gigs, Jemima Pearl looks and moves like she can’t be arsed anymore – it’s a far cry form the band I saw two years ago. It’s a shame, because the material from the new album is so… crispy. ‘Valley Of The Dolls’ should be spat out like bad seed, not mumbled. The smattering of audience look pretty disinterested too. Such a pity.

Sheffield’s Darlings of the Split Screen are stirring up the mid-size crowd at the Introducing stage with an electro ladle of samba. Terrible imagery, but good music and very zeitgeist. Kid Faces bops the synth, throwing out the sounds Hot Chip/XTC/Friendly Fires style and it is good n infectious. In fact, I wish I hadn’t bothered with Be Your Own Pet now. Catching these guys full set would have been better.

More festival lard n sugar premium mix from a sensibly priced vendor. I overcome the gag reflex and get back to the Introducing stage just in time for Leeds’ rock phenomena Pulled Apart By Horses, the yin of post-Mother Vulpine to Dinosaur Pile-Up’s yang. I hear that on the previous day, when they played Reading, Tom went to say “Cheers Reading,” and instead vomited for three minutes. He then wiped his mouth and said “cheers Reading.” Hence, a rock phenomena. Their five song set is baggy, ridiculous… and magnificent. Guitarists Tom and James leap off stacks, dive around the stage, play the theme from ‘Super Hang-On’ and spaz out to the extreme and the whole thing culminates with Tom singing on his back whilst being carried by the audience. Fellow ex-Mother Vulpine Lins takes over from Tom for that, setting in my mind the most beautiful rock n roll tableau of the weekend. Fellow writer and Leeds legend Sam Saunders comes striding out of the mosh pit and sums it up in two words: “Fuck indie.” Amen.

For some reason I miss about half of the Maybes?’ set – look, I’m being honest here – and when I return, I’m thinking they sound like your average indie electro band sporting just the right amount of plucky arrogance. I shrug. Then for their finale they embark on what can only be described as an ambient indie post-rock extravaganza. I didn’t see that coming. I’m intrigued. It’s like Aerogramme gone ladsy, Mogwai gone Liverpudlian. It’s about two minutes too long, but I am fair impressed and totally fail to secure an interview with them. I am nothing if not amateur.

Ida Maria, Norway and womankind’s answer to Pete Docherty actually deems to turn up today, wearing a battered top hat, a short dress and a leather jacket. Her make-up is Alice Cooper circa ‘Flush The Fashion’ and she is flanked by two Kens (Stefan Tornby and Johannes Lindberg). Looking slightly tipsy, she wades through the majority of her set with some half-hearted enthusiasm while her cohorts look on unimpressed and the audience wait for that song. In short, it’s one of those “come on, play the hit” gigs and I am personally a bot nonplussed. When the songs do come (‘Stella’ is sorta familiar) there is a cheer of relief from the audience and Ida, feeding off the response, ups the drunken antics a notch, flirting with the crowd, and generally selling ‘I Like You So Much Better When You’re Naked’ like she should have done the rest of the set. Flash in the pan minus the nudity.

Friendly Fires follow and fortunately a good number of folks remain, because, though the dancing girls aren’t present, the carnival is coming to Leeds today. Showers of ticker tape herald their opening and Ed MacFarlane struts around the stage like a techno Mick Jagger, arse wiggling joyfully every time he pokes emphatically at his synth. Candy Staton sticks out like a glitter covered thumb – in fact, is celebrated exuberantly. Only problem is that the sound is so muddied that it doesn’t quite ignite. It gets pretty damn close when Jack Savidge and Edd Gibson hit the drums, turning ‘Paris’ into a Rio de Janeiro carnival, the air now thick with confetti and passion. Okay, it’s bloody good. I’m convinced.

Boogeying off to catch my breath and chat to the BBC, I am just about prepared for the double whammy of the weekend: QOTSA and RATM. Two great acronyms, two great bands. For some reason, though, Queens are a bit down beat tonight. The set is eclectic, featuring tracks from all five albums, but Josh Homme looks like a man going through the motions. Plus, the whole thing is still not loud enough! Whoever decided the sound on the main stage (i.e. some noise abatement official) should be held accountable for kicking the heart out of the speakers. Still, despite the lacklustre performance and poor sound, it’s nice to hear in the open air.

A lot of people have been waiting a long time for this. You can sense the anticipation in the air. Or it could be the damp. When the lights finally come up after an unwelcome delay, the stage is dominated by a large red star – and that’s it. The emphasis is on Rage, not gimmicks. When the band arrive, a huge roar goes up and the ground shakes as tens of thousands of bodies jump up and down in unison. Zack de la Rocha strides purposefully about the stage laying down hardline after hardline, only letting up form the music to tell the crowd to move back. No lectures or protests tonight, just dissident anthem after dissident anthem. Tom Morella uses his guitar like a set of decks, unplugging and tapping to get that distinct sound and I swear never to mock him about pedals again. Tim Commerford, in a full torso tattoo and little else, holds down the tune and the rhythm on his bass – for me the great unheralded hero of Rage. ‘Bulls On Parade’ detonates, ‘Bullet In The Head’ fragments and ‘Renegades of Funk’… funks, but the noise is never quite enough. The second half of the set, unsupported by volume or fusion bangers sags a bit, so I am almost twiddling my thumbs by the time ‘Killing In The Name Of’ kicks off. Then they are gone, without fuss or fanfare. It’s worth it, but I can’t help but feel that it could have been more. Rage, for sure, but contained. Like the metal.

I am running a tad late, so I only catch the closing song of Her Name Is Calla’s set, ‘New England.’ It is a pretty almighty noise though. Thom Corah and Sophie Barnes are torturing unholy noises from their brass – not altogether in tune, but that’s the essence of despair, Tom Morris is almost weeping into his guitar and new kid Adam Weikert is looking bewildered on drums. Slightly abridged for time constraints, the toms kick in and the whole thing collapses angrily, sweating onto the stage like a tantrum made flesh. I look forward to the tour.

Fran’s lilting folkery is very much the lull before the storm tonight, a soothing balm to take the sting out of things. Solo tonight, she lights and warms the stage with ‘I Came To You Under Winter Sun,’ her last single, a very relaxed, amiable performance rather than an intense heartbreaking one. She dedicates ‘This Is Dedicated’ to James only to forget the words. No matter. She may not have the melodic fury of This Et Al, but as musical negotiator, she does a sterling job.

Talking about Stirling jobs, The Twilight Sad are from Glasgow. Hmm. Whatever, last time I saw them they damaged my hearing in such a sweet way that I am back for more. I don’t know how they manage it, but tonight as they play on a smaller stage than when I last saw them, it appears to be more crowded and emptier at the same time. Noise soon fills any gaps and as James Graham does his best to adopt a nouveau Ian Curtis style my ears start to buzz pleasantly. The secret to it all is in the primal drums of Mark Devine, playing the heartbeat of the world so that when Craig Orzell and Andy Macfarlane descend into drone so intense you could lie on it comfortably, you can still twitch rhythmically like a meat puppet on electrodes. As I lose myself in the crowd to that enticing I rhythm, I am filled with remorse as there would have been no more perfect pairing than this band and This Et Al. My remorse is soon bludgeoned out of me leaving James to scream my pain in his Glaswegian brogue. Not the most animated of performances but be still my beating heart… such pain and desire can only be love.