Here’s Alexis Petridis’s five-star rave of Coldplay’s set, a show in which no stop was left unpulled.

West Holts, 10.15pm

Overheard at Glastonbury “Jessie Ware? She’s Jessie everywhere!” Ouch – although it’s not a sentiment shared by the enthusiastic fans who flock to the West Holt stage for the popstar-cum-podcaster-cum-author’s set, opting for Ware over Disclosure and headliners Coldplay. These schedule clashes mean that the crowd for Ware isn’t enormous, but that’s no dampener on the spirits of a singer who has fully embraced a shift in her audience demographic following a departure from more soulful, R&B tracks to the funky, disco, house grooves of 2020 album What’s Your Pleasure, and 2023’s Mercury-prize nominated That! Feels Good!

Stepping out by welcoming the audience to “the Pearl”, Ware performs the title track of her last album wearing a sparkling, caped red jumpsuit that lends a luxurious showbiz vibe to proceedings. She announces herself as “mother of pearl” – in tribute to voguing culture – and this is her house. The show has an unapologetically sexy, hot-blooded vibe. Two flamboyant male dancers in tank tops accompany Ware while carrying trumpets, one of them placing the instrument to his crotch and thrusting as she sings: “Sugar and salt and then lick that lime / A lick, lick, lick, lick, then get in line.” The cheeky, innuendo-laden songs come back-to-back with Shake the Bottle, Ooh La La, and Pearls, and in seasoned diva mode Ware describes her philosophy as “pleasure is a right”.

There’s no doubt that Ware’s disco reinvention has earned her a strong queer following. Behind me a man is carrying a flag pole, which is lit up with all the colours of the rainbow. There’s space made for queer culture on stage too: dancers gyrate with each other, and there’s a dance break for voguing. Ware brings a high camp energy too, telling the crowd: “I believe the Pearl can do this, let me have a quick swig of a drink!”

For Ware, performing on the West Holts stage is a victory built on a long relationship with the festival. She digs into her own personal lore of sneaking off backstage to meet Beth Ditto, and being a backing singer for her best friend Jack Peñate. She expresses repeated gratitude for making her way up to top of the West Holts stage. It’s a sweet moment, then, when she brings out friend Romy for a “Glastonbury exclusive”, a debut of their brand new track Lift Me Up and the two look enamoured with one another (the song isn’t very good, but that feels by the by in this celebratory context). The crowd are enamoured with Ware too. She doesn’t forget the music she made her name on, telling us that before she became a disco diva she “used to be the fucking mid-tempo queen” and belting out ballad Say You Love Me.

Ware’s performances have the feeling of a residency: you can imagine her doing this night after night because she’s so comfortable. The audience hang on to her every word and instruction too – when she sings Beautiful People and tells the crowd to “stand up, turn, take a bow” the whole field moves in unison. She knows her references, too – playing C’hantal’s house classic The Realm before a costume change and rounding off the set with a cover of Cher’s Believe, followed by her own banger Free Yourself, and then exiting on Candi Stanton’s Young Hearts Run Free. It exudes feelgood warmth: Ware has clearly had the time of her life, and her well-earned ubiquity conjures a vision of a world it would be quite lovely to live in.

Other, 10.30pm

When Disclosure last took on Glastonbury’s Other stage it was 2015, they had just put out two chart-topping records, which bridged the gap between the underground and the mainstream with a winning blend of pumping live electronics and big name vocal features. Though they’ve released much of the same ilk in the time since, the duo have struggled to uphold that initial impact.

Much to the delight of tonight’s sprawling crowd of sequin-adorned, bucket-hat wearing millennials, their return show is a high-energy tour through their glory days, from the groovy deep house banger F for You and matey-boy anthem When Fire Starts to Burn to the dreamy, bubbling White Noise, all of which is given an extra punch with live percussion, swirling synthesisers and a bit of boisterous hosting. Up on stage, Disclosure seem to be just as thrilled: “We’re absolutely fucking hyped to be back! Couldn’t be fucking happier.”

In true headliner fashion, they pack in a few surprises throughout the set: a rendition of Faithless’s big room classic Insomnia goes down a treat, as does a guest appearance from Sam Smith. It may all lean hard on the nostalgia factor, but sometimes in a big, cold field surrounded by all your mates that’s exactly what you want.

Woodsies, 10.30pm

“I’m Chris Martin,” announces a woman who looks decidedly not like Chris Martin, before launching into a quick burst of Yellow.

Maybe the Coldplay frontman has a radical new look – black leotard, heels and a bright orange hairdo - or perhaps this is just Gossip acknowledging the reality here. “I know y’all had a choice of acts to see tonight,” says singer Beth Ditto to what is still a fairly sizeable crowd. “I’m actually surprised you came here!”

Gossip are here to reward the dedicated hardcore with a set that fizzes with disco-punk energy from the moment they open with Listen Up, through the uplifting piano soul of Love Long Distance and the wiry riffs of Your Mangled Heart. The latter song ends with a special Glastonbury-appropriate coda: “There’s more of us than there is of them.”

