Better live than on record, the Dylanesque Leftovers and Tickle Me Pink were incredibly evocative, both old as the hills and thrillingly new, and astonishingly mature for a 25 year old.

Dystopia at Latitude? Indeed, but only that of the Midnight Juggernauts type: sweeping, synth soaked indietronica, the kind that had droves of punters zipping forward to send the forest dust and wood chip billowing around the Sunrise arena.

The Breeders didn't really get anyone zipping anywhere. To say they sleepwalked through this set would be an understatement of the magnitude of "Joe Lean And The Jing Jang Jong? Yeah, I'm so glad we signed them..."

Laid back is good. Relaxed is good, But honestly Deals, you have to do something different to when you soundcheck your practice area on a wet Monday morning. Even Cannonball, a stone-cold cert to be one of the tracks of the weekend just kind of happened, with few really noticing.

Ah, a greatest hits set from the universally loved Blondie: could there be a better crowd-pleaser? Whoever chose to put them in the smaller indoor secondary arena needs a clip round the ear, but even from a rainy position outside the tent the old favourites sounded terrific.

Conversation in the crowd switched quickly from pre-gig fears that Debbie Harry's voice wouldn't be up to much these days (unfounded) to amazement that she's still hot as hell, despite being in her seventh decade. Most of the set was played pretty straight, but some heavy guitars and extended rapping on Rapture and an updated electro version of Atomic raised the bar even higher than expected.

If Interpol were the maestros of paranoid misery closing the main stage, then Tindersticks were the grand masters of despair doing the same at the Uncut Arena. As the rain sheeted down outside, Stuart Staples' deep baritone melted as many hearts as the weather froze, and backed by half an orchestra, eased through the notoriously melancholy Nottingham group's 16 year back catalogue.

After The Breeders those of us outside the Obelisk arena had a vaguely deflating feeling. Which lasted precisely as long as it took Nick Cave to stride across stage in full-on Lizard King mode, and for the magnificently bearded Warren Ellis to smash his first maraca into his first cymbal.

Grinderman were exactly what we needed. Full on, raucous, sleazy, dirty and fantastic. "Here's a new one..." said Cave, "It's called Dream, like when you... fucking... sleep... Dream". Outstanding.

There are very few bands who could have followed that. Tonight, headliners Interpol proved they happen to be one. As daylight was replaced by charcoal skies and the heavens opened for the harshest shower of the weekend the setting was as broody as Interpol could have wished for - and they revelled in it.

In these pages we predicted they were ready for a moment like this and they duly delivered. Pioneer To The Falls was as cool and as crisp as the rain trickling down the back of your neck. A crystalline Not Even Jail chimed through the cold air, while proceedings took an even darker turn into No I In Threesome.

There was little talk from Paul Banks and little let up from the band as they blasted through the 90 minutes. The wetter and colder it got, the more unifying it became for the crowd, to make it arguably the weekend's most epic moment.

Interpol do absolutely nothing (that you can nail down) to make their set special. No crowd interaction. No mass sing-a-longs. No moment where Banks hangs his microphone into the crowd and gets them to sing "HEAVEN RESTORES YOU IN LIFE!!!" back at him in a drunken fashion. And yet, through sheer weight of music and presence and, yes Goddamn it, style, it becomes something special.

There was a genuine sense that, at the climax of this wonderful and special weekend, that this was the moment.

And so endeth Latitude 2008. As varied and as interesting a festival experience as you're likely to have. We loved it. We may well be back to shout at the pink sheep (not a metaphor) next year.

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Latitude 2008: Day 1 | Day 2