That someone as deeply, compellingly odd as Elly Jackson should become a proper mainstream pop star – the third biggest-selling single of the year ('In For The Kill'), a number one album almost certain to follow – is a beautiful thing, one of those heartswelling revenge-of-the-outsider stories. Consequently, her pre-sunset Saturday slot should have been a triumph.

After all, as someone whose Damascene creative transformation – from downcast acoustic troubadour to high-haired electro-ice maiden – apparently hinged on an Ecstasy epiphany, what could be a more fitting backdrop than Glastonbury, with its universally spangled throng?

In the event, though - apart from the last-minute burst of euphoria that greeted ‘In For The Kill’ and ‘Bulletproof’ - it was a drab performance. Which is a puzzle. How could an album as thrillingly, sleekly perfect as La Roux’s debut fail to translate into live magic?

It’s simple: La Roux can’t really sing. On record, her brittle, incisive voice slices through the mix; live, it’s just thin and bloodless.

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