Between each song Ditto embarks on endearingly long anecdotes, spinning her delightful southern belle accent around stories about the length of her tits (yes really), her snotty cold and how she met guitarist Nathan Howdeshell when she was an uncool 13-year-old.

It’s almost 20 years since Gossip made an unlikely crossover into the mainstream with their hit Standing in the Way of Control. Back then it was utterly radical for a self professed “fat, feminist lesbian” from the punk underground to be appearing on the Jonathan Ross show and gatecrashing the charts. But even two decades later, with their punkier edges sanded down a little and more emphasis placed on Ditto’s soulful pipes, the band still seem unlike anyone else (unless Coldplay’s drummer is also currently topless save for some tit tape?).

Their signature song brings the house down and an overwhelmed Ditto – who one song previously was in floods of tears – is in her element, additionally screaming the lyrics of Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit and raising her middle finger to oppressive governments. The crowd remain long after she’s gone, singing the refrain to Standing in the Way of Control. There’s nowhere else they’d sooner be.

Park stage, 9.15pm

Orbital’s seventh appearance at Glastonbury was always going to be a biggie, marking the 30th anniversary of their first appearance at the festival, when they bashed the walls down between dance and guitar music by playing at an otherwise rock-focused event. A straight DJ set was never going to quite cut the mustard on such a grand occasion. Luckily though they had some starry help.

First up was Tilda Swinton, following up last year’s Park appearance in Max Richter’s devastating live reimagining Blue Notebooks suite. As with that performance, this was spoken word, with Swinton cooing mantras over early track Deeper. That though was merely a throat-clearer for the main event, as Mel C joined Orbital to perform vocals for Wannabe remix Spicy. Sporty, sporting the same torch spectacles as the dance duo as well as an oversized tracksuit, engaged in her own solo exercise class, practically somersaulting across the stage.

Orbital were always going to close with Chime, their breakthrough single and a landmark moment for UK dance when it was released in 1990. All that was left was for Swinton to end the show by telling the audience that she was going to “count down from five to 1, and you will awaken”. The spell was broken, but the dream was nice while it lasted.

Other, 8.30pm

“We are closer to the end than the beginning,” Mike Skinner tells the audience on the Other stage at the outset. He means we’re over halfway through the festival, but it feels like something bigger: an existential warning about living an entire life to the full. Sure enough, the audience respond in kind, tearing into this sunset set with fireworks, smoke bombs, kids on shoulders, women being hoisted aloft and moods even higher.

Skinner acts as a kind of Glastonbury sage, dispensing hard-won advice and suggested itineraries in between his documents of nocturnal-emotional British life, and he can barely keep his feet on the stage – either climbing on his monitors or hopping down into the crowd, addicted to preaching and communion. “Go up the hill or stay down here” are the initial two options, though he plumps for the former, telling us to “go up the hill” every other song: another metaphor, perhaps, for scaling the difficulties in life on the way to something greater.

His discography stretches back more than 20 years to the early-internet brag on Let’s Push Things Forward, “you won’t find us on AltaVista” (a defunct search engine, for younger readers), and it’s glorious to see how much social history he’s packed into that time as a total fiend for observation: of nightlife, women, drugs, weaknesses and heroes. So many of his songs are about living in the now instead of the future, a valuable lesson in tthe horribly un-mindful 21st century. “Let’s think about mental health and how we’re going to feel like shit on Tuesday,” he admittedly tells the crowd at one point, but later in the set his lyrics are cackling: “That’s future me – I’m glad I’m not that guy!”

There’s a hilarious paternalism to his patter, advising one phone-toting fan “take it off selfie mode”, finishing a song, then promising “if you need any more tech advice I’m here”. He’s an expert crowdsurfer, singing pitch perfect throughout, and his very songs are infused with the spirit of Glastonbury, most dissonantly with Blinded by the Lights: a song about doing too much ecstasy and freaking out, played in golden light with Skinner coordinating the waving of flags, including one emblazoned with his own face. “They could solve wars with this, if only they would” runs one of his lyrics: also about ecstasy, admittedly, but it could just as well be about Glastonbury, and indeed the Streets’ music. In their shared humour, lairiness, irreverence and kindliness, he, this music and this crowd are the best of Britain. “Mike Skinner for PM” reads a phone message picked out by the cameras, to a huge cheer. That’s tens of thousands of votes to begin with at least.

Park 7.30pm

At times Kim and Kelley Deal’s Breeders have been underrated as a sidebar to the Pixies story. At others they have been justly celebrated for their insouciant charisma and the oddball genius of Cannonball, a song that succeeds by doing nothing you expect. Thanks to the patronage of Olivia Rodrigo, who booked them to open her US arena tour earlier this year, they have found a new young audience that considers them the acme of Gen X cool. After that experience the Glastonbury crowd must seem relatively geriatric.

