The rain is starting to look like it means business as Portland 4-piece Hockey hit full stride. The Building 10 Stage has the most overall protection by far from such a monsoonal onslaught. I can’t help but feel sorry for the exponentially promising live show of Whitley as it takes place on the completely vulnerable Alexandria St. Stage. The raucous post-punk, indie-rock set is well received with the tongue-in-cheek Too Fake a clear standout.

As the rain continues to fall the crowd is keen to stick to the somewhat undercover stages. Townsville’s The Middle East unsurprisingly magnetise a respectable portion of the moist mass and the intricate music sounds glorious. The quixotic vocals and critically acclaimed lyrics are slightly lost under the high, galvanised roofing, but are swooningly adored none the less.

Apparently precipitation is no match for anticipation, as the rain clears with uncanny timing. The break in rain allows the tightly packed mob to spread slightly. The air instantly thickens with humidity and deeply-loved Londoners Mumford and Sons trigger a deafening, cherry-popping roar. Their stupendously popular album of infectious, rattling indie-folk transfers flawlessly to the live stage.

Just a few songs in, the unmistakably erratic speed-stab intro melts hearts and the wait is over for Little Lion Man. Marcus Mumford ’s angst-riddled lyrics are chorused en masse while gritty, beautiful vocals induce goose-bumps and soar. The giddy ho-down continues with what feels like one old favourite after another and The Cave closes the display of brutal country-romance with perfection.
As the Mumford mumbling subsides, a familiar ruckus quickly steals some ears. A hurried walk is still too slow and the sweating mass that was formerly the Philadelphia Grand Jury mosh-pit is already dissipating.

Whether a brilliant ploy to sell more food and drinks, or an annoying method of ensuring crowds don’t fence-sit, Laneway organisers didn’t win any extra friends by scheduling all stages to start and finish sets simultaneously. Three-quarters of a watered-down beer later Dappled Cities take the stage sporting wrist-to-ankle, shiny-gold Kathy Freeman suits. From the outset the five Sydney lads are hindered by sound issues – guitars and vocals are muffled, then blast at random – and a good portion of the crowd wander elsewhere.

Australia’s polka-dotted princess of subdued pop Sarah Blasko is a sentimental favourite, but today’s pulling power rests firmly in the hands of the virginal visitors.

Out on the only real laneway stage in Alexandra St, Wandsworth wonder-kids The XX have created quite the street party. The still looming greyness and encroaching sunset-pink glow overhead is the perfect setting for the man-down atmospheric groovers. Despite being more suited to a morning-after recovery, there’s a smattering of groups of friends that are still on their way up and songs like VCR, Cristalised and Islands go down a treat and the festival itself seems to lift. With a taste for raised pulses, the crowd disperse for the now tiresome break between sets.

While waiting for the earlier slated The Very Best to start, a mammoth musical movement emanates from the Car Park Stage. Echo And The Bunnymen ’s replacement The Dirty Three has arrived delivering classical-folk melody with pure rock intensity. Holding his violin like a light-sabre then playing it like a guitar, Warren Ellis moves about the stage with the energy of a bee-stung rhino and about the same amount of grace. The noise is immense, dirty and beautiful with one instrumental journey segueing like a round-about into the next.

The stage next door is now well and truly alive with rhythm. The humbly named The Very Best are presently whipping a heaving, sweating mass into a frenzy – picture Simba and Nala marrying with the reception held at a Brixton basement house-party.

With pulses pounding and pores seeping there’s just enough time to catch the tail end of The Black Lips ’ set. If you want to jump, run, push and shove, this is where the party’s at. Endearingly flat, catchy vocals combined with booze-drenched, shirt-tearing garage-punk and with erratic lighting reminiscent of a high school keg party, Bad Kids is the perfect anthemic closer.

Though I’m sure Eddie Current Suppression Ring would be the finale set of choice for many a Laneway punter on any given day, the majority follow the course of international visitors to see if the Arctic Monkeys were right when they quipped “Don’t believe the – œype”.

By now the between set waiting is bordering on ridiculous and half a dozen faux-Florence sightings come and go. Finally Florence And The Machine appear. Backlit and seemingly haloed by the Krakatoa sized eruption, the fire-haired enchantress swirls and rocks in equal measure. Kiss With a Fist is the first of the biggies and Florence Welch really lets loose. When Drumming Song appears, it’s the crowd’s turn to lose their shit.

Welsh’s vocals are nothing short of extraordinary. She possesses range and pitch like only the best of her gender, and power like very few of either. If she wanted to drown out the rest of the band, she wouldn’t break a sweat. She’s not all balls though, and during I’m Not Calling You a Liar we’re treated to a delicately floating melody with ethereal tones of heavenly quality accompanied only by a harp.

Cranking back up and giving in to silent prayers, Dog Days Are Over and an extended You’ve Got The Love close the immaculate set. Honestly gracious and believably taken aback by the reception the band leave the stage bound for more of the same, no doubt, as Laneway continues to make it’s way across the country. With time clashes being the only gripe punters could grip, we leave yet another brilliant St Jerome’s Laneway Festival having seen the best of what is huge, what certainly should be and what definitely will be… and even a little bit of what was!