It’s half eight on a Wednesday and the crowd is building in Whelan’s. The topic of debate amongst them is who from the band has picked the contemporary classical pre-gig music that is incongruously sounding through the main room. There’s a tangible excitement about the imminent arrival of San Francisco’s Deerhoof.

The music fades and Ireland’s reigning kings of misanthropic punk, So Cow, take to the stage. Greg Saunier from tonight’s headliners produced the Tuam- based band’s last album and they tear through half that album in under half an hour. They even throw in a few old favourites and vocalist Brian Kelly enjoys some banter with the crowd.

As soon as So Cow finish, there is no messing about. Deerhoof are straight on stage setting up their equipment and mopping up the sweat of the energetic opening act. It’s a well drilled team and they are ready to go in under 10 minutes.  Then they leave the stage and the room is filled with anticipation. It’s that rare feeling when you are at a show and have no idea what is about to happen.

With no fanfare they reappear ten minutes later. Throughout So Cow’s set there was very little elbow room. Hardly room enough for a pogo. But now it gets properly bunged as crowd suddenly compacts. Those summoned from the beer garden by the opening song bring with them a funk that would give Novak Djokovic a headache.

Deerhoof are musician’s musicians. They’ve been going for 20 years, and nearly as many albums. The dancefloor is a who’s who of the indie scene. The first song sounds like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Ditto for song two. Each song is unique, like it was written by another band. No riff is repeated. It’s as if they have been given the sheet music for a wedding band’s set and are playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order.

Concepts like verses, choruses, and such musical conventions are studiously ignored. They obviously know the regular structures of songs but are deliberately subverting them. It’s as much performance art as it is entertainment. If you tried to explain the concept of pop music to an alien species but without them actually hearing it, they might come back to earth playing like Deerhoof. There’s an element of Stockholm syndrome in appreciating them. You need to surrender to it. Then the strange structures, rhythms and melodies start to make sense. It’s plain to see why sonic youth and their ilk are so fond of them.

There’s a reverential feel to the show that reaches a head when drummer Greg Saunier gives a wee speech between songs. Everyone stops and listens. It is partly a poem, partly a mystical incantation, partly a disassembly of the art of stagecraft, and partly the ramblings of the guy who won’t leave the library even when he is asked. It goes on for such an unfeasible amount of time that even the staff stop working and stare in wonderment and incredulity, waiting to see where it is going. The massed throng are still and silent. His voice is the only sound.

The reverie is shattered when a gruff, authoritative voice from the bar demands that he “get back to the tunes, kid!” The response to this dismissive heckle comes not from the speaker, but from the guitar. The moment in the Steve Miller Band's 'The Joker' when the guitar wolf-whistles was the first time I heard a guitar ‘speak.’ The few phrases from John Dieterich’s brightly coloured axe put the space- cowboy in his place. It sounds wounded and plaintive on behalf of its colleague. Sympathetic and aggrieved. It’s bizarre to hear a guitar emote like that and further demonstration, if it were required, of the band’s immense skill and talent.

Deerhoof are a genuinely unique, and sometimes bizarre, proposition. There is no other band like them. They are easy to admire, but difficult to like. Their live show is like that strange movie that you watch the whole way through and then wonder why you watched it. But then you spend half the next day with scenes from it rolling around in your head. I’m not sure that I like Deerhoof’s music but I sure as hell enjoyed the show, and am unlikely to forget it anytime soon.

Playing only a handful of shows in the wake of the March release of their second album together (The Most Important Place In The World) Bill Wells and Aidan Moffat have for tonight become part of the Edinburgh Fringe prior to September dates in Kirkcaldy, Glasgow and Aberdeen & others (details of those here).

Having seen neither performer in any capacity before, a straight rendition of elements from the current album and its predecessor (2011’s Everything’s Getting Older) were where initial expectations were leaning. What was presented, however, was a show of great subtlety and at times near sublime stream of consciousness as Moffat’s characteristic wordplay was delivered over the mellifluous jazz of Wells and the other players.

Teasing the pause in the middle of 'Vanilla' out to seemingly twice it's recorded length and playing 'The Eleven Year Glitch' less like the album version (compared at times to the Pet Shop Boys according to Moffat) were just two examples of the fun being had with the repertoire tonight. Identifying with the ambivalence of locals to the festival by stating he’s always felt Edinburgh to be somewhere best avoided in August unless being paid and summing the month-long experience up succinctly with just the word “Jugglers” and a shudder, were in themselves enough to win over any remaining doubters.

Is Aidan Moffat more relevant than Robert Burns in this day and age? Having never had much time for the latter I’m probably in a poor position to judge but I expect those present tonight who’ve seen him previously have seldom been party to a better performance from him. Relaxed, chatty, honest and self-deprecating he was a man entirely comfortable in his surroundings and at one with the warm and appreciative crowd, aided no doubt by the excellent sound enjoyed by the band (most notably the trumpet player). Even breaking his snare drum near the end of the show did little to dampen his mood and he was soon off stage and chatting away with fans at the merchandise table on the way out of the hall. Having encored with ‘We’re Still Here’ it’s no understatement to say that everyone in the hall tonight left feeling very glad that that remains the case.