The bulk of the set stems from Last Splash, which surfed the grunge wave to glory (they supported Nirvana on the Nevermind tour) and celebrated its 30th anniversary last year. Songs like Saints and Divine Hammer are tight cherry bombs of melody and noise, with a charming country detour on the perky, fiddle-powered Drivin’ on 9 and a dash of Lennon on Do You Love Me Now? Kim sings with sardonic sweetness and a near-permanent grin that’s especially gratifying from a woman who’s weathered the interpersonal drama of two separate bands, while the even jollier Kelley fronts I Just Wanna Get Along’s two minutes of sly perfection.

If there’s a catch, it’s that nothing rivals the galvanising power of Cannonball, an unstoppable bouncing bomb of a song, until Kim takes back her defining Pixies song, Gigantic, for an explosive finale. But their charm and delight are likewise gigantic. You’re left with the impression of people who are enjoying their Indian summer enormously.

Here’s our review of Rusty’s Indoor Garden Party set at the acoustic stage.

Other Stage, 6.45pm

God knows what this is going to be. After years of what could comfortably describes as a mix of safe Latin pop and shopping centre-friendly commercial hits expected of an X-Factor graduate, on Friday Camila Cabello released C,XOXO: a long-teased sonic and aesthetic reinvention.

Though the album has drawn immediate comparisons to Charli XCX’s cult phenomenon Brat, this is not the hyperpop maximalism many have anticipated. Rather it is a dream/alt-pop project akin to Rosalía’s Motomami or FKA Twigs’s Caprisongs, aided by Spanish producer El Guincho. The question, then – what with such an aggressive reinvention – is what kind of balance Cabello will grant to the old and the new, as she performs for the first time post-release in front of the Glastonbury crowd.

The stage indicates something playful: there’s a pastel-blue half-pipe ramp, swings, and a metal carousel. Then on comes Cabello and her dancers, running on stage thrusting and gyrating dressed in grey tracksuits and… wolf masks? (Dog masks? Rat masks?)

They lead with I Luv It, the initial release that set expectations of hyper-pop, with its catchy hook sampled from Gucci Mane’s Lemonade, and a feature from Playboi Carti. It’s a thumping performance – the dance breaks are chaotic yet immaculately choreographed and bring a great energy. Camelo lifts her masks and goes into a powerful performance of 2019 track Shameless, with some truly stunning live vocals. Then there’s the steamy, sexyness of Pharrell collab Sangria Wine, for which she strips down to a distressed halter neck, shorts, and knee-high boots.

It’s after this that Cabello announces C,XOXO to the crowd. She begins with Twentysomethings, a track which evokes the “love… lust… confusion” that define that decade. It is a perfectly fine album track but it is not quite catchy enough to really take off for the audience, and it’s not helped by the fact that Cabello spends most of the time following a single dancer, who is still wearing a mask with a hidden camera.

That, too, is some of the difficulty of balance with this performance: the angling camera work and close-ups means that too often Cabello has her back turned to paying attendees to perform for the stream instead, and even though she frequently speaks to us she might as well be talking to herself. There’s some great moments with BMX riders, when she stands in the middle of the ramp while one rides around her; another rider pops a wheelie and jumps, but by the end it feels a little tired.

“You guys are so cute I almost feel bad that I have a bunch of new songs but I don’t!” Does that mean we won’t be hearing the bangers? Not quite, but C,XOXO is a short enough album that Cabello is able to run through most of it. A stand-out for me is Chanel No 5: a phenomenal track about the sensual magic of perfume, with understated dream-pop production but ridiculous lyrics.

“Fold for me like origami/Magic and real like Murakami/Red-chipped nails, I’m wabi-sabi,” she sings. Wabi-sabi is the Japanese art of impermanence – which Cabello is comparing to the gradual disintegration of a manicure. The repeated random Japanese words is reminiscent of Gwen Stefani’s Harajuku Girls, from 2004.

There are other moments of racial cosplay, too – not quite in the aesthetics, but in the lyrics and dance breaks. When Cabello disappears to get changed, her dancers break it down to Trina’s Told Y’all, which is truly phenomenal, but when soon followed up by new track Dream-Girls which has the line “it was Keisha, it was Sonia, it was Tonya, it was Monique” it starts to all feel like Cabello is not even trying to avoid controversy. It’s not that it’s not good, but come on!

Thankfully, for the audience, the familiar bangers are delivered – Havana, Bam Bam, Senorita – but Cabello closes off with new tracks, He Knows with Little Nas X, and Drake collaboration Hot Uptown. It’s a strong performance that Cabello can be happy with – the crowd gets what it wants (eventually), and she gets to put some of her genuinely great new music out to Glastonbury’s infinite streaming audience. It mostly just feels a shame she didn’t connect with those in front of her more.

Other Stage, 5.15pm

Bloc Party casually plant themselves on stage with a sports team’s surety and languor – after all, everyone knows who they are.

Kele Okereke has the choreographic range, sometimes bouncy and almost cute, other times tortured; the jumpier gets the audience, the stiller he becomes, until by Flux he is like a fun messiah in front of a field of lepers. Harry Deacon on bass has the split stance that’s been the standard since the dawn of rock. Guitarist Russell Lissack, the only other original member, has a contorted, knock-kneed, indie presence, while newish Louise Bartle is incredibly athletic, like discovering Paula Radcliffe can play drums.

