Reading and Leeds Festival seems to be as defined by its controversy as its programme.

Recent years have laid claim to a now notoriously poor Red Hot Chili Peppers headline set, and the onstage meltdown of Kings of Leon.

So with that in mind, and the confirmation of both Guns n Roses and a heavily publicized Libertines reunion, 2010 was always likely to be ripe for conflict.

It's the latter, after cryptic Twitter posts and news of disruption at the festival's Reading leg, that threatened to cast a cloud over the festival.

Luckily come Friday's end, a bar of jawdropping quality has been set so high, that the festival's reputation soon recovers. At 9.30pm, seven unassuming Montrealers bounce onstage and in just 90 minutes remind a criminally minute Leeds crowd the true nature of a festival headline set.

Make no mistake, Arcade Fire have scaled the subtleties and intricacies of their three albums up to a level of such fist-clenching euphoria, tearjerking nostalgia and wide-eyed optimism, that it's difficult to imagine any band more emotive and Ready To Start swells and drives through a strobe-glittered arena, while Month Of May is a ruthless garage stomper, channeling T-Rex. It's clear that the newer of their material – those plucked from recent no. 1 The Suburbs – are of as fine a pedigree as those from albums 1 and 2, with We Used To Wait in particular proving a finely crafted highlight.

And while the mid-set pairing of Rococo and Empty Room doesn't quite touch closer Wake Up for a true festival moment, it certainly comes close.

In a weekend of tragic injustices, it's little surprise that while Arcade Fire find themselves performing to a depleted, if appreciative, crowd, keytar buffoonery-merchants Pendulum have packed the NME/Radio 1 tent to its rafters. It's also shameful, if to be expected, that the days' headlines go to the reunited The Libertines, whose 60 minutes of sunglasses-in-the-dark posturing and 'privileged men as street urchins' vacuity teeters on the brink of average until the back-to-back of Don't Look Back Into The Sun and Time For Heroes marginally saves their presence from complete purposelessness.

Hardly £1.2 million well spent, if rumours are to be believed…

Saturday belongs to the smaller stages. HEALTH's brand of abrasive industrial punk is an experience to behold, with the likes of Die Slow filling Saturday's Dance Tent with an aural attack that puts their collaborators Crystal Castles to shame. Beside Holy F***, it's clear Festival Republic's definition of 'dance' is abstract at best, but it does afford us a brace of challenging, subtle and downright powerful electro-rock, the perfect precursor to Caribou's gorgeous funk.

The Dance Tent's final set, courtesy of Roots Manuva, is a blissfully genre-melding hour of dancehall, ragga, grime and dubstep that cements his position as the unsung hero of urban crossover.

Come the final night, the Guns n Roses rumours have reached fever pitch. Axl's here. No, he's flown home. The main stage screens show a golf buggy skid along a grassy, dimly-lit path. He must be here. And then we wait.

And wait.

Just half an hour later than anticipated, Rose's backing band (to call the loosely-assembled collective 'Guns n Roses' seems rather too generous) appear. Chinese Democracy booms.

And then Axl appears, mumbling incoherently about brains being rotten and asss being heads, and every iota of irony is lost on him, and that's when you remember that Axl Rose may just be the perfect rock star; both genially oblivious to how ridiculous he looks and how inflated his ego is, and yet a presence sufficiently imperial for us to not even notice.

The NME/Radio 1 tent, meanwhile, closes with New York dance-punk heavyweights LCD Soundsystem, on what's rumoured to be their final festival season.

With just 1 hour to work with, James Murphy and co set about on a trademark set of frenetic disco that peaks variously with Tribulations and closer Yeah. It's All My Friends though, for which the most praise ought be reserved, considering its position as one of the most heart-rendingly emotive tracks of recent years. As Murphy pleads "where are my friends tonight?" and row upon row answer with joyous embraces, it's clear something special has taken over this small patch of Bramham Park, for 8 minutes at least. Murphy's grin come the track's sigh-inducing conclusion suggests he knows it too.

11.15, and events are winding down. If, on Friday, I'd been told the final set to finish would have been Axl Rose's, I'd barely have believed it. We scarcely thought he'd show up at all. Yet thousands remain for a hands-aloft finale of Paradise City that sees Rose leave the stage swearing at 'the cops and promoters' and claiming 'this war ain't over'.

All that matters, after the confusion, aggression and near-slander that framed their performance, is their quality. And on tonight's evidence, Rose is as preposterously magnificent as ever.

A suitable ending to a fine weekend.

Will Orchard