Live Review: Mumford & Sons, Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros, Willy Mason

There's a fitful breeze, and the sun is setting fast over the vast Riverstage slope. At the top of the hill, a wash of lights beams out from the jostling vendor stands and the roped-off drinking area. Down the slope, down the cool grass, runs a darkness that drapes around the huddle of waiting, enscarfed punters, and down past the pit to lap at the front of the stage like a black tide.

In the mouth of the vast box stands Willy Mason. He's alone, and small, and begins his set with a voice that sputters back the night like a lone, flickering flame. A wisened, solitary storyteller, Mason croons until we're all warm and wistful, every last one of us.

We've not again sat long, before Edward Sharpe & The (bajillion) Magnetic Zeros literally pounce the stage. The crowd lifts too, everyone fighting to see over heads. We're pushed around, and lead singer Alex Ebert jumps high and wild into the air, landing on the downbeat of Man On Fire – a song that's big, and vast, and tremendously spirited. The Zeros have a thrilling aura to them like celebrities; a product of their unabashed showmanship, and agile, flighty movements. Taking requests from the audience, the band continue their set in the spirit of supreme in-the-moment-ism. Dear Believer comes first; a shimmering, pretty lull in the madness. 40 Days Dream follows that, before a brief walk-on from Marcus Mumford, whose contribution is completely drowned-out by the screams of fans. Home closes the Zeros' show, its walk-on muted brass section playing out the end of all things; screaming and splaying around the venue like streamers on fire.

Breathless, we then have to wait. When the be-vested folk-pop quartet finally take the stage, the night sparks to light with a swim of blue lanterns which hang the height of the stage. Mumford & Sons strum-out into the nothingness, and the crowd roars a pained and besotted roar. Lover's Eyes kicks off the evening with markedly deliberate restraint. Roll Away Your Stone comes fast after that, along with the awe-ing realisation that all their rhythm section's coming solely from their guitars. Holland Road brings out a brass section, drawing deeply from the band's patented “chords that make all things”. Wild banjo sprints speed into White Blank Page, and drowning the crowd in its haunting “Tell me now where was my fault” refrain. “This might be the most up for it crowd we've ever played for,” jokes Marcus, knowing how insufferably charming he is. A gorgeous, four-part a cappella then waltzes dreamily into Little Lion Man, which is obviously still everyone's favourite song. The hill visibly pulses; the wind deaf with the screams and the cries.