After a warm up at the Greenbelt Festival, the Polyphonic Spree kick off their European tour in the Academy tonight. The band come on one at a time in their traditional long white robes. It takes a minute or two for them to fill the stage. It’s a stripped back show for the Polyphonic Spree, there are ‘only’ 14 of them on this tour; double the members of Arcade Fire but still less than the current incarnation of Guns 'N' Roses.

Each band member takes the stage and adds their instrument to the building crescendo. The noise from the audience builds alongside it and the biggest cheers are saved for Tim de Laughter who conducts his bakers’ dozen as they dance and sway in time.

Polyphonic Spree were everyone's highlight of the now defunct Witness Festival in 2002 but they haven’t been back this way in some time. De Laughter asks the audience how long it has been and there’s a vigorous debate between him and the crowd. Some punters argue that it’s been 15 years, while he thinks it’s 11. Google says it’s been eight but it’s too good a night to split hairs. Either way these fans have lain dormant for an extended period.

And they are a receptive crowd, singing along and clapping in time. The Academy is usually a sweatbox but it feels bright and airy tonight, thanks to the uplifting tunes. Last Saturday afternoon, fans of The Janoskians were lined up outside the venue. This crowd tonight could be their parents. It’s a noticeably 30-something crowd. De Laughter announces from the stage that he will be signing merchandise outside and he invites the whole crowd to party with the band after the show, and to follow them to Belfast the following night. A day trip with the Polyphonic Spree is a tempting offer but half the crowd have babysitters waiting at home so there are few takers.

They are playing debut album, The Beginning Stages of ... The Polyphonic Spree, in full. It’s only their second time playing the album in full live. That album really made their name at home and abroad and, even with reduced numbers, it is easy to see why. The infectious affirmations and the enthusiasm of their delivery don’t take long to affect the crowd.

The big hits from that album, ‘Soldier Boy’ and ‘Light And Day’, go down a storm and whip the audience into a maelstrom of raised arms and voices. The hits are played early on and when the album ends the band all leave the stage and disappear for a full 5 minutes while a backing track plays. They reappear in new robes; the men in short red and white tops with big sleeves and the women in colourful dresses with matching ponchos, and play the second half of the show as a greatest hits set.

Set closer ‘We Sound Amazed’ brings the audience’s excitement to new levels and De Laughter gets down on to the barrier leading the crowd in a messianic thrall. As the song comes to an end the instruments are raised high in salute, even the cello. We know that there will be an encore and it is loudly demanded. The group don't bother leaving the stage; the logistics of getting everyone off and on again would probably push the show past curfew, and play ‘The Championship’ before taking some time to just soak up the applause and cheers. De Laughter thanks the opening act and heads straight to the merch table to mingle with attendees, whose faces look happy, spent, and appreciative. The Texan's vision of what his band could be has been realised. Hopefully it won’t be another 11 or 15 years before they’re back.

Further photographs from the gig can be found here.

Walking through the campsites at Leeds Festival, one would be forgiven for thinking they'd stumbled head-first in to a kind of post-modern Last Days of Caligula - the heady scent of perfumed Roman's replaced by piss and Lynx Africa; the Italian wine by Somersby Cider; the opium by some questionable MDMA bought from a bloke called 'Greg'. It's horrific. It's eye-opening. It's beautiful. After all, where else on the festival calendar could punks and metalheads camp in such close proximity to those who look like they appreciate both a 'cheeky Nandos' and the word banter? Answer: Nowhere. Of course, it's not all about the social side. And though there are handfuls of people that only venture out of Sodom (Yellow Camp) and Gomorrah (Red Camp) to watch the headliners and swing their jaws to the various DJs situated around the site, Leeds wouldn't attract the disparate crowd it does, if it wasn't for its eclectic line-ups.

