The Carling Weekend: Reading, Sunday

Mastodon (Main Stage)
What a way to start any day, not to mention the final day of the festival. For those people who are feeling drained/ropey/hungover/shattered, a midday opening slot by Mastodon - the newest and most succinct purveyors of metal - is like a jackhammer to the head. Except less subtle, more prog and with added guitar solos. This is a band that can make grown men cry; only Slayer can compare in terms of heaviness today. Their last album 'Leviathan' is regarded of something of a classic, and tracks like the ferocious headfuck of 'I Am Ahab' are played alongside blistering newies 'Capillarian Crest' and 'Circle Cysquatch' (from their new record - and major label debut - 'Blood Mountain'). As they close with a bloody and thundering version of er, 'Blood And Thunder', Reading considers itself well and truly awake. (LH)

You Say Party! We Say Die! (Carling Stage)
It's still early, but YSP!WSD! continue to shake the cobwebs from our lazy bones; though admittedly in a different manner entirely to Mastodon. Despite their name, YSP! make us want to dance with their punky freak-outs, alternately lustful, socio-political commentaries or lovelorn odes of despair. But this band makes even despair sound like crashing a house party. Comparisons to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs may fly at the band, but YSP! are an altogether more substantial prospect. 'Cold Hands Hot Bodies' draws more of a parallel with their friends in Thunderbirds Are Now!, the integrity of Pretty Girls Make Graves and the angular anthems of Matson Jones. Singer Becky Ninkovic is a mesmerising frontwoman, insisting we wake the fuck with the sounds of 'You Did It' and the disjointed hooks of 'The Gap'. Totally enthralling. (LH)

The Dresden Dolls (NME/Radio 1 Stage)
The burlesque Boston duo are a big draw and rightly so as they showcase a tight and thrilling set. The macabre ‘Sex Changes’ drips with carnal menace as vocalist Amanda Palmer hammers at the keys and Brian Viglione mercilessly pounds on the kit. The combination of keys, drums and Palmer’s off kilter lyrical matter is a truly original spectacle and the crowd almost combusts with enthusiasm. Latest album ‘Yes Virginia…’ standout ‘Backstabber’, a fabulously theatrical but no less effective over of Black Sabbath’s classic ‘War Pigs’ and clear set favourite (based on audible whoops of joy) ‘Coin Operated Boy’ cement the fans' love of the band while converting at least a few curious festival goers. (JH)

Tapes N Tapes (Tiscali Tent)
If one band has failed to live up to the hype for NN (well this NN writer, certain other factions adore them), it has been Tapes N Tapes. Debut album 'The Loon' was really not all it was cracked up to be, and we'd even go so far as to say it was a bit rubbish. This is another lo-fi wannabe band - a la Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - with little to offer in the way of substance. Live, however, Tapes N Tapes go some way to changing our opinion. Though still lo-fi-as-you-like, like Grandaddy with less emphasis on the country, this showcase is actually fairly impressive. The layered harmonising between singer/guitarist Josh Grier, bassist Erik Appelwick and multi-instrumentalist Matt Kretzmann, on 'Manitoba' is Pavement-worshipping at its best. Special mention for drummer Jeremy Hanson, his roadie their admirable attempts at keeping his wonderful geek glasses from slipping off the end of his nose throughout every single song in their 25 minute set. They just about managed it, and served to endear this band - already working their magic - to us that little bit more. (LH)

Boy Kill Boy – (NME/Radio 1 Stage)
An extremely unattractive desire to irritate those around us by belowing the word "average" over every song is thwarted by the fact that Boy Kill Boy are, in fact, very good. So they may not be extraordinarily inventive. So they may be stylised to the point of caricature. Weigh this against songs packed full of catchy choruses and an on-stage energy that many bands at festivals lack (perhaps stilled by the large gaps between stage and audience) and you have an instant hit. Debut album staples ‘Civil Sin’ and ‘Suzie’ have seeped into the public consciousness sufficiently to guarantee sing-alongs with gusto, while singer Chris Peck galavants about to provide a visual compliment to the aural assault. (JF)

