Django Django are one of the more intriguing upcoming British bands at the moment. A Primal Scream-esque party feel combines with a confident dryness to produce a sound that someone is bound to think up a new sub-genre tag for soon.

For the most part it’s a rumping pumping set that provides something for those who didn’t want to hang around for Dylan. A few thousand dance away throughout the set and somebody throws confetti high into the air. Who bring confetti to a festival? The best person, that’s who.

With two people sharing one drum kit, “Scottish Dave” threatens to remove his shirt as they begin Life’s a Beach. He doesn’t follow through on this promise, but there are many who seem to be okay if he did. Some guy (or girl, I couldn’t tell) at the top of the humongous Booster ride next to the stage punches their fist along. It must’ve been amazing to be that person at that point.

A pair of crutches is held up high in the air as an air-raid siren rips through the night to open the final song of the set. A cow-bell is then hit, getting them a gold star, before a bass-line with balls bigger than King Kong shimmies out across Club FIB.