Guilfest 2005 - Sunday

.. but the prospect of next week's recorder lesson awakens unwelcomly early as the Ukulele Orchestra Of Great Britain start the day. Cheerful tunes and medal pinned precision, it's good to hear synchronized wind somewhere other than the campsite portaloos.

On a day of barnacle-aged billing, The Zombies are the most underrated 'legends' here, and the ones who most deserve said reputation (obviously the Quo surpass it). The missing link between The Doors and The Zutons despite lead singer Colin Blunstone having more manners than both those bands put together, their's is a timeless, psychedelic rock'n'roll that really should be higher up the bill. A blinding cover of 'What Becomes Of The Broken Hearted' and their breezy top 20 hit from the '70s 'She's Not There' are the highlights, before everyone warms up for the air guitar world record attempt later in the day with the fret-fiddling finale singalong of 'God Gave Rock 'N' Roll To You'.

If it weren't for the retro echoings of The Zombies, the cockney man sandwich that is Chas & Dave would undoubtedly sound much better than it does. With the manic, often forgotten, drummer Mickey providing the filling, the cockney rhymers plough through their foot-stomping back catalogue. Looking like lost Bee Gees brothers and sounding like, well, Chas & Dave, it's a ferret-tickling funbag of festival classics; 'Snooker Loopy', 'Gertcha', and of course the thigh slapping 'Rabbit' get the masses twisting and toe tapping. But as the set progresses the pair tire under the sweltering sun - perhaps secretly wishing that they could 'just give it a rest'.

Which is exactly what Marillion should have done - about 20 years ago. Emerging into the smouldering sunshine in a thick black trenchcoat, it's obvious from the start that we've got a bit of a wrong'n in frontman Steve Hogarth. The type of sinister guy you'd keep a wide berth from down the pub without really knowing why, he does himself few favours by donning a headmaster's hat and a leather whip two songs in, and by the time he declares, 'You people at the back are also important, you just don't it yet. Check it out, this will change your life', he's more hateable than Dick Cheney singing Maroon 5. Dad rock for paedophiles, it's enough to drive the case for alcoholism becoming statutory law in the hope of ensuring the return of departed leadsinger 'Fish', as well as making Marillion somehow bareable. The fact the band refuse to play the classic 'Kayleigh' only goes to show the shameless insecurity of the man who replaced him.     

According to Hogarth, Marillion have recorded 'around 12' albums since that early '80s smash, so with that harrowing vomit pond in mind it's with open arms that we welcome Lulu. It's doubtful that she in turn welcomes the stage compere introducing her as 'the singer that's spanned five decades', but looking at her, she can (and does) hold her head up high, those old rumours of Take That's Jason Orange relighting her fire a few years back suddenly apparing far more believeable. Of course, there's only one song everyone's listening out for, so there's a lot of patient waiting around while she knocks through her new album, a collection of lost soul covers. But with the first wails of 'weeeee-eeeeee-ee-eeel', coma victims awaken and hibernating bears emerge from the woods to join everyone in a full on bound about to her karaoke classic 'Shout'.

One of those is Daniel Beddingfield, who will prance around to any old shite it seems. Having previously played here in 2003 to a rapturous reception, this is something of a homecoming to the sister-shadowed God botherer, only this time round he doesn't repeat the feat of scaling the scaffolds of the main stage - funny that. After miraculously escaping from a horrific car crash a couple of years ago, and finally getting out of that Deathstar neck brace, you can't blame him for having a new lease of life and giving this show his absolute all. In fact it's surprisingly endearing and, despite a desperately over-the-top stage energy, he's impossible to take a disliking to. When he screams 'Make poverty history!' arms stretched skywards, you can tell he really means it despite the obvious cliché. When he wails 'Hallelujah' like a groove-stuck gospel record, you can excuse it as a decent-ish message for the kids despite the urge to break the limbs off your matching Beddingfield voodoo dolls. And when he covers Bob Marley and tries to dance like a stoned Jamaican, you somehow resist picking up a piece of scaffolding and waiting by the gates for his massive head to drive past still hollering out the back window - after all, the kids are enjoying it. In fact, by the time he murders Technotronic's 'Pump Up The Jam', you're actually tempted to start a petition for Bedders to star in the Comedy Tent later - such is its vulgar hilarity. However it all comes crashing down as soon as he launches into a reggae version of 'Gotta Get Through This'. Somehow though, we do. 

With Beddingfield currently finding himself at a bit of a loose end career wise, he could do worse than having a chat with Status Quo. The band that rock and rolled the 70s, snorted and sleazed their way through the 80s, and scurried around pub toilet tours for the 90s, are back (for tonight anyway.) Sod Mick and Keith, Brown and Squire, Lennon and McCartney; despite being shunned by Live 8 organisers, Rick Parfitt and Francis Rossi are the most complete and charismatic front pairing in rock history. Full stop. Fact. Stepping out tonight in boxfresh, gleaming white trainers, Rick doesn't really know where he is, beyond being lost in his huge, flowing blond mane. 'Rocker' emblazoned across his chest, he does just that, while Francis minces around stage besides him, contorting his face with those inimtable comedy creases and winks, his beady face stretched back by that dead squirrel pony tail, his torso garnished in a shimmering, blue wastecoat.

The two have this bizarre relationship of looking so distant yet so inseperable at the same time, a phenomenum almost as puzzlingly contradictory as their live sound - one so simple and yet so collosal. Kicking off with 'Caroline', it's a denim-diggin' rock disco onslaught from herein, a recipe of relentless razzmatazz that your mum would sell your dad for in the hope of a spitroast. There's time for a bit of onstage fun when the band unite for an acoustic crowd serenade, before they leave the drummer alone to demolish some young eardrums with a skin-kicking drum solo. Moments later the full Quo ensemble return, and in the show's Surrey-shattering finale, the crowd unite in a kinetic mass spasm of uncontrollable fitting as the cataclismic classic 'Down Down' is cranked out perfectly, followed by the anthem-to-beat-all-anthems 'Rockin' All Over The World'. Suddenly all the world's problems are solved, the meaning of life is discovered, time stands still, and you're transcended to a better place. You open your eyes and the greasy pikey you were standing next to has transformed into a regal saint, the two of you standing side-by-side in a golden field of evangelical enlightenment as Francis invites you to ride on his giant pony tail and you chant together those lyrics that were somehow born with you, while moshing to Rick's mullet-driven guitar riffs, ones once programmed into your very soul by some higher force. Tonight Live 8's loss is Guilfest's ultimate gain. God gave rock'n'roll to you?

No, it was 'The Quo'!