Slayer (Main Stage)
The veteran thrash metal juggernauts were at Reading for the first time in their twenty years plus career. On a Sunday rife with ‘heavier’ bands it was Slayer’s job to discipline the young pretenders and show them how heavy music should be done. The way they did this? By picking the choice cuts of a stellar back catalogue, that’s how. Songs about hell, serial killers and Nazi War criminals are hardly warm summer's day fare. This being Reading though, bona fide metal classics ‘Angel Of Death’, ‘Dead Skin Mask’, ‘South Of Heaven’ and ‘Seasons In The Abyss’ get a large contingent of leather clad middle aged men frothing at the mouth with excitement. There could only ever be one song to allow Slayer to bid their goodbye/fuck you to Reading. ‘Rain In Blood’ sounds as monstrous as ever – those pounding drums and THAT riff sounding like the soundtrack to a journey to hell. The sinister atmosphere is only a little marred by the fact singer/bassist Tom Araya has had an ear to ear grin through out the whole set. (JH)

The Rakes (NME/Radio 1 Stage)
The Rakes have run the risk of becoming one of those bands who are overshadowed by a single song. '22 Grand Job' teeters on the brink of a novelty record - albeit a deliriously catchy one - and to make matters worse, has been played to death on home stereo and airwaves alike. This show proves to those who have not yet delved into the band's debut long player 'Capture/Release' that there is plenty more to The Rakes than angular elbow dancing and opaque references to Michael Eavis. The singles 'Strasburg' and 'Work Work Work (Pub Club Sleep)' provide the mainstays of a set that dovetails perfectly with the laid back pop of The Kooks and the piss-throwing pogo fest of Maximo Park. Oh, and they play '22 Grand Job'. And it's fucking brilliant. (JF)

My Chemical Romance (Main Stage)
Mentions of My Chemical Romance earlier on Sunday provoke heartfelt boos from the crowd and there is a sort of perverse expectation about the emo-rocker’s set. Plastic bottles rain down as Gerard Way (complete with newly shortened peroxide hair) and co take to the stage. Way does his best to pretend he is unaffected by the onslaught, yet his darting eyes and distracted sounding vocals suggest otherwise. The New Jersey five-piece combine favourites ‘I’m Not OK (I Promise)’ and ‘Helena’ with new tracks (from forthcoming album ‘The Black Parade’) to somewhat disjointed effect. Tracks such as ‘Dead!’ and ‘House Of Wolves’ seem to have maintained the lyrical direction of their predecessors, but descend into mindless chant-alongs and duly receive corpse-cold reactions from many. Way fancies himself the crowd-controlling showman and doesn’t let his audience rest for a second, taking time between songs to describe how the band represents the outsiders and starting a chant of “Fuck the Daily Mail” – who isn’t going to join in with that?! Clad in black Sgt. Pepper style jacket unblemished by the missiles of contempt flying around him, the frontman declares the set another in a long line of his favourite shows – but somehow we don’t believe him. (JH)

Maximo Park (NME/Radio 1 Stage) [PICTURED]
It took strong arms and sharp elbows to get within gobbing distance of The Rakes and it is a reluctance to fight our way back outside for Pearl Jam that sees us closing the festival with Maximo Park. Despite a month of infatuation with the band’s debut ‘A Certain Trigger’, the thought of watching this lot live has so far failed to excite – possibly due to a couple of televised appearances that seemed to reveal weak vocals and an unconvincing stage presence. Neither of these are in evidence tonight – if anything singer Paul Smith overdoes the rock-god cavorting and his voice is pretty much spot on. This stage is at its best with the marquee rammed to bursting (though having been marooned outside for an earlier Kooks performance, the effect is limited to those fans who can squeeze under the roof). ‘A Certain Trigger’ seems to have been doing the rounds for an age and Smith barely needs to bother with the choruses, such is the vigour with which the crowd attempts to drown him out. An explosion of ticker tape during a sweaty, adrenaline-fuelled ‘Apply Some Pressure’ closes out in style and it’s difficult to imagine that Pearl Jam, classics or no classics, could have delivered to the same degree. (JF)