It feels almost like a childhood hallucination: catching sight, for the first time, of the colourful tips of the End Of The Road tents peeking out of the woods in the English countryside of Dorset, spotting a classic red double-decker parked in a clearing. Thanks to the magical evocations of Stonehenge, located not far from the Larmer Tree Gardens where the festival is held, it's as if the volcanic imagination of an infant demigod, playfully discovering his own powers, had dreamed up a place outside of time, a tear in the fabric of things. A bell, perched who knows how atop a pedestal in the dappled shade of the trees, spreads its inner warmth to the chilly pilgrims of this dreamlike garden, decked out with the Nordic taste — the organiser, Sofia Hagberg, is Swedish — of a human settlement indistinguishable from the natural arrangement of the vegetation.

The secret of End Of The Road isn't far removed from those branches dripping with lights, from the gaudy colours of the peacocks that strut about in plain sight through the winding paths, where you're just as likely to bump into kids trying their hand at Viking pastimes as to strike up a chat with an elderly couple placidly dozing on the lawn. The secret of a festival like this can only be that of managing to build a relationship between the attendee and the place itself, rather than simply trying to rack up the biggest names. Anyone who goes to End Of The Road can count on a solid lineup, always faithful to a certain sense of familiarity even in its musical fabric, which then translates into the festival's "everyday life", where artists stroll among the stalls, sit among the crowd to watch other sets, and improvise performances in the most hidden and astonishing corners of the site, at any hour. That's why attending the festival is a matter that goes beyond comparing bills — even though this year's is among the most respectable, lining up Modest Mouse, Yo La Tengo and Wilco as headliners. Doing the maths on the line-up would, in short, be like phoning your grandmother to find out the Christmas lunch menu before deciding whether to go to a restaurant instead.

And speaking of restaurants, one of the festival's strong points is the food on offer at the various stalls — not all that many, of course, given that only five thousand tickets are sold, but almost all of them capable of serving up a good-quality meal. From falafel to meat pies, from North African cuisine to Caribbean, the range of flavours on offer for festivalgoers is a spectacle in itself. And while the food draws heavily on distant, exotic worlds, the drinks stick firmly to the purest English tradition, with a wide selection of proper local ales and ciders, from the classic kind to a warm, spiced version to fend off the cold at night, right through to a distilled variant turned into a digestif, known as cider brandy. Naturally there are other kinds of stalls too, selling clothing somewhere between vintage and festival merchandise, and then there's the one where us music obsessives leave the largest chunk of our money every year: the Rough Trade tent, offering a huge selection of CDs and vinyl by the artists on the bill, at least five or six of whom drop by the tent every day for proper signing sessions.

The sense of familiarity between artists and audience is further helped by the fact that the aforementioned tent isn't the only place to buy records, since almost all the bands sell their own merchandise at the end of their sets, and the advantage of shopping in those moments is being able to strike up a conversation with the musicians whose performance you've just enjoyed. The ease of such a direct rapport does good not only to us fans but to the artists themselves, since none of them belong to the star system, and being able to feel the crowd's positive energy from so close up is a hard-to-match source of encouragement.

It's clear that the festival's modest size is decisive in allowing all of this to happen in complete calm, and is generally the main reason behind the great logistical ease found in every respect, from how easily you can get from your tent to the stages, to toilet access, which never takes more than a few minutes, to how clean and well cared-for the toilets themselves are, to the presence of comfortable hot showers. None of this could happen at other, far more crowded festivals, but credit must go to this event's organisers for their obsessive attention to every detail useful in giving attendees a carefree, hassle-free weekend. Readers might well be wondering: surely End Of The Road must have some flaw? The answer is very clear and simple: no, it really has no flaws at all — it's simply an enchanted place, a true paradise to immerse yourself in once a year, only to be overcome, the moment you leave, by the mad urge to go back.

What follows is an attempt to offer as broad an overview as possible of all the performances we caught over this long weekend, while trying to keep things balanced enough for the whole piece to remain readable. We travelled between great promises, unexpected revelations, solid certainties and a few disappointments — which is only fair, especially when there are so few of them.

Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan

Definitely one of the surprises in store for those who turned up for this year's early opening, Thursday's sets feature an undisputed headliner: the "odd couple" made up of Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan. There's real curiosity about how they'll recreate the atmosphere of their latest release, "Hawk", with its shadowy blues character, which does seem very much an expression of the latter. The duo's live show confirms and amplifies that impression: Campbell is relegated to a supporting role. What's more, she doesn't even play it with grace or charm. Visibly uncomfortable (perhaps due to a faulty microphone setting), her backing vocals come across as a barely audible, indecipherable litany, a pitiful counterpoint to Lanegan's charisma-drenched delivery. A duo, then, with almost grotesque overtones, one that doesn't quite work live, perhaps because of Mark's overwhelming presence. The mere fact of using a music stand, his contrasting big-guy demeanour, his desert-sorcerer timbre — all of it gives him the upper hand. The set is made up of songs that are pleasant enough but heavily mannered, which lends the whole thing a stale feel, a lack of real communicativeness that sits awkwardly with the warm atmosphere of the Tipi Tent.

