Twelve months ago Amy Winehouse annoyed an entire country by pulling out of T in the Park to spend the evening in her London local. Last night all was forgiven from the moment the temperamental 24-year-old sprinted on stage on legs that looked as perilously thin as her heels were high. Was she worth a year’s wait? Probably not, although Winehouse-watching is a fascinating business and her Northern soul backing band was superb. Glugging back one long drink after another, the singer seemed to concentrate so hard on swivelling her hips or tugging down her red shorts that she barely bothered with her vocals, mumbling through the opener Addicted, then wailing a downbeat Just Friends, for which she absent-mindedly strummed a guitar.

Tears Dry on their Own started a singalong, but as Winehouse wobbled on Cupid and slurred Wake up Alone as an ode to her husband – “He’s out in a week today,” she cried – disaster seemed to hover on the horizon. Then, slowly, the terrified child became a confident performer once again. Hey Little Rich Girl was good; You Know I’m No Good almost great. . When Winehouse lay back on the drum riser, whipped her microphone lead and laughed, she looked terrific, not troubled. Rehab and her set-closer, Valerie, were the highlights, despite lacking the all-important high notes. Far from a vintage performance then, but at least she left the stage smiling.

Earlier in the weekend Ian Brown brought along a bagpipe player, or possibly poached one from the ceilidh tent, Gabriella Cilmi proved a huge hit in a tiny, tartan corset and Will Young surprised, but didn’t necessarily delight, by covering The Proclaimers and dancing a Highland fling.

The Scottish acts simply had to turn up to turn on the crowd. In the case of Biffy Clyro, in uniform, tattooed bare chests and tight, red trousers, the reception was well-earned. The Ayrshire trio played an exhilarating set, sending a two-fingered salute to the southerners who continue to ignore them. For The Fratellis the goodwill was mostly misplaced. Chelsea Dagger swaggered enough to earn the loudest singalong, but the Glaswegians rarely raised the bar above a rowdy pub band.

Pitting Kaiser Chiefs against a reformed Rage Against the Machine for Saturday’s headline slot was a David v Goliath-like battle. For firepower, ferocity and use of the F-word, the Bush-baiting Rage were the clear winners. For fun, Ricky Wilson claimed a points victory by scaling the scaffolding and splitting his trousers.

In its 15th year, with an 80,000-strong crowd, T remains the blokiest, beeriest stop on the summer festival circuit – the reason, perhaps, why Kate Nash’s set from a giant clam shell went down like a damp squib and even Sharleen Spiteri was given short shrift.

Editor's choice

• Guns N’Roses: Chinese Democracy
• The 50 Biggest Movies of 2009
• Quantum of Solace