One of the things I love about Electric Picnic is that you invariably come away from the long weekend with a favourite new band.

This year’s Road to Damascus moment occurs within about 45 seconds of me clapping ears on Brand New Friend, four disgustingly fresh-faced individuals from the aptly-named Castlerock in County Derry who open up the Main Stage with not just a plomb but lots of plombs.

The un-aptly-named ‘Mediocre At Best’ sums up all that’s great about them – grungy guitars, ballistic drumming, a once heard, never forgotten hook and some neat vocal interplay between brother and sister Taylor and Lauren Johnson, which has me scrawling ‘LOS CAMPESINOS!’ in my notebook.

The Main Stage can swallow young groups up whole, but Brand New Friend command every inch of it with the Foos-esque ‘I Was An Astronaut’ and Pixies-inspired ‘Cold’, two of the other standouts from their debut Seatbelts For Aeroplanes album.

Last seen by Hot Press wreaking havoc in Whelan's - we still have the bruises to prove it! - The Murder Capital's recent signing to the same management company as Muse, Snow Patrol and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers has, whether they like it or not, bestowed ‘next big thing’ status on these Dublin guitar (and drum) shredders. Fronted by extremely angry young man James McGovern, the obvious reference point on the likes of 'More Or Less', a veritable snarlathon, is Fugazi but there are also trace elements of Whipping Boy and the pre-goth Damned.

Getting lost en route to the Other Voices stage affords me the added bonuses of being showered in Hymmingbyrd's celestial harmonies; copping a very loud earful of Wolves Of Youth, one of the 2fm Play The Picnic winners who, being from Ballyshannon, have plenty of Rory Gallagher in their ballsy rock DNA: and getting to strut my old skool hip hop stuff to Lui Rwego and friends in the very fancy Heineken area.

Twenty years ago that ‘next big thing’ label was attached to Ash who duly delivered with ‘Kung Fu’, ‘Oh Yeah’ and ‘Girl From Mars’, three of the most perfect pop punk singles ever to emerge from this island, which are all the subject of furious moshpit action tonight.

Whilst a few wrinkles are starting to appear on those baby faces of theirs, newer numbers like 'Annabel' and ‘Buzzkill’ confirm that the trio are still wide-eyed teenagers at heart. Even better is soon to be released single 'Confessions In The Pool', which Mr. Wheeler tells us is accompanied by a priestly video: "The Pope will love it!" he lies before riffing up another storm on his Flying V. By the time ‘Burn Baby Burn’ comes around everybody's partying like it's 1992.

Returning to Hot Press Chatroom base I catch the last few minutes in a neighboring tent of #hashtagroyals, a ten-piece singing, rapping and beatboxing collective who are all under Direct Provision at Mosney - we'll address that fucking scandal another day - and have had to get permission to be at the Picnic. They're rough, raw and utterly compelling.

If my generation had Debbie Harry to obsess over - personally, I still do - today's new wavey pop kids have Lauren Mayberry to make them feel all tingly in a way they may not yet fully comprehend.

Kicking off with 'Get Out', Chvrches put nary a foot wrong as they smash the Main Stage with a set that also finds room for 'Grafitti', 'Miracle' and 'Under The Tide', all of which sound more bombastic and industrial live than they do on record. But in a good way.

Sporting a sheer black lace number and serious amounts of glittery blue eye shadow, Ms Mayberry is a pally presence who nevers stops shooting smiles at the crowd who lap it all up and go especially bananas when they launch into the impossibly shiny 'Recover'.

Earlier in the day, she'd beguiled everyone in the Hot Press Chatroom with her thoughts on Jimmy Kinmel, popping pimples and the redemptive powers of live music.

Having lost the will to live recently at a Hacienda Classical concert - there's a reason Happy Mondays didn't get an oboe player in for 'Hallelujah' - it's with a sense of dread rather than anticipation that I head to Rankin's Wood for The Story of Hip Hop Part 3, no less, as recounted by the RTÉ Concert Orchestra and assorted young Irish guns.

Mango, Jess Kav, Jafaris and Erica Coady are all supremely gifted performers who approach the task with extreme gusto, but the cutting and pasting of Sugarhill Gang, Cardi B, Drake and Stormzy belters means that it's all very Ireland's Got RnB Talent.

The crowd, it has to be said, go apeshit for it and I'll doubtless be dismissed as a curmudgeonly old git for not getting into the Friday night dancing around yer' handbag mood.

The party vibe is far less forced across the way in the Electric Arena where King Kong Company are shooting Atari computer noises over some fast 'n' furious rave beats. No wonder they've become such an Irish festival fave.

Earlier on the same stage Delorentos had unveiled two new (to me) female backing singers who add an extra dimension to a set that climaxes with 'S.E.C.R.E.T', a song of such immense singalong pop joy that I temporarily suspend my sprint to Kinara Kitchen for an emergency curry. There's a confidence and swagger about the Delos boys these days, which suggests even bigger things await.

Back on the Main Stage and Walking On Cars are being, well, very Walking On Cars-y. Few bands write a better radio friendly monster than the Kerry outfit but the likes of 'I'll Always Be With You' are a bit too Foreigner meets John Waits' 'Missing You' on '80s AM radio for me. Again, I appear to be in a minority.of one.

I also feel like a spare prick at an orgy watching Versatile, the two Ringsend lads whose not entirely serious take on hip hop reminds me of when the Beastie Boys burst onto the scene with their own hydraulic phallus and snotty frat boy anthems. The connect between band and bare chested (the boys, anyway) fans is total and in the closing 'Ketamine' they possess an anthem of genuine guile and wit. Whether Eskimo Supreme and Casper get more than their 15 minutes of infamy remains to be seen, but they're clearly the act most people have come to idiot dance to tonight.

Kanye and Jay Z have had their guitar-y moments in the past, but right now Kendrick Lamar is the most rock ‘n’ roll minded of hip hop's A Listers, which makes him the perfect choice of a headliner for a festival determined to update itself without morphing into something completely different.

Dressed down in a black t-shirt, his flow on the likes of 'Kung-Fu Kenny Part 1' and 'King Kunta' really is something to behold. Intensity-wise, though, this isn't the same Kendrick that bagged himself Gig of the Year in February in the 3 Arena. Indeed, it all feels a bit autopilot until he launches into 'm.A.A.d City', the toughest of urban hymns, which is ushered in with a blood red screen and much oohing and aahing from the gyrating faithful.

His points victory on the night is secured by an epic call and response 'Bitch, Don't Kill My Vibe', which transforms the now somewhat dampened Main Stage into a Compton bloc party.

As first days go, it was pretty darn good.