Darren Hayman

Hayman is by now a seasoned artist, given that the first Hefner album — the band that won him the attention of all the most discerning fans — dates back to 1996. Between Hefner, the subsequent electro-pop project The French and his solo records, our man has now reached the tenth release, and while his compositional inspiration may no longer be at its peak, the quality remains good even now, so it's fair to say he's ageing well. Last year he showed up here in a more electric guise, but longtime followers know he's always been at his best with an acoustic guitar, backed by a rhythm section that makes his repertoire feel like a Britpop rereading courtesy of Violent Femmes. This time, luckily, that's exactly the approach taken for the live show, and the songs deliver on their full potential. His voice remains expressive and effective, his guitar touch is enchanting, the melodies, as noted, are top-notch even now, and the set alternates songs with the aforementioned rhythm section and others in which Hayman stands alone on stage. The atmosphere is almost magical, and the most touching moments come with two Hefner songs, "The Weight Of The Stars" and "The Hymn For The Alcohol", heavy hitters from the catalogue of a songwriter who is unquestionably above average. Undoubtedly the best way to close out the festival's warm-up night, not least because those present get the chance to buy the new album "Essex Arms" a full month before its release in shops: needless to say, plenty take advantage of the opportunity.

Elliott Brood

It's hard to imagine a better way to kick off the festival's official programme than with the rustic explosiveness of a Canadian band. Elliott Brood are a banjo-guitar-drums trio serving up a vivid, engaging folk-rock with a populist flavour. Frontman Mark Sasso has a great gravelly voice and the bearing of a Midwest stage veteran; the band also knows how to handle an exuberant rapport with the crowd without overdoing it, inviting people to clap along and sing the songs in unison (a fairly easy task, given the material). Their repertoire isn't exactly the most varied — most of the songs consist of major-key guitar strumming. And yet their youthful, enthusiastic Canadian outlook allows the band to break through the audience's guard and win them over for the roughly forty-five minutes that probably represent the golden window for a band like this.

Woodpigeon

Although not one of the festival's headline acts, Mark Andrew of the Hamiltons is something of a symbol for End Of The Road. It's no coincidence that Woodpigeon has been signed by the festival's own label since his first record: his name sounds like the wild alias of a child born and raised in the shadow of the Garden Stage, given how well his music captures and distills the exuberant-yet-never-crude folk-party atmosphere that fills the Larmer Tree Gardens in early September. His live set won't be among the best seen on this occasion - even though the admiration for his sprawling, flawless output remains sky-high - essentially because of the less-than-stellar backing, in terms of variety and depth, provided by the young Scots of Eagleowl. They can't offer much more than a tidy but unremarkable homework exercise, so Mark is left to fend for himself, and he does so by pulling out all his leading-man class. His outstanding skills as an arranger, though, get somewhat lost along the way. He draws from his already substantial catalogue a decidedly personal setlist, setting aside his big (or supposed) classics and making few concessions to the latest record - with the obvious exception of "Woodpigeon vs. Eagleowl". With almost sixty songs released over the span of three years, Mark has, in a very short time, reached the status of a songwriter who can afford to run a live show exactly as he pleases, pulling out hidden, personal tracks safe in the knowledge that his mere presence is enough to satisfy the crowd.

Freelance Whales

Last year, the then-still-unknown Mumford & Sons played here, before going on to enjoy unprecedented hype within the folk-pop world. People living here in England say the same fate could await Freelance Whales this year, but hearing their performance hardly makes you want to jump on that bandwagon. Mumford and co. at least have several inspired melodies and a great ability to engage a crowd live; here, by contrast, there's none of that - just a lot of composure, both in the songwriting and in the delivery, with no trace of the verve that's absolutely necessary for a folk-pop act to rise above mediocrity. The sound of this live show is that classic semi-acoustic style that wants to be as sparkling as it is delicate, but by now this particular approach has become a bit too overused, and simply ticking the genre's boxes is no longer enough to move an audience; and here, there isn't even a hint of that kind of emotion.

Mountain Goats

The minimal setup with which John Darnielle's band takes the stage is perhaps the best format to let the man's torrential expressiveness come through, along with the unrestrained passion with which he seems to want to invite everyone up on stage, or else go down among the crowd himself. A classic guitar-bass-drums setup that lets his war horses ("No Children" and "Old College Try" above all) shine at their fullest, though it ends up feeling a bit tiring and not quite in tune with the band's most recent efforts, which aren't by chance backed by a fuller instrumental section than in the past. From where we're standing, a little off to the side admittedly, the bass seems to dominate everything, dense and reverberating. After a few songs with John alone, an intermezzo that's not entirely convincing, the closing is fantastic, as the irresistible hit "This Year" finally arrives to warm up a slightly numbed crowd.