As the doors were a little late in opening tonight and the queue stretched down the stairs and out the front door Kathryn Joseph was already a couple of numbers in to her set by the time I arrived at the back of the hall. Her’s was a downbeat opening set for what, at that time, was in prospect a dourly entertaining gig yet her breathy, angst-filled vocals accompanied by sparse musical arrangements which meandered largely along the one path before petering out failed to really interest me, although the majority of the crowd seemed to enjoy what they were getting.

Though Sunday starts much like Saturday, an overcast gloom shrouding the festival site, the clouds soon dissipate and we find ourselves sticky with sun-cream and sweat and in front of the Main Stage early in order to catch Bedforshire's CC Smugglers, a six-piece band who make “original music from nostalgic influences”. They may not be our usual fare, and had we caught them in a different environment our opinions might be somewhat different, but for an opening, their swing/jazz/blues combination makes for a gentle beginning to the final day. That doesn't mean to say that the band lack any energy mind you, they clearly thrive on a sense of traditional band camaraderie, and though they're in no way unique, they're delightfully inoffensive and prove danceable enough to get a few pockets of the early crowd jiving.

Buzz-band Blossoms are next up, and following a hasty half hour taking down the tent we return to the Main Stage with the niggling feeling that reality soon beckons and work will rear its ugly head. Somewhat fitting then, that the band hail from our home-town and serve as an accidental reminder that there is a world outside of the festival bubble. A shame, really. Unfortunately whilst the band are one of Stockport's most-talked about acts, their set leaves something to be desired; elements of lite-psych are interspersed with '60s pop melodies and sleazy guitar lines, and whilst no-one can argue against their clear musicality, no-one can argue about their lack of originality, either.

Over to the Quarry for a final time this year, we catch the new iteration of Solemn Sun. Formerly known as Jim Lockey & The Solemn Sun, the band gave their sound a make-over last year and have left behind their folky musings in favour of something heavier, darker and a hell of a lot different. Having seen the early iteration of the band support last year's headliner Frank Turner the change is immediately obvious, both in band and crowd. The folk punk of previous releases completely done away with, the set does feel a little flat after several tracks, but one can't begrudge a band for a change in direction and ultimately they'll probably fair better under this guise than their previous.

Back over at the Main Stage, Y-Not faithfuls King Pleasure and the Biscuit Boys provide a much larger crowd with the day's second helping of swing, jazz and blues, keeping everyone dancing despite the heat, whilst neo-folk artist Rhodes brings the temperature back down with his chilly and atmospheric compositions.

As evening sets in, so does the heavy heart knowing full well this will be our last festival of the year, fortunately Augustines are on hand to boost spirits if only temporarily, and though their set feels somewhat short (six tracks in 45 minutes) tracks like 'Book of James' and 'Nothing to Lose But Your Head' seem as if they were written purely to be played tonight. Having seen the band previously, on an albeit much smaller stage, my expectations were raised fairly high, but with the band's most recent material seeing them foray in to the realms of stadium rock, it seems only fitting that they've graduated from a small tent at Leeds Festival to the much larger Main Stage here at Y-Not.

Arguably however, it's the double-header of Johnny Marr & Primal Scream that people have been most excited for over the weekend, and their heading of the final evening serves as reminder as to just how much organisers have pulled out all the stops for this year's tenth anniversary celebrations.

The former takes to the stage to huge applause, launching immediately in to 'The Right Thing Right' before the first Smiths cover of the evening appears in the form of 'Panic', and though the vocals might not be as unmistakable as Morrissey's, there's still something about Marr's that suit the jangle of guitar perfectly. Others come in the form of The Crickets' much-covered 'I Fought the Law' and Electronic's 'Getting Away With It', but it's the excellent closing track of 'There is A Light That Never Goes Out' that provides revellers with yet another classic festival moment.

With evening falling and everyone in high spirits, it's of little surprise that Primal Scream, like Basement Jaxx yesterday, perpetuate a party vibe that's difficult to shake off long after we've left. That said, their set is backboned by material from 2000s XTRMNTR, arguably the point the band's narratives became more politicised. Fitting then, given UK's current political climate but it's the likes of 'Rocks' and 'Country Girl' which provide the loudest sing-alongs of the day and perhaps even the festival, giving the most fair-weather fans something to dance to.

It's been eleven years since the first iteration of the festival, and ten years since it was opened to the public, and in that time it's progressed from an overspill of a house-party in to what is probably the UK's best small-to-medium sized festival. It may not have the same size headliners as the likes of Reading and Leeds or Glastonbury, but it has a special kind of allure that makes it feel both boutique and bigger than it actually is. And though you may not be familiar with every band you see, you can guarantee that you'll find at least one band you go home loving.