They kick off with So Here We Are. With its reassuring solidity, deceptive simplicity and Okereke’s rich vocals – swear to God, if they’d just played that for an hour, everyone in the audience would’ve been. People stretch so far back they seemed to merge with the campsite, so it looked like the very tents were watching.

Old timers who’ve been following the band two decades go wild for This Modern Love; everyone who loves bangers responds strongly to Ratchet, from the Nextwave Sessions, introduced very simply with “do you like bangers?”. Moments of chaos – some strangled high vocals, a little bit of jumping off the stage, then losing track of the mic as Okereke jumped back up again – are greeted like the gift of intimacy. Bloc Party manage a rare thing: continuous quality; their hits don’t sound like a throwback, their new work doesn’t sound like a duty.

Pyramid, 5.45pm

It takes a certain je ne sais quoi to win over an audience so completely, you garner a vast cheer when your vintage synthesier goes hopelessly out of tune, necessitating abandoning a song altogether. Whatever it is, Michael Kiwanuka (clad, like the rest of his band, in a kaftan decorated with the words FEELING and MEANING) clearly possesses it. When he gives up trying to play Solid Ground, the supportive roar makes you wonder how the crowd might have reacted if he’d actually finished it.

Perhaps their ardour is fuelled by the fact that his music – which currently occupies a space that feels uniquely his, informed by the past but never cravenly retro, bordered on various sides by soul, funk, confessional singer-songwriting and blazing psychedelic rock - fits a hot afternoon perfectly.

A new song he debuts, Floating Parade, basically sounds like the musical equivalent of the cool summer breeze that drifts across the crowd while he plays. Or perhaps it’s just the abundance of entirely fantastic songs, performed by a band that sound amazing – agile, funky, blessed with a sure grasp of dynamics, as when Hero is bisected by sudden burst of howling noise.

Rule The World comes decorated with a guest vocal by Lianne La Havas; Black Man In A White World is variously troubled, brooding and euphoric, its mantra-like repetition of its title taking on a hypnotic and ultimately cathartic quality. And the soft power of Cold Little Heart is just beautiful, a moment of transcendent loveliness.

Here’s my review of Cyndi Lauper’s Pyramid stage set from earlier this afternoon (apologies for the delay; copy got caught in the outbox/signal blackhole). It was a tough crowd to hold, given that was then the hottest point of the day at that point, and energy all round was flagging, but Lauper gave it her all.

Park, 6pm

I struggled with Heilung yesterday, perhaps most of all because their heavily costumed representation of traditional folk practices seemed almost fetishistic – more performance than anything connected to the present day. That’s absolutely not the case with Dublin folk avant-gardists Lankum, who have a Palestinian flag draped across their stage and remake the 18th century Irish song The Rocks of Bawn as The Rocks of Palestine, a body-shaking drone led by the remarkably powerful yet plainspoken vocals of Ian Lynch.

“All solidarity and love to the people of Palestine forever,” he says after the song, followed by bandmate Radie Peat: “it’s amazing to see so many people waving flags in the audience and waving keffiyehs”. She wishes luck to broadcast partners the BBC over what to do about the display, which is swiftly followed by a chant from the crowd of “free, free Palestine”.

Their music is so stirring and alive, growled and distorted strings building to a frenzied rhythm, pipes and drones combining to evoke a kind of ritualistic shovelling. At points it’s searingly grave, seeming to churn up from the earth below the Park stage; at others, there’s a rich and ecstatic optimism to their heady vibrational pounding of acoustic guitar, strings and Peat’s wheezing concertina that all but elicits a fit of jigging and jubilant whistling from elements of the crowd near me.

And even if you’ve heard it half a dozen times, the way Peat modulates her vocals like a set of bagpipes on Go Dig My Grave – which truly stills the crowd – remains astonishing, a connective tissue between dimensions. Lankum’s music suggests a staunch connection to the past as the greatest clarification of the present: a reminder not to forget, and also to never stop paying attention – not a problem at this spellbound sunset reverie.

Every Glastonbury brings with it an artist who seems to be slightly lower on the bill, or on a slightly smaller stage than the size of the crowd they draw and the vociferousness of the reception they receive warrants. Last year, it was Fred Again, who pulled an immense audience to the Other Stage on early Saturday evening, this year it’s The Last Dinner Party, who seem to have sidestepped accusations of hype to become the breakthrough British alt-rock band of 2024, with Nothing Matters, only a minor hit on release, slowly ascending to set-ending anthem status.

Accordingly, the crowd is vast enough to suggest they could easily have been on the Pyramid Stage. But you can see why things have worked out for The Last Dinner Party. Abigail Morris is a genuinely charismatic frontwoman, the band impressively tight. There’s definitely something a little choreographed, self-conscious and polished about their strangeness – for all the rococo lyrical flourishes, sudden music shifts within songs and Morris’s willingness to throw herself to the floor during moments of high drama, they are not a band that carry the WTF? unpredictability that marks out the genuine pop weirdo – but equally, their rampage-through-the-dressing-up-box image leaves them looking fantastic: a riot of bustiers, empire-line frocks and leg of mutton sleeves, a striking alternative to a world of “relatable” pop stars and drearily prosaic alt-rock bands.