Wolf People

Hard times for anyone who loves the interplay between classic rock and blues. Lately only The Black Keys keep delivering the goods, at least on record, but otherwise the landscape looks rather thin. This quintet is trying to revive the scene, and judging by what we heard here, they have everything it takes to succeed. Their way of blending the two genres mentioned above is fairly Zeppelin-esque, but without the intricate structures found in many songs by Plant & Page's legendary outfit. On the contrary, the songs here are all extremely direct and flowing, though at the right moments there's no shortage of interesting instrumental twists on the theme. The performance, moreover, is truly brilliant: the voice is powerful and expressive, and above all comes across as remarkably natural, as if the singer could deploy his golden pipes with the same ease with which the rest of us shave in the morning; the rhythm section is driving and inventive; the guitar sound is vibrant and boasts plenty of tonal variety. A hugely infectious, overwhelming energy, so much so that the crowd keeps loudly demanding an unplanned encore, which arrives anyway amid general enthusiasm. Incidentally, Wolf People refuse to put out CDs - their music is only available on vinyl, released through Jagjaguwar, a label whose name alone is a guarantee of quality. So far they've put out "Tidings", a collection of early recordings, interesting but lacking the adrenaline rush shown on stage. Let's hope they've managed to capture that on their proper debut album, due out on 12 October.

Wolf Parade

After their Turin show, in a small suburban club not long ago, there's plenty of curiosity about how the Canadian band will fare in front of a Garden Stage packed with several thousand people. It's not that Krug and Boeckner are novices - far from it - yet they're touring behind an album that's had noticeably less impact than its predecessors, at a tricky transitional moment for the band, when their various side projects seem to be faring better than the main one. Any doubts are swept away the moment Spencer Krug's keyboard first sounds, a siren call that heralds an enchanting rock liturgy, a foaming tidal wave crashing over the crowd, which is left as intoxicated as you'll rarely see at End Of The Road. On a stage befitting a bigger occasion, Wolf Parade display real drive, the stuff of a great band, even with a repertoire that, on record, could sometimes seem a little off-target: they hit hard from the first second and never let go. The two of them, Boeckner and Krug, are extraordinary musicians with perfectly complementary personalities: the band's sheen may have dulled a little over the years, but a live show like this one is there to prove that, despite everything, they're still alive and kicking, whatever the armchair critics might say.

Here We Go Magic

This young American quintet is a standard-bearer for a light-sounding indie-pop built on unconventional melodies, which can't help but be interesting. Tonight, though, the performance isn't among their best, not so much in terms of the playing itself, but rather in terms of intensity. The songs go by without leaving much of a mark, and while the listening experience is pleasant enough, it's not one that lingers, especially at a festival like this one where the mind is bombarded with countless stimuli, both musical and related to the setting itself. The band, incidentally, only uses fifty of the sixty minutes they had available, and yet with two albums under their belt they should have enough material to fill that time: perhaps that's the clearest sign that the guys just weren't feeling it tonight, and couldn't wait for it to be over. A show that can still be deemed adequate, but from Here We Go Magic much more was expected.

Modest Mouse

The American band's artistic trajectory is marked by the fact that each record has been easier to listen to than the one before it. In this headlining set, though, the group doesn't just serve up its easy-listening side, but alternates extremely melodic songs with others that have a rougher sound and more guarded songwriting. Opening with the visceral "Satin In A Coffin" is already a statement of intent, as is the decision to play both of their biggest hit singles, "Dashboard" and "Float On", so early on. In terms of the performance, the band is in fine form on a purely musical level, with a tight, clean sound that lets all the emotion of the material come through; the only slight reservation concerns the use of two drummers, whose parts end up simply stacking on top of each other rather than truly interlocking. Isaac Brock's voice doesn't carry quite the same impact, and there are moments where the frontman seems to struggle to keep pace with the instruments, though this might well have been a deliberate choice, not giving the vocals a dominant role so that the qualities of the sound come through more clearly to the audience. Overall, the live show is solid and convincing: if the last album, from 2007, can be considered something of a stumble, hearing Modest Mouse live three years on gives hope that their next record will return to much higher ground.

