I had always wanted to take a “special train”. It sounded like something the Queen would do. Chances are, however, that Her Maj has never piled onto a Paddington train at nine in the morning with a rucksack of shabby clothes and a satchel of tinned ravioli as we did on Wednesday.
Having anticipated a monumental mêlée, we found ourselves shepherded by fate (and a train guard) into first class seats, and rolled through Somerset and into Castle Cary station in kingly fashion.
The majesty subsided and gave way to a sun-baked three hour queue at Castle Cary station as we slowly thronged towards an elusive fleet of rickety double-decker buses to take us the seven or so miles to the festival.
The Glastonbury love-in spirit was already in evidence in the queue – observed with uniquely British stiff upper lips by all – as friends were made in the snaking line with all those within reach or earshot. A leathery-looking woman who had seen several more summers than the rest us offered to slather us in sun-cream, a girl shrieked as she received her degree results (a First in Geography – well done, her), and three blokes named Chris jostled for elbow room as even the security guards politely suggested we riot to move things along a little quicker.
A police escort shepherded our creaking convoy around the gridlocked traffic and into the festival where, wristbanded and checked in, we headed for the Wicket Ground field.
Camping at Glastonbury is a tactical affair. Pitching up close to the main stages is convenient, but guarantees that yours will be the first tent washed away, pillaged or trampled by the unwashed masses.
Too far away and you find yourself hiking endless miles across the expanses of Worthy Farm. Too close to the toilets and you risk contracting cholera.
Even when you’ve chosen a field and pitched your tent half-way up a slope to allow rainwater to run away you must be sure to allow no walkway, however slender or narrow, to be available between your tent and your neighbour’s, or else trampling boots will furrow a muddy path past your door, through your tent pegs and, potentially, over your sleeping face.
Wednesday night was spent exploring the site, which stretches across the countryside as far as the eye can peer, transforming Worthy Farm into the second biggest city in the southwest of England for one weekend.
Though the main stages were still dormant ahead of Friday’s kick-off, dozens and dozens of other stages, tents and marquees were belting out all sorts of dance, indie, hip-hop, reggae, dubstep, trip-hop and all else in between.
Nestled between the many and varied food stalls, which ranged from halloumi parlours to burger vans, was the Spunky disco, which kept us entertained into the smallest hours.
The essential festival hats were purchased (a trilby this year) and Thursday was spent wandering nomadically around the farm, taking in an underwhelming set by Maximo Park, who went through the motions on the Queen’s Head Stage to officially open the festival.
That evening, we headed to the silent disco to gyrate flailingly to headphoned music pumped into our ears in the midst of an otherwise silent tent. In the queue a text message bleeped. “RIP Michael Jackson”, it read.
Brows were furrowed as hands sought in pockets for phones to access the internet and verify so ludicrous a rumour. All around us, texts bearing similar messages were tinkling their way into Blackberries and iPhones.
“In a coma”, said the BBC. “In hospital with a heart attack”, said the LA Times. “Dead” said TMZ.
The chirruping grew into disbelieving murmurs all across the Glastonbury Dance Village. A call to The Times newsdesk confirmed that Michael Jackson had just died in Los Angeles.
Shock seized the faces of the flocks of revellers in and around the tents, though it was a shock tempered by a strangely euphoric excitement at the sheer momentous nature of the news and of being in so memorable a place to have heard it.
Within the silent disco tent, Thriller came blaring into the headphones with a message beamed on the screen saying “RIP Michael Jackson”. For those who had not heard, or who had doubted it, now it was real. But the festival, in its own little orb, went on and the “Jackson 4” t-shirts rolled off the presses of the stalls all around.
THE MUSIC – Reviews
Having anticipated a monumental mêlée, we found ourselves shepherded by fate (and a train guard) into first class seats, and rolled through Somerset and into Castle Cary station in kingly fashion.
The majesty subsided and gave way to a sun-baked three hour queue at Castle Cary station as we slowly thronged towards an elusive fleet of rickety double-decker buses to take us the seven or so miles to the festival.
The Glastonbury love-in spirit was already in evidence in the queue – observed with uniquely British stiff upper lips by all – as friends were made in the snaking line with all those within reach or earshot. A leathery-looking woman who had seen several more summers than the rest us offered to slather us in sun-cream, a girl shrieked as she received her degree results (a First in Geography – well done, her), and three blokes named Chris jostled for elbow room as even the security guards politely suggested we riot to move things along a little quicker.
