Apart from the crazy food prices (over £30 for two portions of very simple chicken and chips), I really like Leeds Festival. It’s well organised, friendly and the staging and sound quality is phenomenal.

By Miles Salter

Photos by John Hayhurst

What is it with Bloc Party? I mean, the name suggests that they’re up for a laugh, always want a big of a giggle, but on this day at Leeds Festival, they come across as po-faced. This seems to be down to the frontman, Kele Okereke, being tense. At one point during the set, he chides his band mates to get a move on.

They’ve been going for well over two decades so they must be doing something right, although the fact they’ve been thirteen different labels since their first album, Silent Alarm was released in 2005, suggests they’ve never really found their groove.

Plaudits to drummer Sarah Jones, who smashes away on the snare and toms at the back, but overall Bloc Party’s brand of scratchy guitar indie leaves this reviewer cold, which is not something that can be said to The Kooks, who provide a lesson in how it’s done.

The Kooks are very likable – they play unpretentious, hummable songs, and in Luke Pritchard have a handsome frontman who does his best rock star routine, charming the crowd. ‘This is a beautiful scene right here; I’m sure we are going to get along famously,’ he tells the audience.

The songs are affable, lively, bouncy affairs, much aided by the skills of lead guitar player and keyboard player Hugh Harris, who I bump into later in the day. The band play songs from their new album, including the harmless Sunny Baby, which is about perfect for a Saturday afternoon festival gig.

The Kooks may not be vastly original, but their songs are very likeable. She Moves In Her Own Way is always dependably fun. They’re on tour this autumn – recommended.

Chappell Roan is in the big league these days. Roan loves theatre – her set is made up to look like a scene from a fairy tale, and the animation at the start features cats’ eyes blinking in darkness. When Roan enters the stage, she’s wearing a preposterously silly outfit that looks like a souped-up costume from Blackadder II, riffing on Queen Elizabeth I. It doesn’t look comfortable or practical and (surprise, surprise) she whips off piece by piece until there’s not much left by the end.

Her songs are miniature epics, singalong tunes that hit home with an appreciative female-heavy audience, but even the dads are dancing for Hot To Go, a sort of YMCA for Generation Z.

Roan borrows liberally from other pop acts: her melodrama owes a lot to Kate Bush and Freddie Mercury; there’s a hint of Bowie, and Subway sounds like Sarah McLachlan at times. Her all-female backing band (in common with Beyonce and Olivia Rodrigo) smash it, and the cover of Heart’s Barracuda showed the rock streak that lurks in the background for Roan.

Her face is deadpan. You’d think she’d smile more. She’s a famous pop star after all, with the world at her feet, but we barely get a grin until the very end. She deserves to let herself off the hook; it’s a brilliant ninety minutes and the crowd love it.

Hozier’s trump card is just to be himself, which he does supremely well. Wearing a grey suit, the Irishman and his extraordinarily good backing band deliver a set that is full of emotion.

His throaty baritone is a powerful thing; you feel that he could summon angels with a voice as rich as that. A two-song hiatus when he plays from a tiny stage buried in the crowd includes Cherry Wine, one of his earliest songs.

He delivers a heartfelt speech in favour of ‘peace, safety and security’ for the Middle East and with a nod of the head to fellow Irish artist Kneecap. It’s powerful stuff and carefully worded to not exclude any one community.

A couple of songs of Hozier’s catalogue depict him as the wild man of rock (Someone New, Too Sweet) but tonight he comes across as serious, responsible and committed to his role as singer and potential statesman. My teenage companion, who adores the man, bellows her affection at him in the front row. ‘Thank you,’ he says calmly in response.

The set closer is Take Me To Church from his first album, a clever and powerful hymn to sex as redemption as well as a bitter swipe at religion. It is a compelling set and a great end to a tremendous day in Leeds, which is well organised and depending on the goodwill of hundreds of members of staff from car park attendants to medical staff. The chicken and chips was expensive but tasty. I’ll bring sandwiches next time.

Miles Salter is a writer and musician based in York.