With a bill listing the likes of alt-J, Blossoms, Catfish and the Bottlemen, The Cribs, Django Django, Gengahr, Hippo Campus, (appositely shambolic headliners) The Libertines, The Maccabees, Palma Violets, Peace, Spector, Swim Deep and The Wombats – of course, this most noxious list does indeed go on ad nauseam; I won’t, however – it’s little wonder that Reading Festival has come to be eternally rev[er/il]ed as the home of indie homogeneity. Moreover, as the unanimously lionised @SpottedReading Twitter account testifies thereto, the campsites still look not unlike a particularly crude scene from something that Hieronymus might’ve boshed out in the deepest, darkest, and dankest thirds of his notorious triptychs, thus ensuring a strangely reassuring sense of stagnation that has endured, and done so pretty much all-pervasively, since my very first Reading some way back in 2004. Then, Green Day headlined, just as they did no more than a mere two years ago; nonetheless, this year’s edition differed from those of the past several, with a greater auricular variety giving rise to a festival that, overall, felt that bit more variegated than anticipated…

Not wanting to delve too deep into the murky waters of socioeconomic demographics – waters murkier than the deepest, darkest, and dankest of long-drops, yet the sort that hacks such as myself are only too happy to plash about therein more often than not – Reading doesn’t, and hasn’t in my ten-year tenure, tended to coincide with the home county diaspora so commonly associated with, say, Festival Republic’s lesser, if more readily enjoyable Latitude. Conversely, the motley crew to descend on Richfield Avenue each and every August bank holiday weekend is colourful as this one’s musical bricolage transpired to prove.

And so although the lewd slogans lavished on ill-fitting tees, or the infernal logos incarcerating miscellaneous energy drinks may change with time, attitudinally, there is an inglorious familiarity to much of Reading Festival 2015. Alcopops (and let us be under no false pretences: that’s all that the Godforsaken Kopparberg phenomenon is based about) and the disparate features of everyone from Biggie to that Great British Bake Off biddy come and go to and from tongues and tees alike, although that wholly feral, William Golding-informed ferocity and the “go[ing] fucking mental” will seemingly never abate nor ebb. But to reiterate, for all of The Bronx’ Matt Caughthran’s steadfast conviction that this one was sure to be (at least meteorologically,) “a shitfest,” the adjectival expletive need not apply. For this one was, against many an odd, a good, and at times even great extended weekend…

That’s not to say that it gets off to the most propitious of starts, mind: Mariachi El Bronx – the faux-nomadic, non-Mexican incarnation of Caughthran & Co. – looks like an in-joke that’s gotten rotten as Rob’s self-respect and sounds as though it should be offset by tumbleweed bumbling through the arena, while over on the NME \ BBC Radio 1 Stage, Parquet Courts have rather overstayed their welcome as well. Andrew Savage for one, a dead ringer for Professor John Nerdelbaum Frink, Jr. on a frightful diet of Lard Lad Donuts and Duff Beer these days, both looks and sounds lethargic where once he would effervesce vicious exigency. Open stoners they may still be, but starving? Visibly, less so…

Meanwhile, the infamously noisome BBC Radio 1 Dance Stage – encircled by the sorts of metallic barricades that would once have surrounded the Lock Up and the like, rather than Evian Christ – plays host to those fluorescence-stained adolescents who do little other than grunt the gruesomely savage, “Ooh, eh! Eh!” refrain heard more or less incessantly, and so too omnipresently, throughout the weekend, the tent a mass of unremittingly flailing limbs with little, to no interest in the likes of All We Are and ascendant London duo Toyboy & Robin. The latter’s set is one that, not unlike the seemingly innumerable collaborations between a certain Smith and various indie assemblies, is drastically marred by the presence of an overzealous compère-cum-emcee whose risible Skepta impression bears nigh on no resemblance to Joseph nor Jamie Adenuga, and inspires a prompt, completely acceptable exodus. From one superfluous accomplice to a band that stick out on this year’s line up like a thumb more sore than Decs’ rectum, it may be plaid shirt central come American Football’s spin in the NME \ BBC Radio 1 tent, although the show barely, and with that only rarely kicks off in any way, shape or (ovi)form. More compelling, therefore, are the blundering drunks who stumble about the place like quarterbacks on the receiving end of the unadulterated wrath of ‘Mr pump’. The nadir of day one – one which is rather underwhelming, really – is surely All Time Low though, the Baltimore quartet the punk-pop counterpart to Reading city centre: overtly devoid of all character, and chronically lacking as a direct consequence.

Come midday Saturday, as a direct consequence of news of a (not-so-)secret set spreading throughout the site with the immediacy of a certain SBTRKT single, the NME \ BBC Radio 1 Stage is positively heaving. Perennially riled security types brace themselves for the arrival of “The Fouls”; thousands upon thousands conversely savour Foals’ racing through a six-song set that explicitly suggests Yannis Philippakis et al. are set themselves for bigger, and with that better staffed stages than this. Headliners elect then, as the diminutive Philippakis impishly promulgates, “Let’s level this place”, the hordes duly lose it, a nifty one-two punch comprising My Number and the eminently momentous Mountain At My Gates a reminder of the Oxfordians’ fiery past as well as their furious present.