New Pornographers

Once Modest Mouse wrap up at the Garden Stage, there's just enough time to let the crowd thin out a little and make the minute-and-a-half walk over to the Big Top, where the Canadian ensemble is ready to begin their show. It's well known by now that, of the three key personalities behind the band's output, neither Dan Bejar nor Neko Case is part of this tour, leaving A.C. Newman alone on stage to represent the band's creative core. In their place, though, there are two thoroughly respectable singers, chief among them Kathryn Calder, standing in for Neko Case, who has a sensational voice combining clarity, power and expressiveness in equal measure. On a purely technical level the performance is stunning in every respect, not just vocally: the overall sound, in fact, is as tight and bright as could be, and both the guitars and the rhythm section manage to be incisive in their own right while also gaining real added value from how they interact with each other and with the vocals. It's a shame that all these riches are put almost exclusively in the service of songs from the last two albums, which happen to be their least successful: sure, it makes sense for the band to lean on their recent material if that's what they believe in most, but a touch of wistfulness is inevitable when picturing a performance like this one applied instead to their older, finer songs.

Forest Fire

Serving up dark, brooding folk at one in the afternoon in a sun-drenched garden bursting with lush greenery at every turn is by no means an easy task. And when one of the musicians - in this case the girl alternating between bass and flute - shows a level of technical competence well below any acceptable threshold for this kind of stage, the mission becomes even harder. Yet the half hour delivered by Forest Fire neither thrills nor disappoints, because the atmosphere underpinning the band's approach still manages to stand out on stage, and those in attendance embrace it wholeheartedly. So this is a band that needs to improve both in terms of songwriting and performance, but the fact that they've already shown themselves capable of asserting their own identity in such a difficult setting is already an important point in their favour.

Phosphorescent / Eagleowl

We pause for a moment at the Garden Stage, taken over by Phosphorescent, having promised Woodpigeon's backing band, Eagleowl, that we'd catch their show at the Tipi Tent. All the more so since Matthew Houck's set doesn't seem all that convincing: at least in the opening song, "It's Hard To Be Humble (When You're From Alabama)", our man struggles dangerously to keep pace with his own musicians, racking up several off notes. The live rendition of the latest "Here's To Taking It Easy" improves with the following "Nothing Was Stolen (Love Me Foolishly)" and the sweet "We'll Be Here Soon" - it's an unusual choice, incidentally, to run through the songs in the same order as they appear on the record. It seems the album's emotional crescendo has, in this sense, been honoured admirably, given that many attendees later named "Los Angeles" as one of the festival's highlights.

At End Of The Road, though, a promise made is worth more than momentary pleasure: plus, the chance to witness the first tentative steps of a promising Scottish band is always a welcome opportunity. In particular, there's strong curiosity about whether eagleowl will manage to shake off that schoolroom, still-sketchy feel conveyed by their limited output so far. It must be said that their live show ruthlessly confirms the impression already formed: the shyness they project is one of awkwardness, Bart's subdued vocals still seem cocooned within an instrumental expressiveness yet to be refined - most evident in the rendition of the dreamy, à la Seabear sketch "Morpheus".

Citay

These young Canadians try to do what many of their compatriots have pulled off brilliantly in recent years, namely pop-leaning songs with ever-shifting structures, both in the arrangements and in the melodies. Unfortunately, live they only manage to convey a strong sense of mannerism and of having bitten off more than they can chew - that is, aiming high with the technical skill to back it up, but without the songwriting inspiration and arrangement flair needed to pull it off. Maybe they'll acquire that in the future and become something worth watching, but that moment still seems far off, so for now this is a band that's, at best, easily skippable.

Deer Tick / The Unthanks

One of the few bands we approach completely unfamiliar with their output, though with some idea of who they run with, Deer Tick embody to perfection what seems to be this year's "End Of The Road genre": deeply rooted folk-rock, delivered with real fervour and a convincing swagger. This Providence outfit is no exception: skilled musicians with songs that aren't memorable but are well-crafted, ranging from Dylan to Springsteen to Waits, with pleasant detours à la Fleetwood Mac along the way. It's a string of tributes that might make anyone looking for originality turn up their nose: in some ways this band and others like it seem like little chicks pecking around at the feet of mother hen Wilco. Still, if only there were more young bands like this one, capable of resurrecting the myth of the "recent past" without being boring, putting themselves fully into it without affectation or posturing.

The search for a suitable vantage point for the upcoming Sam Beam concert forces us, inevitably, to catch only the final minutes of Unthanks' set. Even though the girls announce their last song, it unfortunately drags on for almost ten minutes, packed with about as much bad taste as can be mustered in so short a span. The low point is probably reached during the double bout of clog-dancing, to the excitement of those present: oh, how rustic and genuine they are!

