Franz Ferdinand

"Are you on drugs?” says the sternly bearded Norwegian customs official. “No,” I explain, “I’ve only slept an hour and I’m full of coffee. Hence the shakes.” Maybe it’s the ‘hence’ but he looks unconvinced. “What are you here in Norway for?” I shudder, “A music festival.” Ping go the blue rubber gloves. Mercifully our acquaintance doesn’t get as intimate as I fear and I am allowed on my way. If only a certain Mr Doherty had been as lucky, Babyshambles might not have missed their appointed set.

So finally arriving at the placid park where the Oya Festivalen lives, just outside Oslo, was a pleasing contrast, and something of a relief. It’s stuck between a stretch of urban motorway and a derelict industrial estate, but don’t imagine that bit of any city where the rehearsal rooms usually are. Because when you enter the park it also has a lake with a little sandy beach, some medieval ruins and three stages only a brief stumble apart. Squint to avoid some of the backdrop and it’s improbably cute. After a brief wander round, being confused by seeing people walk on water (the lake has a hidden causeway running down the centre - as I was told on claiming that I’d seen a miracle), the arrival of the cyan robed Polyphonic Spree means it’s all under way. They are their brash, multitudinous selves, complete with unwilling looking participation from their bewildered children.

Before social services are called, Magnet appears with a less gospel/religious cult approach to band uniforms – nice matching beige shirts – for a bit of soft-focussed, warming melancholy. At this point looking around the audience it becomes apparent that there is a peculiarly gentle and friendly atmosphere about this festival. Land of Black Metal blood feuds this may be, but maybe some ancient Nordic spirit, or just the devastating price of a pint is somehow keeping all the demons away.

Even a reassuringly edgy and potent set from those notorious eschewers of good vibes and diplomacy, within their own ranks at least, Dinosaur Jr, doesn’t trouble the benign calm. J Mascis in particular is far more electrifying than a rock star with the hair of a roadie should ever be, delighting the orderly moshpit.

Then it’s a quick dive to the second stage where Kings Of Convenience make a whisperingly triumphant homecoming under a gently darkening sky. Songs from ‘Riot On An Empty Street’ particularly, stripped of many of their instrumental layers, still sound full and resonant as they echo against the twilight. They even manage to remain audible while Turbonegro crank into their cartoon headlining set on the main stage behind them - complete with Turbonegro money fired into the crowd. 'So quiet' is certainly the new 'mercifully loud enough'.

Friday starts with local chaps Washington providing the necessary festival quota of mid tempo Buckley-esque shimmerings to a slightly fuzzy headed, mainly sitting down crowd. Ready to rock again after such pleasant recuperation, Death From Above 1979 are disappointingly uncohesive. Sebastian Grainger though is disarmingly charming in his onstage banter with the crowd, a skill that should always command respect.

The Magic Numbers, having made a pact in about May with the twin gods of festivals and weather, need no such professional charm. The sun suddenly comes pouring out, multiplying across the surface of the lake, during the middle section of ‘Forever Lost’. The sun then is a very discerning musical critic. At that moment the set transforms, from its slightly nervy start (perhaps they were still cross about Richard Bacon) and Norway is won over to their croaky heartbreak. They can swish off into the distance in their Pop cords pleased with a job well done and more grinning converts. Though the new song they air does not have the depth of the rest of the material, its ticklish country gallop fits well with the genial mood.

Annie doesn’t quite manage to pull off her two genius singles ‘My Heartbeat’ and ‘Chewing Gum’ in a suitably arresting live fashion, so it’s time to slope off to Saul Williams. He bursts eardrums with sub bass and minds with his Gil Scott-Heron like combination of logical power and lyrical grace.

Sonic Youth round things off on the main stage.Thurston Moore is already crashing Fender Jazzmasters with the ever mischievous looking Lee Renaldo by the third song. His daughter looks on from the side of the stage as Dad rubs yet another howling vintage axe against his crotch. She’ll probably grow up and want to be an accountant.

Then back on the second stage a very belated Babyshambles stumble on, Pete vomits and they kick in. Textbook. After a couple of songs you can hear the whole audience muttering “they’re better than I thought they’d be”. It’s reassuring to be reminded that once upon a time Pete Doherty was famous for singing in a band.

Like Goldie Lookin’ Chain being infiltrated by Talking Heads, Datarock scramble out on Saturday afternoon in their matching red tracksuits. Somehow they combine the humour of both those bands – part wilful silliness and part artful whimsy and playing some genuinely original electro-rock. Their ranks swell during the set to a double drum kit conclusion forming something of a Norwegian supergroup along the way.

Damn the air strike for keeping The Duke Spirit stuck in Blighty. But Sons And Daughters make up for it, using their menacing treble to evoke a brooding chill and provide atmospheric balance to The Magic Numbers the previous day. There is a searing violence in their pouty performance and only the cheerily rolling adult pop of Robert Post brings out the sunglasses once more. Really the weather/music index at Oya is disconcertingly sensitive.

Back on the main stage, in front of – hopefully self-mocking – fascist dictator style portraits of themselves, Franz Ferdinand wiggle out in the manner of indie gameshow hosts. Donning the occasionally greasy easy manners of showbiz, the three chiselled chaps and Bob belt through the hits and a fair smattering of selections from the new album. No alarming sideways shifts into avant-electronica here, just bigger, louder, thumping, pumping Franz Ferdinand with knobs on. ‘Do You Want To’ and ‘You Could Have It So Much Better’ in particular give ample opportunity for as much elbow jerking and marching on the spot as even the most insatiable Franz fan could desire. It feels a little slick and detached but they never set out to be navel gazing underachievers – they are a great pop group so they play a great set of pop songs.

With Chinese band The Subs, wired into the mains of rock and screaming at the night it’s all over. After draining every overdraft crippling drop of the last pint it’s time to stroll back into town. Maybe it’s just the old man inside me, but this feels like doing a festival in style. As the crowd politely disperses into the spotless streets of Oslo, to find bars and little venues hosting other gigs and batter Visa cards till dawn, I really don’t want to go home.

Pictures: Karen Toftera