Subsequently, a breathtaking take on Inhaler, juxtaposed with the permanently glacial Spanish Sahara, exhibits a versatility that once seemed to be a fair way beyond Philippakis’ lot, and yet Red Socks Pugie – the total antidote to the fury released prior thereto – has lost absolutely none of its vitality, nor volatility, in the seven years since it was first hurled out into the world. It’s one that, as Yannis clambers aboard the burly torso of one of umpteen blue-collared Specialized Security ‘ogre[s]’, he – and with him, they – look set to conquer henceforth. For if Philippakis has recently spoken out about the perceived precarity of Foals’ predicament as a contemporary touring band, not only do they appear completely sure-footed as they charge onwards, very literally stood on the shoulders of giants, but in the space of a rampant half-hour, they’ve convincingly cemented their status as surefire headliners as soon as 2016…

Last seen in 2012, the newly reunited Alexisonfire later enamour those sat on shoulders in RockStar Wigs toting inflatable guitars, as George Pettit gradually rips his shirt from his, material taken from seminal third full-length Crisis – namely Boiled Frogs, Drunks, Lovers, Sinners and Saints, This Could Be Anywhere In the World, and We Are the Sound – burning incredibly brightly even now, nearly an entire decade down the line. At which point, precisely this is to be drawn under the day’s festivities, with the second of three thus doing little to corroborate the firm belief that this was in fact a ‘more variegated [festival] than anticipated.’

But as Sunday dawns and drizzle begins to fall more or less interminably, Reading 2015 really comes into its own. Laura Jane Grace of Against Me! thrashes and thrusts a bluish arm to the tunes of Transgender Dysphoria Blues, while Mini Mansions’ kaleidoscopic quirk-pop lends a snazzy, pizzazzy shimmer to the persistently miserable weather away from the Festival Republic Stage. Of course, in light of his moonlighting in Reading and Leeds mainstays Queens of the Stone Age, it should come as no surprise to see Michael Shuman at such ease onstage, although that he, Tyler Parkford and Zach Dawes amuse and mesmerise in equal measure should not be taken quite so lightly. Because even without the heavyweight interventions of either one of Alex Turner or Brian Wilson, the likes of Death Is a Girl and Vertigo sound skyscraping to the point of seeming positively vertiginous…

Continuing with the increasingly tenuous ‘colour’ allegory though, Jamie xx’ début full-length didn’t merely pertain to the divine polychromy of your average rainbow, but so too witnessed this most precocious of producers divvy up the contents of a pot of 24-carat perfection to then share with the masses. And, massively convincing from the introductory, dulcet strains of The Persuasions’ Good Times right through to Smith’s climactic I Know There’s Gonna Be (Good Times), his is a complete, perfectly composed masterclass in quiet genius; the kind that has, quite rightly, been lauded from all corners of late. In short: “Oh my gosh,” he makes holding some of the country’s most temperamental attentions down look “easy, easy” with the likes of Loud Places and Stranger in a Room amassing forever greater gravitas with their every play.

Fair play to Jamie T, too; his rapscallion shtick has stood him in far greater stead than anyone would’ve thought when Sheila first coughed and spluttered her way into the world in 2006. Playing to spaces and places where there are relatively few restrictions on the ol’ decibel level, Treays patently epitomises that great British patent of triumphing in adversity and, as the day’s scampish underdog, a closing hat-trick comprising If You Got the Money, Sticks ’n’ Stones, and Zombie makes sure a sense of overwhelming pride is kindled within. Murderous use “of the English tongue,” then? Anything but, because this is surprisingly inspiring, rather than insipid stuff, through ’n’ through…

Thoroughly preferable to his deplorably poor Primavera Sound 2014 showing, meanwhile, is that of Kendrick Lamar Duckworth this evening, everything from the languid Bitch, Don’t Kill My Vibe – replete with all-new, if familiarly laid-back verses – to the lippy Backseat Freestyle; the Beach House-sampling, opening Money Trees through to an unprecedented encore composed of A.D.H.D. and I Am, Duckworth represents a picture of utter composure. But, more “hallelujah” than Halle Berry (whatever that pretty improbable comparison’s meant to mean), this shouldn’t be confused nor interchanged with illusions of monochrome or monotony.

Nevertheless, if there can be but one criticism of what is, for the most part, a darn flawless performance, then this stems from Kendrick’s reliance on good kid, m.A.A.d city, and his consequent shunning To Pimp a Butterfly of last March. Drawing from a more exploratory palette, and abetted by a quite incredibly diverse assemblage of stars past (George Clinton and Ronald Isley), present (Thundercat) and future (Sonnymoon’s Anna Wise), it shouldn’t astonish to find that the jazzy complexions of Lamar’s latest are eschewed in favour of the delectable bombast of the preceding release. Indeed, when reciting stuff from his stylistically analogous new(er) recordings, FlyLo hasn’t always flown as high as he might’ve otherwise, so without requisite back-up, it would be unreasonable to anticipate half-baked takes on, say, Wesley’s Theory, Institutionalized or the Pyramid Song-interpolating How Much a Dollar Cost. Instead, it’s those more immediate, dramatic tracks – the life-affirming, self-loving i; a fire-starting rendition of Alright; King Kunta, during which the unlikeliest of lads pile in on a spot of unpredictably raucous karaoke – that benefit from brief cameos. And, across a weekend that admittedly still relies that bit too readily on the ‘indie homogeneity’ aforementioned, that of Kendrick Lamar likewise feels all too fleeting…

Making what is fast becoming an increasingly serious plea for longevity, however, is Hudson Mohawke; for if his coalition with Kanye West has proven all too predominant a talking point in recent times, the blinding likes of Shadows and Scud Books stand out tonight, as nuchal hairs do just that, too. His electrifying present thus eclipsing his star-studded past, HudMo now has smashing hits of his very own, with the indisputably pulsating, bleep-laden Brand New World, as well as the smoothness-smothered Ryderz enough to quash cries of “ooh, eh! Eh!” even. No mean feat, and a suitably beautiful, fully diversified conclusion to one of the most complete days in Reading Festival’s recent histories. Now; excuse me, while I return to peruse the rest of @SpottedReading…