The Wilderness Of Manitoba

Let's say it right away: this band's presence was the high point of the festival. I say presence, not simply the concert, because a bond formed between this Canadian quintet and End Of The Road that goes well beyond the usual interaction between musicians and fans. Attendees went wild for the three different performances the band chose to give between Saturday afternoon and Sunday night, but the same can be said of the five members as people, who love not only the feelings live music can give - them as creators, us as listeners - but also the complicity, the special feeling that builds between those standing below the stage and those standing on it, a relationship made of glances, of smiles, of a gradual osmosis that draws us toward them but also them toward us, gently yet with growing, magnetic pull. As a result, the band too went completely giddy over the enchantment of this place, and chose to live their day and a half here as intensely as possible, going to see lots of shows, talking to countless people, and even playing twice in the little grove set aside for surprise sets. You'd run into them around the site and see in their eyes the childlike joy they were feeling - a band only now starting to make a name for itself in Europe, having just come from a date in Tallinn where the crowd's warmth had perhaps been less than thrilling. They arrive here three hours before their own set, scheduled for mid-afternoon on the smallest stage, but the one best suited to their sound, and by the end of their 45 minutes they find themselves surrounded by dozens of fans jostling to buy merchandise and begging them to dig through every corner of their luggage for more copies of their 2009 EP, which had completely sold out by that point.

Enthusiasm more than justified, because this live show is nothing short of magic. The strength of the band's material lies in its ability to combine a melodic sense that was already exceptional on their first record with a sonic blend that draws on a fairly small number of ingredients - yet each one always goes beyond simply doing its job, instead making a contribution whose importance is palpable both in appreciating the result on a technical level and in being swept away emotionally. Allow me to quote the review written by my partner in crime here, when he compares these songs to "other performers within the contemporary folk movement - lost in re-enactments and essentially unnecessary tailoring exercises". Here, everything is necessary, even a Melissa Dalton who limits herself to backing vocals and to making a bit of delicate noise with the Tibetan singing bowl, a small round instrument rubbed in a circular motion with a little stick: it might seem like an insignificant contribution, yet it's essential, just as the understated accompaniment of violin and banjo is essential. Everything is very simple, but perfectly functional and absolutely indispensable in making the crowd experience these moments with a deep engagement that spills over into genuine outpourings of emotion.

And when you then realise, just from the way they thank everyone and sign the CDs they sell, that their personalities as individuals mirror their music perfectly, you can't help but love them. All the more so because they, too, seem to realise they're dealing with an audience made up of people just like them. It's out of this instant rapport that my insistent request is born, to somehow track down more copies of that blessed EP. We put it together by hand, they tell me, let's meet somewhere in three or four hours. Fine, we agree to meet at the end of Yo La Tengo's set, under the mural to the right of the stage. And when Will, the singer, actually shows up, it's clear this isn't just a business appointment - there's also the pleasure of seeing each other again, born from the feeling that's grown between us on a human level. He and Melissa call out to me and the rest of my travelling companions by name every time we cross paths, and when we suggest they play in the little grove, they do so, as mentioned, not once but twice. We miss the first time, but we're given advance notice for the second. Once Wilco are done, they tell us, come over to that spot, because something's going to happen. It's half past eleven, the festival is winding down and people are probably tired, but the small patch of grass in front of them is packed, and when someone unaware of what's going on walks by talking loudly, they get hit with the worst insults imaginable - this magic moment cannot be ruined by anyone. The sound, obviously, is much fainter, but the songs still come across at an exceptional level, and that sense of everyone being one - us and them - already present at the "official" show, is stronger than ever, helped along by the knowledge that this is the final act. What's more, the guys are much more self-assured now, buoyed by the success of their earlier sets, and they toss out lighthearted jokes like "This song is called Orono Park, it's like Toronto without the t's". The set is short, like all the ones played here, and it ends with the long vocal line from "Orono Park", whispered yet sung with real conviction by everyone present, and these are minutes that crystallise an entire weekend, minutes you wish would never end. We don't leave before saying a warm goodbye, and there are hugs and tears all around. Everyone heads back to their respective tents convinced that this was only the beginning for Wilderness Of Manitoba. Because if a band is capable of giving out emotions this powerful and long-lasting, going well beyond the purely musical side of things, it can't be a flash in the pan - their destiny can only be to grow more and more popular. "See you in Italy, it's only a matter of time," Will tells us as he says goodbye for the last time, and no one doubts for a second that he's telling the truth. And even if it doesn't happen, you only have to wait a year, because it's unthinkable that they won't be on the 2011 line-up, after everything that happened this year.