And it’s hard to argue with the songs, which are uniformly great. One new track, Second Best, maintains the punchy, hooky standard set by the contents of their debut album, Prelude To Ecstasy. And set-closer Nothing Matters – unexpectedly preceded by an impassioned speech from Morris urging the audience to become politically active – becomes a mass singalong, a more euphoric moment than you might expect to be provoked by a song that casts a warily equivocal eye over a relationship in trouble.

Pyramid, 4pm

This year marks a significant milestone for Keane: it’s been 20 years since the release of their chart-topping debut album Hopes and Fears and, subsequently, their first Glastonbury performance. “It changed our lives,” says frontman Tom Chaplin, who looks genuinely chuffed and overwhelmed in equal measure at the sight of the burgeoning crowd. “We really appreciate how much it means to people.”

Thanks to radio play, ads and covers (as well as a later hiatus), Hopes and Fears remains their most defining work – so this afternoon at the Pyramid stage is dedicated to honouring it. Their one-hour set is packed with their biggest singles from the record, interspersed with the more familiar ones from the albums that followed (Nothing in my Way, Crystal Ball). Devoted Keane fans of all ages around me sing along to pretty much every song, but, predictably, it’s the early classics that bring the most energy: Somewhere Only We Know, Everybody’s Changing, This is the Last Time and Bedshaped urge people to hop on their friends’ shoulders and chant along word for word.

Throughout the set, Chaplin adopts an endearing rockstar persona: he bounces around the stage, punches the air more times than you can keep track of and, at one point, gets on his knees. Though he comes across as slightly nervous at the start, he visibly grows more comfortable by the second half.

Somehow, his vocals are still in perfect nick; when he leads the crowd through some notes, he shows off his choirboy falsetto in all its glory. “More exuberance, more drama!” he urges. “Channel your inner Freddie Mercury, that’s what I do!”

Yes, Keane’s set is propped up by the nostalgic value of the first record, but it visibly means a lot to everyone here — and just as much to the band, who refer to it as the “stuff of dreams”.

Park, 4.30pm

US-Pakistani vocalist Arooj Aftab has been one of the most heartening underground-mainstreamish crossovers of recent years, even getting a Grammy nod for best new artist alongside Olivia Rodrigo, Glass Animals et al. After Otoboke Beaver on this stage, this set reverts very much to Glasto type: extremely conducive to swaying softly and communing with Mother Earth. Many people are swiftly barefoot.

The set draws from her just-released new album Night Reign and brilliantly showcases more groove-led compositions than earlier work, loping along at a hypnotic dub tempo. Gorgeous two bar melodic-rhythmic loops from her backing musicians allow Aftab to deliver much broader, long, lento vocal lines – like two strands of time running alongside each other. Long vocal notes are decorated with tiny curlicues of detail, resembling sailing, twitching ribbons of melody.

Though for all the still, even sombre beauty, Aftab has hilarious between-song patter, telling the mostly white crowd we can either do a moshpit or “that racist snake dance” to her final song. This is was a triumph, in and of itself – and part of a wider triumph for Glasto in recent years. With most of the festival market outright ignoring the culture of south Asia, the UK’s biggest minority ethnic group, Glastonbury has embraced it in all its richness, from underground DJs to more classical and pop-leaning artists like Aftab, Asha Puthli and so on: kudos.

West Holts, 4pm

It’s hard to think of another British artist who has undergone such a radical transformation as one-time neo-soul master Corinne Bailey Rae. Her latest album, 2023’s Black Rainbows, was a wildly underrated about-face inspired by time the Leeds songwriter spent at an exhibition on Black history by artist Theaster Gates in Chicago, with psychedelic, exploratory songs informed by her learning about Black pageants, Frankie Knuckles, Sun Ra, the racist history of beauty products and more.

She starts the show by welcoming us all into “the spell”, and takes care to recount the experiences and inspirations behind each song, which she does with such generosity, warmth and enthusiasm that you could hungrily listen to her tell these stories all day. It’s testament to her gift that her new songs also stand independently, with compositional ambition to rival Brittany Howard or even, in parts, Kate Bush.

He Will Follow You With His Eyes starts out as a peaceful lilt, as the song’s narrator is seduced by the poison promise offered by beauty companies to Black consumers, then stealthily becomes a hypnotic, incanted celebration of self that wards against such toxic messaging. Guitar in hand, Rae thrashes on New York Transit Queen, imagining the vivid, cacophonous inner life of “this hellraiser” she saw on the cover of a 1954 Ebony magazine. Put It Down is a weighty, sparkling meditation that counsels dancing out your woes, the expansiveness of the song suggesting the possibilities that lie beyond confined thought.

