Come Together As One:Wide Awake Festival 2022.

About half-past nine last night I was in Brockwell Park with my friends, Primal Scream were playing Come Together, and 'Big' Neil Bacchus was waving his arms in the air and putting his arms round both friends and strangers while singing along to that song's chorus.

It was, without a doubt, the most authentic - and most enjoyable, festival experience I have had in well over two years. That's hardly a surprise. Neil, Bee, Catherine, Pam, and Colin are tried and trusted festival friends and the likelihood of any of them bailing out early, or not giving it their all, was virtually nil. If anything, it was me who was most likely to take an afternoon nap.

Which would not have been the right behaviour at all for a festival styled as The Wide Awake Festival. I'd woken early and walked down to Brockwell Park (stopping for a cup of tea and an aubergine, goat's cheese, and pesto panini in the reliable old favourite Gusto Italiano on Half Moon Lane in Herne Hill - just as well as I ate nothing else for the rest of the day and woke up with a rumbly in my tumbly) where I had to sort out some minor faff with tickets at the box office.

Only slightly distracted by a man in bright yellow Crocs and matching dungarees atop a Cat in the Hat onesie. Entering the festival involved a labyrinthine stroll that helped push my daily step toll up to 23,000 and when I got in I did a quick recce of the site and worked out where the stages are and which bars were serving pints and which just cans. Pints were either £6.75 or £7 which is pretty steep but sadly expected. It didn't put any of us off.

I caught a bit of Crows (noisy) and Katy J Pearson (reminded me of Courtney Barnett - but not as good) and then saw Pam entering the festival. I waved to her and she turned towards me - and then walked straight past me. Turns out she'd spotted Neil, Bee, and Catherine who had been stood just behind me, at an ice cream van, all along.

Soon, Colin arrived and we were quorate and ready to roll. Pints of Heffes lager on the go, we headed to the Windmill Stage (where we'd spend most of the day) where Fatoumata Diawara had began her set.

From a distance, it sounded pleasant but as we got closer we realised that Fatoumata and her band were really rocking. Pam went right up the front (and it's her photos, as ever, I've mostly nicked for this blog) and the rest of us, bar Bee - who'd gone exploring, hung back as Fatoumata charmed the audience, not least with her big and breezy hit Sowa.

Yard Act, on next, had a different approach entirely. Debate raged as to just how pissed frontman James Smith was but he certainly makes for a formidable presence. Mentioning South London (not London - South London) between every song, boasting about his wealth - humorously and with tongue very much in cheek, berating the audience for being less enthusiastic than last night's much smaller crowd in Norwich,.and swearing as freely as you'd like, he swirled in the afternoon heat and shouted out his sprechgesang lyrics with fierce abandon as guitarist Sam Shjipstone, with Nick Cave 'tache and mullet and Peaky Blinders schmutter, jerked randomly as if on loan from Gang of Four.

Perhaps a bit oddly, they didn't play Fixer Upper but The Overload, Pour Another, and 100% Endurance all went down very well indeed. Nothing, though - for me, could top their cover of Jonathan Richman's Road Runner which gave me one of those festival highs in which you come running back from the bogs, fresh beer in hand naturally, full of enthusiasm for the rest of the day.

If not for a ride on the Sky Swing. Catherine and I discussed a go on this (it was very high and Brockwell Park already has great views of the London skyline so I can only imagine how good they were up on that thing) but were put off by the fact they were charging £10 for a roughly thirty second spin.

Fat White Family had just finished and, again - for me, they'd been a bit disappointing. They have attitude in droves (witness Lias Saoudi in nothing but skin coloured shorts, jumping into the audience, and sweating profusely), they have a great sound - but what they don't really have is great songs.

Their set began with Saul Adamczewski banging a beer barrel with drumsticks for what felt like half a fucking hour and when they finally ended that, they did rock and they rocked noisily and aggressively but, I dunno, I never really felt it. Nor did Pam. She shot off to see Billy No Mates on another stage and get some 'scran' (her choice of word, not mine).

We met again for The Comet Is Coming (who'd drawn a disappointingly small crowd) and they were great. Imagine if Loop had a saxophone player and then imagine that that saxophone player is 'King' Shabaka Hutchings. Summon The Fire, I think - they're instrumental so I get them mixed up, sounded utterly ace and could have easily filled an arena ten times as big.

I didn't have high hopes for Amyl and the Sniffers. Despite sniggering at their name like a naughty schoolboy I've always found them a bit regressive. The amount of mullet headed fans hovering around suggested I was outnumbered but I was won over - and won over quick.

The surprise act of the day. Amy Taylor is an astonishing presence (without her they'd be a workaday pub rock band) and she urges the band to be the best version of themselves while unashamedly and proudly singing in a strangely affecting kind of 'bogan' Melbourne accent. They sound nothing like them but her attitude reminded me of The Streets' Mike Skinner in his pomp.

Best song of the set was Knifey. A sadly ever topical anthem about women's freedom to do things men take for granted without being objectified, mentally undressed, threatened, or even raped and killed. Things like walk in the park, look at the stars, or even attend a music festival.

Music festivals are, of course, more right on now. There's "dog spending" areas, warnings you can be ejected for pissing against a fence- in Reading '88 it was practically mandatory to do so, and both a male and female signer on stage. It was fun watching them sign Yard Act's swearing and even more fun when they signed Fat White Family's theremin. Best of all though was when there was a guitar or drum solo they simply did air guitar or drums. 

Truly the heroes of the day. Which is not to do Primal Scream a disservice. Ver Scream have been doing this a long time so they were unlikely to fuck up - and they didn't. Of all their albums, Screamadelica is a safe bet and with its producer, Andrew Weatherall, and one of the vocalists, Denise Johnson, having passed in recent years the gig took on a form of tribute.

Not a gloomy one though. Not at all. How could it when it starts with Movin' On Up. That got people dancing which is no mean achievement when you consider that Screamadelica is thirty years old and most of the crowd looked old enough to have bought it first time round.

Slip Inside This House, Don't Fight It Feel It, and a gorgeous Inner Flight all sounded majestic, Higher Than The Sun and Loaded even better, and if the set lagged a bit two thirds in - Damaged and I'm Comin' Down were always the album's weakest songs - it was more than made up for by an encore of Jailbird, Country Girl, and, of course, Rocks.

Best of all though was Come Together which seemed to encapsulate the whole vibe of the day and the whole euphoric feeling of the festival experience. One that is, obviously, best spent with friends and when those friends are Pam, Neil, Bee, Colin, and Catherine that makes it all the better. When we doing it again?