A police escort shepherded our creaking convoy around the gridlocked traffic and into the festival where, wristbanded and checked in, we headed for the Wicket Ground field.
Camping at Glastonbury is a tactical affair. Pitching up close to the main stages is convenient, but guarantees that yours will be the first tent washed away, pillaged or trampled by the unwashed masses.
Too far away and you find yourself hiking endless miles across the expanses of Worthy Farm. Too close to the toilets and you risk contracting cholera.
Even when you’ve chosen a field and pitched your tent half-way up a slope to allow rainwater to run away you must be sure to allow no walkway, however slender or narrow, to be available between your tent and your neighbour’s, or else trampling boots will furrow a muddy path past your door, through your tent pegs and, potentially, over your sleeping face.
Wednesday night was spent exploring the site, which stretches across the countryside as far as the eye can peer, transforming Worthy Farm into the second biggest city in the southwest of England for one weekend.
Though the main stages were still dormant ahead of Friday’s kick-off, dozens and dozens of other stages, tents and marquees were belting out all sorts of dance, indie, hip-hop, reggae, dubstep, trip-hop and all else in between.
Nestled between the many and varied food stalls, which ranged from halloumi parlours to burger vans, was the Spunky disco, which kept us entertained into the smallest hours.
The essential festival hats were purchased (a trilby this year) and Thursday was spent wandering nomadically around the farm, taking in an underwhelming set by Maximo Park, who went through the motions on the Queen’s Head Stage to officially open the festival.
That evening, we headed to the silent disco to gyrate flailingly to headphoned music pumped into our ears in the midst of an otherwise silent tent. In the queue a text message bleeped. “RIP Michael Jackson”, it read.
Brows were furrowed as hands sought in pockets for phones to access the internet and verify so ludicrous a rumour. All around us, texts bearing similar messages were tinkling their way into Blackberries and iPhones.
“In a coma”, said the BBC. “In hospital with a heart attack”, said the LA Times. “Dead” said TMZ.
The chirruping grew into disbelieving murmurs all across the Glastonbury Dance Village. A call to The Times newsdesk confirmed that Michael Jackson had just died in Los Angeles.
Shock seized the faces of the flocks of revellers in and around the tents, though it was a shock tempered by a strangely euphoric excitement at the sheer momentous nature of the news and of being in so memorable a place to have heard it.
Within the silent disco tent, Thriller came blaring into the headphones with a message beamed on the screen saying “RIP Michael Jackson”. For those who had not heard, or who had doubted it, now it was real. But the festival, in its own little orb, went on and the “Jackson 4” t-shirts rolled off the presses of the stalls all around.
THE MUSIC – Reviews
Friday - torrential rain in the morning gave way to glorious sunny skies
General Fiasco – John Peel – 11am – the John Peel Stage lends itself well to fledgling bands, as the great man himself would of course have appreciated. As we cowered from the thunderous rain, General Fiasco managed to live up to their name, and provide little more than a McFly-esque brand of teenage blah with jumpy guitars and copy&paste Topshop personas.
Rating: 1*
Gabrielle Cilmi – Pyramid – 12.20pm – Gabrielle Cilmi’s legs and billowing nightie of a dress were probably all that will stick in my mind from this lacklustre set. Misogyny was my only escape from a number of faintly tedious chirpy songs, interspersed with a half-interesting cover or two and a fleeting rendition of Billie Jean in tribute to the departed Jackson. A feel-good performance of the catchy Sweet About Me saved the set from complete pointlessness.
Rating: 2*
Regina Spektor – Pyramid – 1.40pm – It was only raining cats by the time a smiley, shy Regina Spektor took to the stage. How her charmingly kooky brand of piano-pop would take to so vast a stage intrigued us all, but her disarming ease and grace of performance delivered a staggeringly impressive set. Her crisp, cat-like voice rang sweetly over flourishing piano riffs and quirky guitar solos and won the hearts of a rain-soaked but thoroughly happy Pyramid Crowd.