“I wasn’t going to play this because I thought it was too hectic,” she says before Peach Velvet Sky, a song about a North Carolina woman who was born in 1832, escaped the plantation where she was enslaved, and lived in a crawl space with her grandmother for seven years. “The sunset appeared through a tiny hole that she bored in the side of the building,” Bailey Rae explains of the song’s inspiration, and she conjures the promise of that light with just her voice and searching piano, reaching outwards, rhapsodically. Afterwards she says she’s “singing that song for freedom everywhere, for people who are trapped in all sorts of prisons”.

A cynic could see her closing with her 2006 breakout hit Put Your Records On as a nostalgic sop to a crowd who may be unfamiliar with her new music. But that soft wink of guitar still sounds glorious, and there’s a clear through-line here about the potential of music as a liberating force. “You’re gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow,” she sings: 18 years later, this gorgeous, generous songwriter unequivocally has.

The Park, 3.15pm

Arguably what you most want in afternoon heat like today’s is some gently lilting spiritual jazz played on flute with accompaniment from passing songbirds. But in the Park you’re getting absolutely incandescent hardcore punk from Japanese band Otoboke Beaver. Concerns about a meteorological vibe clash quickly evaporate, though, as the all-female quartet prove to be one of the weekend’s most irresistibly charismatic acts.

Their sound is pure old school punk, with seething rhythm guitar, high speed and occasionally melodic bass, lots of shouting, and absolutely no solos. But they wring so many thrills out of that old sound by being unbelievably tight: songs are full of clever math-rock time changes, with microsecond zones of silence suddenly filled with thrashing noise once more. The band’s floral dresses, meanwhile, are less an ironic juxtaposition with the music, and more a gleefully feminine confounding of expectation – which plays out in the songs, too. Mostly sung in Japanese, one of them is introduced as being inspired by a YouTube comment asking why the band didn’t sing in English. The sly English-language retort is a constant repeat of “I don’t know what you mean” followed by a scream of “SHUT UUUUP!”

By the end, lead singer Accorinrin is bashing the mic into her skull at around 180bpm and guitarist Yoyoyoshie leaves the stage by way of an inflatable beaver rubber-ring crowdsurfed across the cheering throng, while leading them in a chant of We Are the Champions (or rather “Champon”, after their album Super Champon). One of those sets where a band just made a few thousand new superfans, and another great punk performance at this edition of Glastonbury.

Other stage, 2.15pm

It’s hard to believe Tems has only this month dropped her debut album. The term “meteoric rise” is a cliche in music criticism, but since breaking out with her feature on Wizkid’s 2020 single Essence, she has gone on to win a Grammy, with a further Grammy nomination and an Oscar nomination to her name, as well as features and background vocals for the likes of Drake, Beyoncé, and Rihanna. It’s the run of dreams, but when Tems enters the stage you get the sense that Glastonbury is up there with the great pinch-me career milestones. “Glastonbury! We made it” she shouts, and “I’ve never sung to this big of a crowd before.”

She has clearly built an ample following, and the crowd are roaring and singing along as she opens with an uptempo rendition of 2021 single Crazy Tings, swaying among a set of ornamental grass, against a backdrop of a sunset savanna – a clear reference to her album Born In The Wild. Though she often sounds shy when she speaks to the crowd, she confidently and comfortably belts out Avoid Things and Damages, and enjoys regular dance breaks. Wearing a shimmering navy jumpsuit resplendent with fringe trims, she rocks around the microphone stand, swings it, gyrates it. When she announces Replay she says, “I want you to whine your waist to this one”, and in front of me a group of ladies are dancing with each other, whining low with no sign of aching knees.

Though she doesn’t entirely run away from the big vocal moments – such as Turn Me Up – at times she feels too reliant on the backing singers. But when she leans into that smoky, seductive alto voice, she shines. It’s a voice as at home with Afrobeats as with contemporary US R&B and soul music – and it perfectly complements the themes Tems sings about, whether it’s dismissing unsatisfactory lovers – “Even though bro, I could let you go” – or narrating a relationship breakdown: “If you ain’t mine then we just waste time.”

But it’s TikTok viral Afrobeats song of the summer, Love Me Jeje, which really gets the crowd going, with friends and lovers alike caressing each other and declaring their affections. “Are there any lovers in the house?” Tems asks. “Picture the person you love and hold on to them tight.”

She closes with Free Mind, delivering a gorgeous finale singing of “the peace you cannot buy”. It feels like you are witnessing someone live through one of the biggest moments of their life, there’s a sense of victory as she runs off stage, and you can’t help but smile for her.

Woodsies, 11.30
Ambiguity, it’s fair to say, is not a prominent word in Belfast republican rap trio Kneecap’s vocabulary. The DJ wearing a tricolour balaclava is the first big clue. Another is the big screen flashing up “fenian” in giant letters during a song about a sexual encounter which one of the duo had with a Protestant girl. Also, the frequent shouts of “Brits Out!”