Iron & Wine

When he appears on stage, in a grey suit that looks dusted with desert sand despite having just been put on, beard and hair severely groomed, Sam Beam looks like a Western character actor, one of those paternal figures of the calm, wise family patriarch. His appearance alone would be enough to draw every eye and silence the last murmurs of chatter: but Beam isn't satisfied with that - he steps up to the microphone without a word and, as if beginning a religious ceremony in the village's little wooden church, launches into an a cappella "Flightless Bird, American Mouth" that sends bolts of a silent electrostatic storm through the stunned crowd. By the second song, "The Trapeze Swinger", Beam already has the audience at his feet, guiding them along with a barely perceptible sway through the relentless emotional churn of one of Iron & Wine's signature tunes. Within the length of the song there's even room for a brief comic aside, when our man is forced to stop, having forgotten a passage. A short, amused exchange with the crowd, and then he pushes through to the end: the episode, though, reveals the seasoned professional behind Beam's stage persona. Figures like his certainly benefit the festival, but if one had perhaps hoped to catch him playing in the woods in a more informal setting, this performance dissolves any such hope.

His skill as a weaver of velvety melodic sketches is by now well honed, his voice instantly recognisable and truly shown to advantage by such a stripped-back performance, since the only instrumental additions come, besides his own guitar, from light, fleeting touches of piano or distant hints of steel guitar. The setlist is cleverly put together, balancing the satisfaction of big classics like "Naked As We Came" with a nod to longtime fans, as in "Upward Over The Mountain". There's also room for a new song, in which we see the more traditional Beam resurface, after the "Latin" excursions of "The Shepherd's Dog". A thoroughly excellent concert, in short: it hardly matters if it's hard to picture Iron & Wine wandering with a tourist's gaze among the stalls of End Of The Road.

Yo La Tengo

Saturday night's headliners bring to their set all their trademark eclecticism and their desire to stay outside genre boundaries and pigeonholes. A couple of times their ambition pushes things too far to remain fully enjoyable for the audience: opening with a long, repeated hip hop-style chant is hardly the best way to get the crowd in the right mood, and hammering away at the same basic guitar riff for a good dozen minutes risks being an open invitation for those who had in any case decided to catch at least a bit of Black Mountain or Wintersleep, playing at the same time on other stages. Aside from that, though, the live show is of a very high standard, and anyone who stuck it out patiently gladly forgives the two missteps described above. The rhythm section shows a remarkably high level of imagination, helped along by some effective percussion embroidery; the palette of guitar tones is equally broad; the ability to use the keyboard now as a simple “coloring” of the sound, now as a disruptive element via sweeps of acidic, piercing chords, makes the whole dish even more stimulating and enjoyable; the vocals don't particularly impress, but they turn out to be the ideal complement to such a wide instrumental range. It's certainly not an easy live show to follow — the Garden Stage is undoubtedly far less crowded than at all the other headlining sets, both this year and last — but the quality is beyond question.

Dylan LeBlanc

This twenty-year-old has already been painted as a chosen one by a good part of the British press, and listening to his debut you can certainly pick up on some potential, though not yet fully realized. The set that opens the Garden Stage on Sunday confirms this impression: there are some good songwriting ideas, as well as the ability to deliver his melodic ideas with a kind of lightness that can be contagious. The vast majority of his interpretive and compositional choices, however, still verge on the schoolish, and so it's pleasant to listen to it all lying on the lawn at the back of the garden in the shade of the trees, but it certainly doesn't make you want to get up and stand right in front of the stage. Let's hope the somewhat hasty praise LeBlanc is gathering back home doesn't undermine his artistic path, because his talent, if nurtured patiently, has everything it needs to pay off in the long run.

Fuzzy Lights / Smoke Fairies

After last year's triumphs on the Piano Stage, tucked away in the forest between Leisure Society and Okkervil River, the pull of this dreamlike stage proved just as irresistible again this year. Nobody we knew, aside from festival favorites Wilderness Of Manitoba (still a minor act within the festival lineup), was going to suddenly show up and pick up their instruments. So we head over at the first opportunity, just to soak in the magic of the place. As always, End Of The Road saves its best rewards for those who put their trust in it. Fuzzy Lights take the stage with a stripped-down lineup, the founding duo of Rachel and Xavier Watkins front and center. With hindsight (that is, after hearing their latest record, “Twin Feathers”) their performance gains even more value, having managed to suggest their own stormy atmospheres with just an acoustic guitar and a violin, despite Xavier's difficulty in delivering his bass parts unplugged.

The exact opposite could be said of the much-hyped Smoke Fairies, rising stars of the British independent scene, with their dark-blues sound meant to resurrect Pentangle and put two PJ Harveys on stage to sing. All very interesting and fascinating on paper, if it weren't for the fact that the two of them have neither the musicianship (one gets by with a few background riffs, the other sketches out a few chords) nor the vocal chops to hold the stage essentially on their own. They feel the need to apologize for their fascination with “dark things” and for how poorly these clash with the sun, finally shining brightly over the Garden Stage, but... They'd do better to focus on making music first, before striking such refined poses.