Rating: 5*
N*E*R*D – Pyramid – 3.10pm – Awful, I’m afraid. NERD’s appearance as surprise special guests and their rambunctious set would possibly have been better received had Pharrell Williams and co not been so thoroughly and utterly dislikeable. They arrived all of half an hour late, then proceeded to complain that their set would be cut short as a result. “You paid nearly 200 dollars to see NERD’s full show,” he cried. No we hadn’t. No-one had. They weren’t on the bill. They didn’t suit the stage or the festival and they refused to leave as their interminable set overran horribly. The sound was cut and they were escorted off stage. The only plus point was seeing thousands of people’s hands bopping up and down à la Eminem in 8 Mile. A paltry saving grace.
Rating: 2*
Fleet Foxes – Pyramid – 4.40pm – I had had the pleasure of both seeing and meeting Fleet Foxes before and knew the haunting grace of parts of their debut album. However, they came out looking terrified onto a stage far too big for their delicate harmonies to face a crowd whipped up and then irritated by NERD’s antics. Fleet Foxes were note perfect, but failed to capture a crowd whose chattering almost drowned out the acoustic and a capella beauty of Fleet Foxes at their best.
Rating: 3*
Lily Allen – Pyramid – 6.20pm – I am genetically predisposed to dislike people who lap the limelight up so voraciously as Lily Allen, but even I cannot help but warm to the loudmouth lass’s winning and engaging wiles. Her set seemed tailor-made for a beautiful afternoon at Glastonbury and a relaxed flowery-haired crowd swayed and danced around each other to a series of sun-drenched tunes. “Fuck you – fuck you very very mu-u-uch” everyone sang before Allen took Britney Spears’s Womanizer and made it sound awesome. And there was more purple wiggery, white-gloverry, side-boob and nipple tape than you could shake a stick (or anything else) at.
Rating: 5*
Lady Gaga – Other – 8pm – What a total nutcase. A series of costume changes, mental bondage dancers, see-through pianos and belting disco numbers later, and the crowd’s curiosity had turned to a sort of pornographic delirium. Only Stefani Joanna Angelina Germanotta – who is Gaga by name and by nature – would take to the stage in a tight, thigh-skimming PVC dress and not wear any underwear. When, a number of very un-accidental flashes later, her bra began to shoot sparks out of the nipples, the crowd was assured that not only does Gaga belt out a blisteringly good dance track, but she is also mad as a bag of spanners.
Rating: 4*
The Ting Tings – Other – 9.30pm – I had not given the Ting Ting’s album the thorough listening it deserved before assuming that they were a little one-dimensional. How wrong I was. The set was conducted with a magnificence and variety that belied my preconceptions and had me jigging muddily around at the foot of the Other stage. Their big poppy singles were obligingly hollered back by a bopping crowd and the two of them commanded the stage with a sexy self-assurance which well and truly won over the watching masses.
Rating: 4*
Bloc Party – Other - 11pm – This was a set to remind everyone why Bloc Party are a damn formidable indie band. The sublime brilliance of their first album was followed up by worrying forays into trancey electrobabble which had lead me to fear for the consistency and brilliance of a band I have always loved to see live. But searing out of the Other stage at Glastonbury, even dreadful tracks like Mercury had everyone dancing like lunatics, and songs like Helicopter and Banquet sent them mental. A new song was premiered and sounded decidedly promising, and an unexpected encore -heralded by Kele with the words “Where the fuck are you going?” – brought a heart-rending rendition of the ever-brilliant This Modern Love. Superb.
Rating: 5*
Saturday - glorious sunshine all day long
Peter, Bjorn and John – Other – 12pm – Frankly, it was pretty mediocre. Sweden has long been producing horrible, horrible pop music, but at least Peter, Bjorn and John are inoffensive for the most part. The crowd was only really there to see the whistley chorus of Young Folks, and would probably have preferred PB&J to play only that and go quietly on their way. As it was, whistles were whistled and a Saturday morning passed in a relaxed but unmemorable fashion.
Rating: 2*
Metric – Other – 1.05pm – Fantasies by Metric is a front-runner for my album of the year. Indie-rock-n-roll laced with some disco beats made this one of my sets of the festival. A small, sparse crowd was swelled by thousands more who were drawn to the energy and pace of a set which had the front rows leaping to learn and repeat choruses they had only just heard for the first time. This, ladies and gentlemen, was a superb set with a glorious rendition of Gimme Sympathy that had me singing it again and again all weekend. A lead singer who looks like an undamaged Courtney Love leapt about the stage and had the crowd leaping after her. Brilliant.
