Muse Fujikyu Highland

Admittedly, UK festivals might not have mountain slopes covered in dense conifer forests as a backdrop, nor giant dragonflies hovering round microphones. But in one very real sense, all rock festivals round the globe are alike. Wherever, whenever, whatever, MUSE are always playing.

It is 10.30am, around 95 degrees in the shade, and the pathologically ambitious Matt Bellamy gang have arrived to take another 'territory'. There is precious little angst left in the Muse extravaganza these days, blasted away by steely technoflash, excessive, operatic rock and amazingly hammy poses. It's still quite a spectacle, though the only unfamiliar twist is whether the heat'll make Bellamy's blue hair dye run into his eyes.

Shameless stuff, but Bellamy's pretensions are preferable next to his goody-goody alter-ego, COLDPLAY's Chris Martin, on the band's first visit to Japan. And sure, pretty tunes and that, but the numbing one-pacedness of it all, coupled with Martin's cloying boy scout routine ("This song's very famous in England," he simpers before the apparently epochal 'Yellow'), make you long for a dose of Bellamy's vulgarity.

Or at least a touch of Gary Stringer's holiday-camp bonhomie. "It ain't half hot, mum!" he bawls, bare-chested, as REEF's ham-fisted pub-grunge becomes surreally enjoyable in the intense heat. It's lunchtime, and most of the British contingent are off to play Osaka the next day, leaving the afternoon to SIGUR ROS' intermittently lovely shoegazing siren calls, mystifyingly revived mimsy rappers ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT, and a raft of local bands. EASTERN YOUTH, strikingly awful wannabe punks, at least disprove the old clichi that Japanese crowds are totally passive, provoking a massive outbreak of crowdsurfing. DRAGON ASH, meanwhile, multimillion sellers here, manage a decent approximation of Beasties-esque rap/rock and, well, Beasties-esque rap/funk, given a faintly original twist by the bassist being dressed as Boy George. They're the final proof that the Japanese fascination with American style, and the American fascination with Japanese style, have served to neutralise much of the culture shock this country once offered.

The evening, then, is left to the Americans. On the main stage: JON SPENCER and his mad uncle JAMES BROWN, who spends most of his set playing the piano with his back to the crowd. Back inside, psychedelic fellow travellers GRANDADDY - fine, evocative, their patched equipment more reliable than usual - and the majestic FLAMING LIPS. Repeated viewings of their joyous, provocative art-installation-cum-rock show do nothing to dull its magic. It just helps focus on the details: frontman Wayne Coyne blowing confetti off his Theremin and emptying it out of his glove puppets; strapping a strobe round his neck for 'Lightning Strikes The Postman'; making a rambling but touching dedication to a dead friend before 'Waiting For A Superman'.

By 8pm, it's all over, just another festival on the world circuit, with a little less litter and a lot better views. That, as a consummate pro like Matt Bellamy would say, is 'showbiz'.