This directness is a necessity, given that Kneecap rap the bulk of their songs in Gaelic, a language scarcely spoken in Ireland, let alone in a field in Somerset. (“You are not having a psychotic breakdown. We are rapping in Irish,” quips member Mo Chara.) But it’s a language barrier easily overcome by the trio’s sheer exuberance, as they bound across the stage, tops off six songs in. The mix of politics and comedy is a potent one - Your Sniffer Dogs Are Shite is an anti-stop and search screed that also manages to be very funny. (“A dog shouldn’t have a fucking job,” adlibs Móglaí Bap while introducing it.) But they are also sincere, as when unfurling a large Palestinian flag in response to the ongoing situation in Gaza. “We love the British people – we just don’t like your Tory government,” shouts Chara at the set’s close. Playing to the gallery perhaps, but at Glastonbury who has time for nuance?

Park stage, 12.45pm
Kara Jackson has a lovely, meandering slow river of a voice, unhurried and explorative: a good booking for this sun-baked Park stage set, which beckons a spread of appreciative listeners reclining on the browning grass. The Illinois songwriter – and former US national youth laureate poet – is alone on stage, steadily strumming her guitar, and the exposure feels brave. But her songs and performance speak to an assured level of interiority. “Don’t you bother me / Can’t you see I’m free?” she sings on Free. And perhaps the subject of her freedom is hymned on Dickhead Blues, which Jackson introduces with an apology to any children present.

It’s actually less a lament than a sort of joyful tease of some schmuck she’s left behind, her voice breaking out of its easy groove into a skittish, almost devilish cadence. Much as Dua Lipa did last night, she tells us it has been a long-held dream to play here, the result of her family always finding ways to watch Glastonbury on the TV (a harder task in the US than here). It’s a dream quietly realised this lunchtime.

Pyramid stage, 12pm

Forty minutes before Afrobeat maestro Femi Kuti begins, the crowd are already beginning to gather for the soundcheck. An a cappella run of Oyimbo, with its repeated chant “All in the name of peace”, teases the show’s narrative.

When Kuti comes out, he runs on to the stage carrying a saxophone in a shocking burst of energy for this sometimes sleepy midday slot. Accompanied by his band Positive Force, which consists of four brass players, two guitarists, two percussionists and three backing singers who double up as booty swinging dancers, Kuti sets the stage for a party to begin.

A pioneer of pop productions melting into Afrobeat, he begins his set with Truth Don Die. It’s striking how immediately the crowd are dancing with him, but their familiarity is a testament to how much of a staple the Kuti family have been to Glastonbury. There is only a single Nigerian flag flying, with a football shirt and, er, an inflatable ghost tied to it (“So our family can spot us on TV,” says the holder), and the crowd is drawn from a broad pool of Glastonbury attendees. Kuti taps into the long legacy of Nigerian political music, performing Stop the Hate with the balance of righteous fury and peace-and-love messaging which defines his oeuvre. He takes a moment to tell us “People, there’s just too much pain everywhere”, namechecking Congo, Kenya, Somalia, Nigeria, Ukraine, Russia (to more hesitant applause), and Gaza. “It’s why we’ve got to spread love.”

Kuti’s dancing and powerful voice are infectious. It is much hotter than it was yesterday, and he says: “I’m going to try and participate in the heat with you guys, are you ready to groove?” On classic polemic track Pà Pá Pà, Kuti sings “Government must not waste our time” and “make them give us good healthcare”, as the jazzy, groovy band build a feverish energy. Later, on Corruption Na Stealing – a descendant of his father Fela Kuti’s Authority Stealing – he sings: “The big people like to praise themselves / But corruption na stealing.” Raging against your corrupt, lying, thieving government is evidently a bridge between British and Nigerian political identities. But audience participation does falter when he attempts to get the front row to sing scales with him. He is unimpressed by their avoidance: “I thought great singers came out of the UK – are you guys proving me wrong?”

Forty years ago, his father Fela closed Glastonbury with his band Egypt 80 and introduced a young Femi to the world. Femi followed this tradition in 2010 introducing his son, Made. “But he was so small, he’s a big man now” he says, when introducing Made again, who carries his own saxophone. In 2021, father and son released the album Legacy+, and for this show’s closer they play saxophones in unison, until the younger Kuti takes over.

The Kutis have established a generational legacy at Glastonbury, and it will hopefully be regenerated again and again in the years to come.

11.30, West Holts
Alongside the usual novelty headwear and banners at Glastonbury, there’s a not-insubstantial amount of Palestinian flags on site this year. And here at the West Holts stage for 47Soul, they are vast in numbers, accompanied by plenty of keffiyehs and football shirts bearing Palestinian colours.

The cause is deeply rooted in 47Soul: formed just over a decade ago in Jordan, all four members have ancestral ties to Palestine. Accordingly, flags and scarves are draped around the instrument stands as they step on stage. The group are architects of a style they refer to as shamstep – a heady mix of electronic music, hip-hop and traditional sounds from the Levantine region weaved around politically-conscious commentary. Between their deeply rhythmic, winding songs about displacement, borders and hope (sung in a mix of Arabic and English), they call for a moment’s silence for the “martyrs of Palestine in this ongoing genocide” and thank local Somerset action groups for their support. When the sound returns after it frustratingly cuts out mid-set, the devoted listeners and dancers in the audience cheer and chant “free free Palestine!” Later on, several dabke dances break out.

