I led a Dan Deacon dance-off in front of several thousand people. I experienced Natalie Prass' brave but fruitless defense against Powys' impressive wasp population. I saw Calexico bring their dusty, Mariachi-infused Americana to a wet, soggy field in the middle of Wales. I witnessed 91-year old Marshall Allen from Sun Ra ignore set curfews and continue playing until the power was cut. I was made pregnant by Charles Bradley as the sun disappeared behind the mountains. I had my socks charmed off by effervescent Norwegian popster Aurora. I felt my breath taken away by the genius of Son Lux. I flitted between the stark drama of St Vincent in her pomp and the lush, looped strings of Owen Pallett. And most of all, I got very, very wet. Green Man, you're alright.
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