Rating: 5*
Jeremy Hardy – Cabaret – 5.25pm – Not music this time, but comedy, far off in the Cabaret tent, just one of the innumerable plethora of fabulous things to see, do, visit and ingest at the festival. Jeremy Hardy is a bit of a hero. His brand of unhurried, word-perfect, Radio 4 humour had the Cabaret faithful in stitches as he wove his lefty sensibilities around a hardened festival-goer’s outlook on life and society in Britain today. A funny, funny, lefty, funny man.
Rating: 4*
Badly Drawn Boy – Avalon – 6.30pm – A beautifully shambolic performance from the scribbly man himself, whose beanie hat must be surgically attached to his unmistakeable shaggy head. His dulcet, kitchen-sink tones wrapped themselves around Something to Talk About which had the crowd gleefully yelping along under the orange glow of the tent in the hippy chill of the Field of Avalon. A first outing for the Boy’s band, including Stephen Fretwell on bass, added some punch to a top set.
Rating: 4*
Kasabian – Pyramid – 8pm – I find it hard to get around the fact that Oasis do what Kasabian do, but much better. That brand of Manc lad-rock just sounds better coming out of the Gallagher brothers. Kasabian do have their own brand of post-industrial grind which made tracks like LSF and Club Foot rock through the core of an early evening crowd at the Pyramid stage, but the rest sounded a little flat and uninspiring despite all the posturing.
Rating: 3*
Bruce Springsteen – Pyramid – 10pm – I may have made a mistake in leaving The Boss’s set after three songs to head to the Dance Village. This is not because I am a Springsteen fan – I find that brand of all-American power-chord ROCK unerringly tiresome – but the spectacle of his two-and-a-half-hour show sounds like something I perhaps should not have missed. Despite the fact that there are only the merest handful of Springsteen songs I would choose to listen to – mainly slow ones like Wreck on the Highway – the man knows how to rock a crowd better than anyone alive, so kudos to the bloke, really.
Rating: n/a
2 Many DJs – Dance East – 10.30pm – It seems that 2 Many DJs do indeed spoil the dancey broth. The trouble with Soulwax’s dance-mad alter-egos is that their set depends entirely on how much you like the tracks they choose to merge rather than on their undeniable ability as DJs and showmen. Smatterings of MGMT and David Bowie kept me dancing, but it was the adrenaline and euphoria of a long day that kept me on my feet more than an appreciation of songs I didn’t like mixed with songs I didn’t know. Sorry, 2 Many DJs - it’s not you, it’s me.
Rating: 3*
Sunday - overcast but bright, with the odd drizzly shower
GoodBooks – John Peel – 11am – Saturation advertising on Facebook turned many against GoodBooks before people had the chance to appreciate a startlingly mature and different album in Control. This was all the more surprising from a band of boys who looked like they were missing a third period Geography lesson to perform. The lead singer’s voice didn’t sound quite as confident as on record, but GoodBooks treated the Sunday morning crowd to a surging swell of lyricially astute indie. Expect good things.
Rating: 4*
The Boxer Rebellion – Other – 12am – I would find it hard to overstate the affection I hold for a band whose transcendent second album Union challenges Editors and Interpol for their crown of consummate art-rockers. Their set on Sunday morning was, however, a little underwhelming. This was mainly because the band themselves seemed rather overwhelmed by the Other stage, which did only scant justice to the haunting wail of a band who sound like Editors might if REM’s Michael Stipe were at the microphone. Ruggedly good-looking though they were, wearing black against a black banner against a black backdrop did not help. Nonetheless, is was a good set, albeit one that didn’t entirely live up to my inflated expectations.
Rating: 3*
The Penguin Café Orchestra – Acoustic – 3pm – After three longs days on your feet, you really don’t want to stand around while an orchestra spends (literally) a third of its allotted set-time tuning up. As one interminable ukulele after another was twanged, violin sawed and double-bass slapped, a slow hand-clap began in the Acoustic tent. Finally, some minutes later, the Penguin brigade launched into a disappointing and unmoving set. Perpetuum Mobile, which sounds so beautiful on record, sounded flat and there was little else to move the crowd or the soul.