The Mountains And The Trees

What does a lone folksinger with a heavily melodic repertoire need to do? Simply make sure that listeners feel swept up by the immediacy of his melodies and by the gentleness of his singing and playing. Jon Janes pulls this off perfectly: there's nothing here to call a miracle, but the debuting Canadian artist's repertoire holds together well overall, and above all there's the right sensitivity in the performance, so that the feelings expressed are easily conveyed to the crowd, who happily take them in and let themselves be lulled by the bittersweet melancholy of mountains and trees. A pleasant interlude that helps make this place's unique atmosphere breathe even more deeply.

Lanterns On The Lake

End Of The Road is also made up of the small satisfaction of occasionally allowing yourself the freedom to follow your instinct. Not that there's much need for it by now, for better or worse: all it takes is a knowing glance and a free half hour to devote to the reassuring warmth of the Tipi Tent. What strikes you, from the back of the tent, next to the little Fuzzy Lights family — pram and all — is the sound of a band that already seems fully formed. The instrumental progressions of the Newcastle band — which, in the moment, do come across as a touch academic — immediately invite close, attentive listening, as does Hazel Wilde's dreamy voice. Their set is short but intense, gradually dispelling any notion that theirs might be some cold fusion of folk and post-rock. So intense, in fact, that when the last song is cut short by the sudden shutdown of the sound system, a collective gasp — born of shock and disappointment — spreads beneath the drapes of the Tipi Tent, leaving the crowd with a nostalgic emptiness that tightens the stomach.

Antlers

Anyone familiar with the delicate balance between sharpness and expansiveness in the sound of “Hospice”, the Antlers' debut, needs to set that aside when trying to imagine what their live show might be like. The trio treats us to a handful of tracks from the debut plus a couple of new ones, and the whole thing comes wrapped in a much beefier package, both in terms of volume and the drums' role. There could be many reasons for this choice: the difficulty of reproducing the record's style on stage, a desire to set the live show apart from the studio production, or a stylistic shift they've decided to apply retroactively to their older material too. We'll understand some of this better once we hear their second album; for now, the performance splits the crowd between those who find this change out of step with the spirit of the record and those who appreciate it regardless. Yours truly falls into the second camp, because while it's true the songs take on a different kind of emotional charge this way, they remain just as moving, and it's lovely to give yourself over to a jolt as unexpected as it is engaging, riding melodies that remain strikingly beautiful and vocals that, here too, keep their particular role — never rising above the instrumental parts but almost swallowed by them, surfacing just enough to create a peculiar, stimulating interplay between voice and instruments. A magnetic, riveting performance, among the best of the whole Festival.

Ben Ottewell

After years in Gomez, a band he'll keep going with regardless, Ottewell is about to release his debut solo album, and this voice-and-acoustic-guitar-only set serves both to preview a few new songs and to revisit his band's history. The atmosphere at gigs of this kind at End Of The Road is usually very relaxed and informal, and here it's even more so than usual. Ben looks calm and smiling, as do all the audience members sitting quietly, taking in this artist's songs delivered in such a stripped-back way. Some kids dressed as superheroes pick up on the particularly laid-back vibe and feel free to climb onto the stage and run and jump around on it. Ottewell and the crowd watch them, amused; their mother tells them to get down but they won't hear of it, the artist asks the crowd if anyone minds them staying up there, and given the obvious “no”, the tiny invaders get to enjoy their moment of glory. The setlist features more Gomez songs than Ottewell solo material, and the renditions are excellent, thanks to the sensitivity with which Ben plays the six strings and his warm, enveloping voice. Hearing songs like “Free To Run”, “How We Operate”, “Hangover”, “Get Miles” and the closing “78 Stone Wobble” in a mood so far removed from the usual (though quite standard for this Festival) is a real pleasure, and the new songs sound promising. We'll see if hearing the album confirms these good impressions; in the meantime, these 40 minutes were genuinely intriguing.

The Felice Brothers

What the fuck is Americana?

This is how James Felice's sarcastic booming voice suddenly erupts, out of nowhere, during an interlude in the Felice Brothers' live set — a band whose lineup is, in three-fifths of it, actually made up of three brothers. Of all the live shows over this long weekend, theirs is perhaps the one that best captures the festival's mood, translating it into rootsy, earthy sounds, feet stomping time on the Garden Stage and gusts of dusty wind swirling through your mind. Festive without being crude, they know how to bring to the stage their own vintage take on unstoppable, Dylan-esque emotion (as in the excellent “Frankie's Gun”) and to present it with props that finally feel genuine and believable, the mark of people who've actually lived with an accordion hanging above the headboard of their bed.

