Who: Fleet Foxes.
Where and when: Pyramid stage, Friday, 4.40pm.
Dress code: Regulation beards and plaid shirts – the Americana uniform.
What happened: "How are we going to communicate with the throngs? What's the best way? Probably Twitter …" In a way, that's the problem for the "terrified" Fleet Foxes this afternoon. They could do with a little
connection. It's a great sound, and hits like Oliver James and the soaring
Mykonos are exactly what the moment calls for. But much of their finely honed acoustic murmering and CSNY-style four-part harmonies float out across the Pyramid crowd and drift away into the disappearing clouds. They're masters of their "ooooh-vre" but one long "ooooh-ooooh" goes a long way in the afternoon sun.
Who's watching: Probiotic yogurt-eaters, enterprising teams of young capitalists carrying shots of Sambuca and a Lost fan in a "Desmond is my constant" T-shirt.
High point: White Winter Hymnal might not be the most appropriate song lyrically ("to keep their little heads from falling in the snow"), but it's the perfect sunny afternoon soundtrack.
Low point: Is it possible to be too mellow at Glastonbury? At times those close-knit harmonies are a bit too woolly for a crowd just recovering from the NERD herd.
In a tweet: Beards. Sun. Oooooh x 4.
