There's no booze and an 8pm curfew. But more importantly, none of the hordes of middle-aged revellers who have detracted from the main summer festivals - just 5,000 kids doing it for themselves, and some of hippest, youngest (sometimes prepubescent) new bands. OMM's own underage contributor, Sam Wolfson, salutes the first ever Underage festival, and is gutted to realise he'll be too old to go back next year.
No beer companies trying to flog watery larger at a fiver a pint? No middle-aged Levellers fans sitting on stools in front of the stage, tutting every time you stumble into them? I mean jeez, where's the mud?
This is not your typical music festival. Five thousand kids going mental in a park in Hackney: no adults, no booze, and all over in time to get home to see Amy kicked out of the Big Brother house. Some commentators are calling it the beginning of a youth culture revolution. Admittedly huge sponsorship from Rupert Murdoch's MySpace and Nike-owned Converse isn't exactly sticking it to the man, but you do get the feeling that this is kids doing it for themselves, especially as everyone involved in the festival from promoters to photographers, even this writer, is not of age.
The line-up might seem obscure, with many of the day's big attractions yet to release a record, but these are the bands that have been pumping out of every teen's MySpace profile for the past 12 months. So it's no surprise that Late of the Pier are playing their twittering electro to a moshing crowd of hundreds. They sound like a malfunctioning Gameboy, which is oddly enthralling and extremely danceable.
But they're no match for Blood Red Shoes, the guitar-and-drums duo that reek of teen spirit. They come crashing down with the sort of limb-shattering punk that Sonic Youth used to attempt before they became Sonic Middle-aged. Their ode to the coolest of learning difficulties, 'ADHD', with its screamed refrain of 'I can't concentrate on anything at all' sounds fiendish.
By rights, Cajun Dance Party should be writing up their Ucas statements this summer. Instead they're on the main stage having their unreleased demos screamed back at them by thousands of fans their own age. Their blissed-out summer strummers are kicked into life by guitarist Robbie's burning licks. And if you ignore the facts that they formed at a Hampstead private school and that their lyrics are absolute nonsense (can anyone please explain 'You're the catalyst that makes things faster, amylase will dry up the plaster'?) then they're one of the catchiest and most credible pop bands around.
The 8pm curfew brings an abrupt end to the festivities. Police come to clear away those getting in to some heavy petting on the bandstand. Backstage, pre-teen Brooklyn garage rockers Tiny Masters of Today are bouncing around on space hoppers, doing Dick Van Dyke British accents and mimicking every question they're asked by interviewers. Concerned grown-ups are permitted to leave their sectioned-off parents' crèche to find their children. Next year I'll be too old to get in. Gutted.