The festival does still lean more towards the alternative side of things, but this year especially there seems to be a little more of a mainstream flavour populating the site's several stages. For us however the weekend starts on the BBC Introducing Stage and with Teeside's NARCS providing us with a weighty wake-up call that leaves us feeling dirty before the festival's even really began. And we mean that in the best way. Elsewhere The Gaslight Anthem are traditionally underwhelming, though 'The Patient Ferris Wheel' is a welcome inclusion in an otherwise lacklustre mid-afternoon set. 

Thankfully however The Cribs ('We're from Wakefield') are their usual oikish selves, providing the Main Stage with a smattering of their finest urchin pop. 'Mirror Kisses' and 'Another Number' make an appearance, as does 'Men's Needs', but we're a little surprised to see festival-favourite 'Hey Scenesters' left off the list. Though we had several gripes about the over-zealous festival security over the weekend, we didn't have it nearly half as bad as Evian Christ, the DJ, who may or may not have been detained for sounding like branded holy water, pulled out of his Reading set that weekend thanks to his experiences with the Leeds security. We hear he's still available for baptisms though.

We make our first excursion to the Lock-Up stage in order to catch home-grown pop-punks Moose Blood, whose short set pulls an impressive crowd for the middle of the afternoon. Unsurprisingly, the huge amount of guys in Boston Manor t-shirts that have littered the site seem to have congregated here, climbing over each other desperate to shout back the words to the likes of 'Boston' or 'Bukowski' as if their lives depended on it. Back on the Main Stage, Jamie T keeps both old and new fans happy with a set that takes in all three of his albums in equal measure. It's the older tracks that go down a storm however, with both 'Shelia' and final track 'Zombie' offering the most raucous of singalongs of the day thus far.

The weekend's first offering of an artist you're not likely to see anywhere else this summer comes in the form of Kendrick Lamar. Surprisingly, the backbone of his set comes from his second album Good Kid, mAAd city, and not this year's acclaimed To Pimp a Butterfly, even the latter's 'Bitch, Don't Kill My Vibe' features entirely new verses, which does nothing to aid the slightly lacking crowd, most of whom are there to see The Libertines later. A lack of enthusiasm from the crowd shouldn't detract from his performance however, and covers from Tupac and A$AP Rocky do get the crowd going a little more than other tracks. It's 'King Kunta' that finally sees Lamar's energy transferred in to the crowd, his previous single and penultimate track finally getting everyone on their feet.

When the Libertines played Leeds in 2010, it should have been more than it was. It should have signified the start of something beautiful. It wasn't. And when the stage lights dimmed on the band that evening, they went back to their respective lives, respective bands and respective drugs. This year it feels different. There's a new album a little more than a week away and the band look healthier than they have in a decade. Is 2015 the year the band finally sail the Good Ship Albion back to Arcadia? It seems so.

 Taking to the stage to a deafening noise from the crowd, the band launch immediately in to 'Horrorshow' and from there on out there's little in the way of relent. New tracks are effortlessly merged with classics, as if the band have never truly been away. And in the hearts and heads of the hordes of adoring fans, they haven't. There's little in the way of crowd interaction from both Barat and Doherty, but with the newly lit fires beneath their feet it matters not. The sheer joy the band take from performing is evident, whilst their trademark sharing of the mic stand seems far more genuine than in recent years. Tracks such as 'Time for Heroes' and 'What Katie Did' are unsurprisingly early crowning points, but it's the lyrics of the newer material which provide the goosebumps; the chorus of 'Gunga Din' offering what is probably the most poignant of the night.

With the drugs behind them and the tabloids snapping at their heels, The Libertines are a band with their sights set solely on the future. What that future holds remains to be seen, but if tonight is anything to go by, it shows that demons can be conquered, irreconcilable relationships can be reconciled and that a band that everyone had more or less given up can rise from the ashes and ignite a passion in the chests of thousands. If this is the true sound of Albion, than I don't want to be anywhere else. 