Yuck

Remember the indie pop-rock that was all the rage in Nineties England? That side of Britpop that leaned more on the impact of the sound than on lightness of touch? A robust, controlled voice; a lead guitar that keeps firing off riffs that reinforce the vocal delivery, sometimes overlapping with it, sometimes trading places with it; a powerful rhythm section capable of a few but effective variations on the theme, giving the sound even more drive. There's not much of this kind of thing around today, but this newly formed band has decided to blaze exactly this trail, which obviously doesn't give them much chance of reaching mass success, given that this style now seems rather out of fashion. Some of the band's members used to be in the excellent Cajun Dance Party, including the singer, whose vocal performance is very good, and the band as a whole plays more than well: sure, the songs don't present any particular technical difficulty, but there's always a right way and a wrong way to play even the simplest things, and these guys carry out their task with real quality. The songwriting, too, is more than satisfying, apart from a couple of missteps, so one can hope that, once the album comes out, it will be a record that might not change anyone's life, but that will get played often.

Ölöf Arnalds

The only time we venture near the rather gloomy tent of the Local Stage - the only one that, reading the programme, doesn't spark any flicker of recognition - is for another of the unexpected revelations this festival has in store for us. Squeezed in among the stalls blasting music at high volume, it's certainly no place for the fussy. Nor, for that matter, would it seem the ideal setting to welcome the elfin Icelandic nursery rhymes of Ölöf Arnalds, accompanied by a stern, lanky guitarist. What's more, the crowd here seems noticeably less buttoned-up and more unruly than the End Of The Road norm, which tends to be one of devoted silence. Yet perhaps it's less the venue's hearty ales than Arnalds's own spell that warms people's hearts. All the qualities of Nordic singer-songwriters converge in this Icelander: a charm that's at once intellectual and playful, traditional and modern, folksy and detached. Her gifts as an engaging entertainer, in the tricky task of keeping the crowd's appetites in check with little more than a warble and a ukulele, let her handle the interludes deftly, improvising little asides without sacrificing any precision in the performance. The exotic breath of her compositions undoubtedly helps make the show all the more enjoyable, it must be said, amid the orgy of Americana that has marked this festival in particular. But Ölöf's smile as she builds the whispered backing into the chorus of "Allt I Guddi" - no easy feat, by the way! - will remain one of the unforgettable images of these days.

Low Anthem

With just one album to their name, Low Anthem are one of the most popular acts here at End Of The Road: last year the Garden Stage was packed for them at two in the afternoon, and this year, with their slot right before Wilco, there are even more people, all listening in reverent silence. Technically, the band is formidable at perfectly recreating the atmosphere of American traditional music, with a cleanliness and delicacy so precise that they stop being mere formal traits and become substance in their own right. The trouble with this kind of act, though, is that the line between seeming timeless and being nothing more than calligraphic copyists is a very thin one, and the feeling - hard to put into words but very clear when watching them live - is exactly that of watching a band of scribes so intent on preserving the past in amber that the thought of anything different never even crosses their minds. There's a lot of talk about derivative music, but every band saddled with that label usually has at least some elements of its own, whereas Low Anthem have absolutely nothing of their own, which hardly makes them worthy of interest.

Wilco

A caveat is in order: this year End Of The Road didn't even hold back a fireworks-worthy finale. Whatever you think of their music, Wilco are like those characters who walk on stage with the sunbeam already glinting off their brand-new Ray-Bans, letting a sardonic smirk say it all: "You called the right guy", amid the adoring bewilderment of the crowd. Every time the six Chicagoans appear, it feels less like a gig and more like a close encounter of the third kind. We could keep piling on these hyperboles, since the emotion still lingers days later, but that would fail the basic duty of a report trying its best not to sound bureaucratic.

The time limit imposed by the festival schedule forces the band into a leaner live set than the exhilarating rides of "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" or "At Least That's What You Said". Nels Cline seems considerably less called upon, thrashing about in his usual way, but his guitar flourishes are rather sparse, when they're not simply folded into the fabric of the song. After a rousing "A Shot In The Arm" things get easy, but Wilco never give the impression of running on autopilot, even though the crowd-pleasing moves are always the same ones - Kotche climbing onto his stool like a drumstick-wielding star, Jorgensen playing at being a guitar hero. The long guitar meander of "Impossible Germany" remains a unique delicacy, a sublime human achievement everyone should experience at least once, like real Sicilian gelato or the smell of fresh, just-made egg pasta. End Of The Road thus offers a regal send-off, and it's no accident that the discounted tickets for next year's edition sell out within nine hours: only the promise of being there again can, in some way, ease the melancholy of goodbye.

Stefano Bartolotta: Darren Hayman, Freelance Whales, Wolf People, Here We Go Magic, Modest Mouse, New Pornographers, Forest Fire, Citay, The Wilderness Of Manitoba, Yo La Tengo, dylan LeBlanc, The Mountains And The Trees, Antlers, Ben Ottewell, Yuck, Low Anthem.

Photos by Francesca Baiocchi.

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