Wobbling slightly in the breeze, a golden moon illuminated the summer's mellowest outdoor music festival over the weekend. Created by the artist Simon Faithfull, this mischievous lunar imposter further enhanced the other-worldly ambience of the Big Chill, which now includes conceptual art in its three-day banquet of bands, DJs, comedy, poetry, multimedia collaborations and family-friendly hedonism. I have been lukewarm about previous Big Chills, criticising their soporific soundtracks and vague air of trustafarian teddy bears' picnic. But this weekend it all made sense. The musical menu was rich and generous, embracing everything from living legends such as Leonard Cohen and Lee “Scratch” Perry to folk, funk, jazz and avant-garde techno. There was so much to savour, I could happily have stayed another week.

Admittedly, there were minor scheduling hiccups, notably Bill Bailey's Saturday set, which could easily have filled the comedy tent five times over. Fortunately, the organisers relayed his wry musings via loudspeakers to the crowded field outside, but a slot on one of the main stages would have made more sense. The Mighty Boosh were accorded this privilege, playing a truncated version of the comedy-rock pantomime that had its debut at their own festival last month. Once again, Noel Fielding and Julian Barratt walked a crooked path between surreal brilliance and sloppy self-indulgence. Tellingly, the crowd perked up immediately afterwards, when DJ Tom Middleton played a rousing hour of vintage rave tunes to mark the 20th anniversary of acid house. “Remember the love, Big Chill!” Middleton bellowed to thousands of nostalgia-fired dads and mums.

A mix of pleasant surprises peppered the weekend, including the crazed electro-acoustic racket of Iceland's Mum and Matthew Herbert's brassy, Brechtian big-band jazz extravaganza. This year's obligatory folk nominees for the Mercury Music Prize, Rachel Unthank and the Winterset, were also a delight, fronted by two Geordie sisters with a winning line in sardonic banter and clog dancing.

The rains came and went on Sunday, but couldn't dampen a dazzling grand finale. Camille, France's answer to Björk, treated the crowd to a riot of grunting, squeaking, jabbering, tap-dancing avant-pop before cheekily baring her pert French buttocks. Another splendid fake moon. Then Leonard Cohen, saturnine and silver-tongued, sealed this idyllic festival by gently tossing handfuls of lyrical pearls down from his penthouse suite atop the tower of song. Absolutely sublime. Remember the love, Big Chill.

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