Man was not meant for this heat. That is all I can think as I down a couple of preparatory pints at The Jubilee Hotel, before making my way over to the festival grounds. A beautiful day it is, but golly, it's hot.

I meander about for some time, drifting between the stages while I get my barings and scout out an escape from the weather and the endless bitumen - a popular activity amongst the festival's early arrivals.

Stornaway is the first band to catch my eye, wafting through a set of vaguely intellectual ballads. This kind of charming dance-folk evokes cooler climes and is enough to anchor me in a little patch of shade for some time. When one of the members begins finger-picking on a banjo I can't help but smile at this rare event amongst so many compulsive palm-muters. As they wrap up their set I beat a retreat to the VIP bar where I find a couch and a soupy warm mid-strength beer waiting for me. Not even VIPs are immune from the toxic drinks prices of Australian music festivals.

I get a message from a friend telling me to head to the Carpark Stage where I find Menomena starting to swing. The lead singer sounds eerily liky Caleb Followill though nobody seems to hold it against him. Not when he can toot a bass saxaphone, live-looping his sax parts so that he can keep up with vocal duties. I am briefly concerned for the well-being of the lead guitarist - his guitar is slung so high up it threatens to choke him - though his unique posturing doesn't interfere with his play. After a fruitless search for a friend in the crowd I take off in search of something different.

Hard-rockers, Violent Soho are playing at The Zoo/BIGSOUND stage - basically, the cordoned off no-man's land which the event organisers have delegated for the local bands. These Brisbane lads seem to be lacking some energy, whether that can be chalked up to the heat, or a reportedly wild show the night before at a flood benefit gig, I couldn't say. There's a bit of mosh up front but most of the crowd here is hiding in what shade they can find. "Jesus Stole My Girlfriend" proves a favourite, as does the evergreen chorus of "Muscle Junkie". They end their set with a nice bit of hungry thrashing and gnashing of teeth. It's just a damn shame they got stuck on this stage. BIGSOUND is surely an ironic name in keeping with the festival's hipster reputation. Squeezed between two large buildings, the audience area is basically a long corridor about ten metres wide. While this isn't bad in itself, the bands must play through a comparatively tiny PA and the stage is tucked away in a corner adjacent to the festivals biggest stage making sound levels a problem. Standing at the back, the Soho set is spoiled by noise pollution from Local Natives' languid bass. Damn shame.

I bump into my friend Michael at Bear in Heaven at the Inner Sanctum stage where the mix isso awful that I can't make out a word that's being sung. The accoustics on this stage, inside of a gigantic shed, don't help.

Instead, Michael and I get some drinks and brave the sunshine to see Beach House, one of Michael's favourites. During the sound check I see my first casualty of the day when a diminutive muscle-bound geek with a crew cut and wobbling gait starts spitting lumps on the ground in front of me. Still, the congealing puddle of ex-potato wedges at our feet doesn't seem to turn Michael off. He gives a little shudder when singer Victoria Legrand pokes her head out during the sound check. It's easy to see why. Legrand is truly enigmatic behind dark glass and a mass of loose hair. Surrounded by prisms of tinsel, Beach House work through a delightful set of melancholy pop, playing well to Legrand's husky voice. No mad stage antics here - they barely move at all - but I remain transfixed. Legrand's strange little smile intrigues me but the mystery is shortly lost. Michael tells me that he knows the bands tour manager and was kind enough to provide them with some of Brisbane's local flora before the show. He's nice like that.

Warpaint is up next. I'm drawn by their name alone, not quite knowing what to expect. When four short and spunky girls start grinding away behind their instruments it's hard to find fault. With a bit of funk in the bass and some lovely drumming, they win me over. This is a much more exciting show than many I have seen to this point and I'm glad for it. While this feels again like the kind of stylised nihilism one might expect at an indie music festival, they're particular style is at least, well, sexy. A decent rock-out half way through the set gives the singer ample opportunity to tease out her hair and gyrate like Bonnie Tyler. An impromptu drum solo gets a well deserved cheer at the end of the set. Warpaint have a new fan in me.

I'm on my way to catch the end of Gareth Liddiard at the Bigsound Stage when I bump into Michael again, who tells me that another friend, Jennifer, has just arrived. We find her amongst the food and clothing stalls tearing through a plate of nachos. I gnaw at a slice of cardboard pizza as we listen to the distant bleating of Two Door Cinema Club. When I tell Jen that I saw Violent Soho earlier in the day she gives me a strange look. It seems those long-haired lads had a jab at her band (Ball Park Music) the night before as they surrendered the stage to her crew at the flood benefit. I decide diplomacy is the wise choice and speak of the weather instead.

Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti doesn't quite live up to their reputation. I'm drawn by the promise of anarchic surf rock and this man's self-proclaimed genius. Alas, Ariel is fantastically wasted and incoherent - this the rest of the band treat as mere mundanity and press on. Ariel is what I imagine Lou Reed would have been if he'd grown up under the sun and chosen a different set of chemicals. He is thin and manic, pacing about in a bright red jump suit with a rubber python draped about his neck. At least this band makes some effort at performing and not merely replicating their record. As it is though, Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti can only hint at being brilliant - a vaudevillian pastiche, maybe - but they inevitably fall short.

While I'm scribbling some notes about Yeasayer a young woman sidles up to me dribbling vodka and good cheer. "What are you writing?" she asks. Before I can reply she grabs my harm and looks urgently into my eyes. "I just lost my boyfriend," she says, "You... You're like my pillar. You can be my pillar." I try to suppress a giggle. "Don't you appreciate being my pillar?" I have a feeling her boyfriend may have gotten himself lost, as did I only moments later.

Les Savy Fav is up next and, god damn, they deliver. By the time I get to the Inner Sanctum hefty, bearded frontman Tim Harrington is stripped down to a pair of denim cut-offs and purple stockings and flailing about with a semafore ribbon. Unapologetically rock and roll, they tear through a mix of old and new material in the best performance of the night. The warehouse accoustics of the Inner Sanctum enhance Les Savy Fav's sound, creating an atmosphere that is missing on their records. Before long, Harrington is covered in silver body paint and wearing a plastic chair as a hat like some kind of dadaist nordic idol, diving into the audience a number of times. On his last wandering, during an extended rendition of "Let's Get Out Of Here" he picks up a three metre long plastic crowd control barrier and props it up against a few patrons, a makeshift ladder onto which he climbs to tower from the centre of the mosh before riding it back to the stage. This is definately the highlight of the night.

Changing gears for Gotye now, and I'm disappointed. After Les Savy Fav, Wally's performance feels genuinely lifeless. He draws a large crowd but even fans seem fairly bored after only a couple of songs. Sure it's fun to watch a percussionist with a microphone, and the odd bit of latin swing gets my hips moving but Gotye just doesn't do it for me. At least not tonight.

Instead, I make my way over to the Bigsound stage to try and catch a glimpse of The Jezabels. This is the last act on this stage and they bring the numbers. So many people, in fact, that I am so far back from the stage that I can barely hear them. Matters aren't helped by the DJ at the main stage keeping up the white noise while Cut Copy runs through a sound check. I'm there for ten minutes, in which time more and more people arrive. I decide to let The Jezabels be and gripe about the set up later.

Cut Copy, the headliners tonight emerge through a large wooden door and a haze of smoke centrestage to the sound of bird calls. The drama is lost as they amble to their places and stall noticably before they begin playing. On this the release day of their new album as well as the beginning of a world tour, they don't look terribly enthusiastic. They play through a couple of new and old songs, taking conspicuous breaks between songs, not even attempting a bit of banter to keep the punters keen. I watch for a few minutes and wonder what time the last train leaves. Then something strange happens. At almost the same moment, or within a few bars of eachother, both the audience and the band members begin to move. The crowd surges and the lead singer's awkward fist pumps and dice throws lose their self-conscious hesitation. Problems, though, continue to plague their performance. Cut Copy doesn't do enough to inspire a lot of confidence in this a band on the verge of a grand tour. Around me there are murmurs of people getting ready to leave.

Out of idle curiosity I head back to the Inner Sanctum to study that strange beast known as !!! (Chk Chk Chk). Before long I'm drooling in catatonic bliss, though this may be a reaction to the organ failures induced by Cut Copy's set. While the band powers through their disco-infused punk, the front man dances about in short-shorts like a Jewish Mick Jagger, or maybe Richard Simmons with sex appeal. This is really tight, aggresive dance music layered with a tasty bit of funk - the perfect counter-balance to Cut Copy's staid coolitude. !!! (Chk Chk Chk) is thoroughly, anarachically entertaining and not to be passed up.

They have me tapping my weary feet the whole way home.