Until next time Y-Not, providing, of course, you'll still have us.

With Saturday comes the only threat of bad weather of the entire weekend; a thick fog enveloping the hills that surround the site bringing with it sporadic pockets of light rain. For some, there's no such thing as bad weather however, just the wrong clothes, so with last year's thunderstorms playing at the back of our mind, and making sure we're dressed accordingly, we venture to the Giant Squid stage for some early afternoon technical wizardry in the form of Alright the Captain.

Whether it's the threat of rain bringing people in to the tent, or whether the people of Derbyshire and Staffordshire just love a good bit of musical complexity to ease their hangovers away, the fact remains that the tent is impressively full for the first act of the day. From breakneck to breakdowns, Alright the Captain's refusal to be bound by the constrictions of standard time signatures clearly is a little too much for some of those who have wandered in to escape the light drizzle outside. For those of us who have made a concentrated effort to catch the trio though, we couldn't have been more impressed.

Some Main Stage poppiness next in the form of four-piece Brightonians High Tyde. Whilst the band are clearly musically proficient, it unfortunately comes at the expense of also being musically boring. They're tight but not attention grabbing, and though there's a reasonably large crowd present most are families sprawled on picnic blankets and are clearly here for the day's duration. There are small pockets of excitable teenage girls though, something evidenced by the throng of denim shorts and Hunter wellies that crowd around the entrance to the backstage area when their set finishes. The band might not be to our personal tastes, but they're clearly doing something right!

Back to the Giant Squid now to catch West Yorkshire's Allusondrugs, whose sole intention seems to be to eviscerate any lingering collective headache the audience might possess. Fortunately, a steady stream of festival food and gin seems to have rendered us immune to such issues, and their blend of light grunge, neo-psych and even emo makes for an eclectic but otherwise impressive show; their energy and antics onstage making it clear why there's such a buzz about them at the moment. Front-man Jason Moules might well have earned early comparisons with Kurt Cobain but his complete lack of stoicism this afternoon renders any such comparisons moot; the chemistry between him and his band-mates is palpable and infectious - the crowd turning in to a flailing mass of limbs before even the first track is over.

Following a liquid lunch of some of the best, and most reasonably priced craft ales around, we take our place at The Allotment stage. The smallest of the site's four main stages, The Allotment plays host to some country's best unsigned (and independent) acts around. For us, it's the pull of Manchester tropi-poppers Pale Waves, whose shimmering synth-pop is the perfect antithesis for the Peak District's trademark weather. Deserving of a bigger crowd than is in attendance the band still play a quality set, and though it's their first festival experience they take it their stride.

Remaining at the Allotment, next up is almost home-town heroes TRASH who manage what is arguably the most impressive pull of the weekend. Having just signed to Clue Records (also home to Allusondrugs) the band offer a brand of fuzz-laden slacker rock which, whilst not as heavy as other Clue exports, keeps a constant stream of punters flowing stagewards. By the set's conclusion, we've been forced to the back of the tent in fear of a beer soaking, such is the amount of it sent skywards by lairy crowd members. Not that that's a negative though, not by a long shot, and the sheer buzz that tears through the crowd with each individual track is nothing short of astounding. If there was one band from the weekend to keep both eyes, ears and maybe even your tongue on, should you be that way inclined, then TRASH are definitely it.

From grassroots to glassy-eyed now. Ocean Colour Scene take to the Main Stage in what one would have assumed was a booking to appease anyone old enough to remember TFI Friday on its first iteration, and of those there aren't too many. Thankfully though, what the band actually do is cement themselves as one of brit-pop's most overlooked acts as they tear through a set of classic '90s anthems. The crowning moment of the set, and the first real “festival moment” of the weekend comes in the form of 'The Day We Caught the Train'; anthemic and utterly exceptional, the chorus' hook rings out across the Main Stage and for the several thousand of us in attendance we know we've witnessed something predictable but more importantly, something special.

With an hour to kill before headliners Basement Jaxx, we make the journey to the Quarry stage for the first time that day, in order to catch American's We Are Scientists. Unfortunately though, just about everyone else had the same idea and we're relegated to the tent's periphery for the handful of tracks that we catch. Having seen the band before, we know they're capable of giving a better impression than they do tonight. Giving them the benefit of the doubt however, we put that down to our position outside the tent, and make our way back to the main-stage for the final time that day.

No matter what your opinion on Basement Jaxx, booking them as Saturday night headliners means that the festival's tenth birthday celebrations was always going to be just that, a celebration. Personally there's at least two separate Summer holidays of being unable to escape their music. Hearing the likes of 'Oh My Gosh' and 'Where's Your Head At' pumped out of a festival PA, however more than makes up for those repetitious weeks, and the party vibe they perpetuate seems to defy any age restrictions and make for one of the most emphatic headliners we've seen. Topping it all off with a massive firework display that goes on for the duration of the aforementioned 'Where's Your Head At' surely converting any naysayers.