The last time I saw Pissed Jeans was at the legendary Brudenell in Leeds, not long after they released Honeys. A challenging and ramshackle set acted as a radio signal from the left field of hardcore – an indelible impression of what was going on out on the fringes as they and support band Hookworms took a basic formula, force fed it acid and then sent it packing out into an apocalyptic landscape of paranoia and neurosis. With the band returning to these shores and me now residing in London, it seemed time to revisit the proudly combative weirdness of David Korvette and co in the confines of the 100 Club.

We reach Soho slightly later than intended, stopping to get food on the way at a German-themed bar which was hosting an opening offer of a free beer with every Currywurst bought. It also hosted a big fella in a silver leotard and mohawk, miming and dancing suggestively to various pop hits of the 90s. I usually avoid central London during the evening, so perhaps this is what usually happens? Anyway, it seemed like a positive start to an evening’s oddness and we head through to the venue encouraged. The 100 Club is a relic of old London and one which played a major part in the punk scene of ’77, but has not been left unaffected by both its status and location. Buying a drink at the bar is a sharp reminder that this time I am seeing the band in central London rather than Leeds, and an executive decision is made not to buy more until we head out into night.

Due to timing and the alternate Currywurst universe we briefly entered, we miss the support acts and only have about ten minutes of sipping our overpriced booze before Korvette starts proceedings off with the mangled croon which heralds the rest of the band’s entrance to the stage. A sardine sway occurs as the packed in crowd jostle to either get to the front or at least find a viewpoint as the band launch into a set which is one minute furious, the next dirge-like and the next pure distorted noise. Korvette is undoubtedly the group’s visual anchor, flailing his way across the stage, swooning into the crowd and at one point writing an impromptu ditty about sniffing a sweat-drenched beanie which has somehow come into his possession. Musically, however, he is another (admittedly flamboyant) part in the shambolic Pissed Jeans whole. Underneath every descent into squealing feedback, every driving beat which peters out, every moment which has the crowd scratching their heads, there lies a band who have been on the road for a good few years now and know what the fuck they’re doing.

They seem happiest when they seem to be genuinely getting to the audience – challenging the heavily be-hipstered crowd as far as they can. Nodding heads miss an unexpected change in pace, confused looks are exchanged. By the end, as Korvette utters repeated hoarse and unintelligible yells for a number of minutes, one person in front of me stands with his head in his hand – completely and utterly over it. It might not be an easy listen, sometimes it is musically daring to the point of confrontational, but there is something strangely likeable about Pissed Jeans’ cacophonous stew. You might not enjoy it, but I highly recommend that at some point you experience it.

On a wet Wednesday night, the Scala’s small stage was graced by moody Canadian art-rockers Viet Cong. Their set was brief, but it was explosive.

After a short greeting, they were off, playing a 7 track, 50 minute set with great urgency. There was little interaction, so it was the pace between tracks which fed into the crowd’s excitement, but ultimately the connection between the band and the audience suffered.

Launching into the energetic first two tracks of 2014’s Cassette, ‘Throw it away’ and ‘Unconscious Melody’, the snapping drums cut through the fuzz of their distorted guitars and synths to create a clever and animated sound. From here they ventured through 2015’s self-titled release with an impressive tightness, playing stand-out tracks ‘Continental Shelf’, ‘Silhouettes’ and ‘Bunker Buster.’ The sound was complex, but not overstated. The mood was intense, with prolonged inter-song instrumentals drawing a frenzied build up, tantalising before releasing with a snap.

Viet Cong were certainly growing into the gig; crowd surfers caught their first wave and the pit grew livelier to chants of “Viet Cong!” as they finished on ‘Death’ and left the stage. Ringing distortion captured the buzz in the crowd for an encore, so when the lights came on and the amps were turned off, it was a let-down. Similar to foreplay being followed by a ‘headache’, it felt like Viet Cong had bowed out too soon.

Not giving an encore is fine in itself, but with a short runtime it felt like Viet Cong had a hangover of ‘small gig’ mentality, which didn’t quite match an increasingly dedicated fan base, the £15 ticket price, or the more reputable venue.

Viet Cong are a really tight live outfit, packing some pulsating tracks and brilliant live technique. They just need to see off the job.