But as well as being engaging political messengers, they are excellent musicians in their own right. Their stomping, syncopated percussion, tickling synth lines and chanting vocals make for some absolute heaters. It’s great, driving music that feels as suited to a smoky club as it does to a sunny festival afternoon. Shukran!

Levels, 12.30am
Currently, the only place you can get hold of official Charli xcx merch is at one of her shows or Partygirl DJ sets. That might seem a counterintuitive move given the massive success of her new album Brat, but I think it’s possibly one of the savviest things any pop star has done in recent memory: fans have filled the vacuum with homemade merch, from lime green caps with a printout of the word “brat” safety-pinned on, to handpainted hi-vis vests, non-PG corruptions of the Taylor Swift friendship bracelet craze, and even earrings with tiny dangling lurid plastic bags on them. The evidently loving effort that has gone into all this makes the phenomenon seem even more legit, and it’s the DIY chartreuse faithful who are propping up the front row of Charli’s much-anticipated Glastonbury DJ set at the enclosed Levels space.

As with most of the festival’s flashpoints, it is wildly over-subscribed almost to the point of being anxiety-inducing. The fear of losing one’s spot is such that there’s a lot of peeing in cups going on. Charli barely needs ask “Who’s having a Brat summer?” when she takes to the decks at 12.30am and plays 365, the song’s narcotic lyrics very much summing up the activity in the front few rows.

A couple of weeks ago, Charli released a magnificent remix of Girl, So Confusing with a new verse from Lorde – accurately rumoured as the does-she-like-me subject of the song – and both of them turned up at Troye Sivan’s show in London on Thursday, leading to fevered speculation that the New Zealand pop star might appear tonight. She doesn’t in the end – and maybe that introspective song wouldn’t have fitted the battering-ram, uppers-o’clock mood of the night. But after Charli plays a snatch of AG Cook’s Britpop, on which she features, the lesser-spotted pop royal Robyn appears (fresh from guesting with Jamie xx on Woodsies). They don’t play their remix of 360 (also featuring Yung Lean), but instead jam Robyn’s classics With Every Heartbeat and Dancing on My Own – scarcely singing the songs, more ecstatically hugging each other to the point of almost tumbling over, and dancing around. Then Romy turns up too and they’re all arm in arm, waving cigs in the air, lairy as a post-victory football team.

Sometimes I never want to hear the phrase “female friendship” uttered again – a phenomenon so examined and fetishised it’s become cloying and commercialised – but the euphoria of this set stems from witnessing the clear, joyous support among the three of them. As Romy takes over and plays a turbo-speed remix of Ariana Grande’s Into You, Robyn leans over her shoulder to take a selfie of them. Shygirl also makes an appearance. It’s adorable and life-affirming, and that mood spills over into the quickly-forming Brat-based friendships in the crowd.

“I need you to go fucking feral!” Charli yells before Von Dutch – evidently not having witnessed the cup-based toilet activities – and makes us sing Club Classics twice to do it louder. Whereas being a fan of some pop stars these days feels like a tiresome act of duty, even like tithing, Charli knows how to make us work for it in a way that feels uniquely reciprocal.

Park stage, 11pm
Few bands have been as successful at leapfrogging up the Glasto lineup as Fontaines DC. Since their 2019 bow, when they squeezed four energetic sets into one festival weekend, the Dublin post-punkers (though that description grows less accurate with every new album) have managed a well-received Other stage set in 2022 and are now here playing their first headliner slot. They seem to be on the glide path to superstardom, and have the swagger to match, particularly in the form of Grian Chatten, channelling Korn singer Jonathan Davis with a leather skirt, and stalking the stage like a third, even surlier Gallagher brother.

It’s up for debate whether Fontaines yet quite have the songs to match the marked upturn in exposure. There are moments here, notably when the band settle into a succession of moody mid-tempo tracks from A Hero’s Death and Skinty Fia, that you can hear the otherwise up-for-it, flare-waving audience’s attention wavering. But the hits really do hit: Chatten is matched word for word by the crowd on the barrelling back room punk of Boys in the Better Land and the caustic anti-ballad I Love You. They conclude rather daringly with two new songs: the pretty jangle of Favourite and the exuberant rap metal of Starburster. It’s a risk that pays off: both already feel festival-sized, and the amount of people copying Chatten’s strange hyperventilating howls on the latter makes for one of the stranger singalong moments of the festival. Pyramid for them next time?

Hello again! After a night of much dancing (and queueing) everyone is back for more – but operating with around 15% less health, like a videogame character who accidentally drank too many frozen daiquiris. And that’s just the Guardian team.

Today has another fabulously crowdpleasing lineup, topped with the most strongly triangulated Pyramid act of all: Coldplay, performing their record-breaking fifth headline set tonight. Before them it’s Little Simz with the biggest gig of her career, and Michael Kiwanuka before her. We’ll be liveblogging everything from now until the confetti has died away post-Coldplay – join us for incisive reviews, amazing photography and a general sense of the magic and mayhem.