Should the recordings of the Arthur Clement Hilton Band (ACHB) ever be rediscovered posterity will surely judge us to have been visionary musical pioneers confounding the universal opinion of our contemporaries that we were a talentless joke. Our singer was a lanky poseur who felt himself to be the reincarnation of Shelley and Bogart and, from what I’m told, went on to serve jail time for making unwelcome telephone calls. Despite having no knowledge of the language he used to walk around with French versions of novels by Camus and Sartre sticking out of his jacket pocket positioned so that you could see the author’s name. I was reminded of him today at the 1 2 3 4 festival in Shoreditch by the slender hipped young man who had something by Yukio Mishima sticking out of his back pocket though at least it was a translation.

It was quite a congregation of the young, the beautiful and the pretentious and there at least two of those categories into which I don’t fit. It’s a showcase for what is described as "future rock and roll" and since it’s a short bus ride and a brief stroll away from the front door seemed worth investigating.

Have you ever had that dream where the fairy on top of your Christmas tree comes alive and starts storming around the living room banging things and swearing angrily with a Japanese accent? If so you have a pretty good idea of Comanechi’s live show.There are only two of them. She plays the drums and sings and he plays the guitar keeping his face concealed with a Cobain haircut. They were terrific and while it was not always clear what Akiko was singing about she had an exhilarating vitality. I may have misheard but the lyrics seemed to be along the lines of "I want to see you naked and hold your penis" and "fuck you turd", though that may have been "cunt". In a tent in broad daylight it was great and in a small venue at night it must be superb.

They had been preceded by a three piece called A Grave With No Name and they were a frustrating bunch. They had lots of interesting ideas but seemed determined to stop each song before they really took off.

Another flashback to the ACHB was provided by S.C.U.M who take their name from The Society For Cutting Up Men. It’s a bit unfair to judge a band based on five minutes but the best thing about them was their use of Moogs. In the debit column we have to put the singer’s performance and a dress sense that seems to be based on what they think a hip German band would have been wearing in 1982.

Having read the plug for them in the Guardian review before setting off I’d high hopes for the Dum Dum Girls. They may have played one of the greatest sets in the last twenty years. It was impossible to say. They were crucified by an appalling mix which sometimes had the drums inaudible and at others drowning out everything else. Occasionally you could discern snippets of good chirpy pop.

There’s a fashion at the moment for musicians to do shows in which they play a significant album the whole way through. You can never be quite sure if it’s because they need to refurbish the kitchen or there’s some higher artistic motivation.Whatever his reasons Peter Hook had put together a band to perform Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures, including a woman he didn’t introduce who gave majestic renditions of a couple of tracks. This is not an album that most people are accustomed to listening to on a summer’s day in a park full of good natured music lovers, many of whom were not born when it was released. It was a paradoxical experience. Hook’s voice often sounded chillingly like Ian Curtis’ and the band gave the songs all the intensity they deserved. They problem was that Peter Hook was too bloody happy. Unknown Pleasures is not an album to cheer you up. This contradiction was sharpest with Love Will Tear Us Apart. It was not written to be sung along to by loads of people in a park but as they sang you would have cried at the beauty of the thing.

First major disappointment of the day was The Silver Machine and speaking as the owner of all Bobby Gillespie’s works I feel entitled to stick the boot into this pointless vanity project. It felt like a musical version of one of those celebrity golf tournaments that right wing comedians used to organise. Bobby and his showbiz mates have got together to perform a bunch of old American garage punk songs they like. If they were doing it to friends and family you wouldn’t object but they added nothing to the songs and it was hard to see the point.

Giving up on Silver Machine I drifted over to The Vivian Girls and kicked myself. That’s where the action was. They were fresh, melodic and lively and a complete contrast to the self indulgence preceding. They seem to typify a strand of new female musicians who dominated the event.

Second major disappointment was These New Puritans, the band that had clinched the festival for me. They started late,did one song and walked off without a word of explanation. After hanging around for ten minutes the sensible thing to do was return to the main stage for daytime radio favourites Fucked Up with their popular brand of hardcore punk. Unlike most other practitioners of the genre they understand the importance of a proper song beneath the noise and were very good. Nonetheless it was the Puritans I’d come to see and so returned to their tent. By 9.40 there was still no sign of life on the stage and with 10pm curfew likely there was no point hanging around.