Rating: 1*
Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Other – 4.30pm – Karen O is as mad as Lady Gaga, but less scary (and with more underwear). She screamed, squirmed and scurried around the stage in bright leggings and peacock feathers as the Yeah Yeah Yeahs rocked the crowd in the mid-afternoon sunshine. Two superb, raw albums were followed up this year by a disco-synth tinge which has added a whole new lush dimension to the frenetic brilliance of a band who had the crowd in the palm of its hand from the word go. A spectacle it most certainly was, as a huge eyeball was hurled into a crowd who could barely control it as Karen O yelled out in her inimitable, screechily anthemic way. The highlight was Maps, a love-song as only the Yeah Yeah Yeahs know how.
Rating: 4*
Ladyhawke – John Peel – 6.10pm – Ladyhawke’s brand of eminently danceable, shoutable, wonderful indie-disco is made all the more charming by virtue of the ever-so-pretty Pip Brown’s shyness and modesty in front of an adoring, high-octane crowd in the John Peel tent. The set opened with an electric rendition of Magic via a sumptuous performance of Paris is Burning and finished with a euphoric singalong of My Delirium that would go almost unmatched throughout the whole festival. Go to see Ladyhawke and dance your arse off. Superb.
Rating: 5*
Bon Iver – Other – 7.30pm – On paper this looked like too high a billing on too large a stage for the tender strains of Justin Vernon’s heartbreakingly beautiful songs. But, with a remarkable sleight of hand, the whole set was electrified with fantastic subtlety, turning one-man-and-his-guitar soulful numbers into swelling, soaring rock epics, creating the best love-in atmosphere I saw at the festival. Vernon seemed chatty and at ease with a crowd who lapped up the warmth of a sterling set, with singalong codas unfazed by the drizzle and a rendition of Blood Bank to die for.
Rating: 4*
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – Pyramid – 8pm – I only caught the end of Mr Cave’s shenanigans as I sidled my way into the Pyramid crowd for the headline act, but was blown away by a spectacle of grizzly, growly glory. A demented, motley crew they may seem with their wild western vibe, but the place was jumping and grinding to the full force of an angry man.
Rating: n/a
Blur – Pyramid – 9.50pm – A show of transcendent, unrivalled brilliance in a performance to blow away the crowd, the critics and the cobwebs. Albarn, Coxon and co. seemed utterly consumed and possessed by the fervour and grandeur of the occasion and seemed to pour their whole soul and being into leading the biggest, most ecstatic singalong Glastonbury has ever seen. Their set lasted for two hours, but one couldn’t help but feel they could have played for three or four without outstaying their welcome or playing a disappointing track. As if there was ever any doubt, songs like Parklife, Girls & Boys and Country House brought the house down, but room was spared for absolutely spectacular renditions of Out of Time and Trimm Trabb that will live forever in the memory. After his years as a semi-reclusive and brilliant dabbler in other fields, Damon Albarn was well and truly back as a jack-the-lad frontman. He was briefly reduced to tears at the back of the stage by the emotion of a crowd who loved him as much as he must have loved Justine Frischmann to write so gorgeous a song as Tender about her. The band had to stop and wait at the end of their sparkling seven-minute performance of Tender to allow the crowd to cling for dear, delirious life to the refrain, which rang around the 100,000-strong crowds and out into the Somerset countryside. When the violins rang out at the beginning of the incomparably gorgeous Universal at the end of a second rapturous encore, the crowd realised that this glorious set was coming to an end, leaving happy tears in the eyes of all those lucky enough to have been there.
Rating: 5***
AWARDS
Best acts – Blur, Ladyhawke, Metric, Lily Allen, Regina Spektor, Bloc Party
Best t-shirts – “Fuck Google, ask me!” and “I Facebooked your mum”. I thought that one t-shirt read “You’re gonna go to hell for what you’re doing in my mind”, but it turned out to say “…for what your dirty mind is thinking”. I prefer mine.
Best flags – “Phillip Schofield is my bitch”, an Eddie Izzard tribute with “Do you have a flag?” and a cracking drawing of the sad milk cartons from Blur’s Coffee and TV.
Best food – A halloumi wrap from Oli’s was damn tasty, and a series of burritos were very well received. None of which was as good as a tin of ravioli mixed with a tin of beans and sausages on the last night, however. Here’s to Leftover Mélange.
Best costume – Three men dressed as seagulls in the Field of Avalon ate a bit of my lolly, which was surreal all round.
Funny moments – When the guy with a giant tennis racket in the Blur crowdwas assaulted by many, many beach balls and sent crashing to the floor. Also, when a moshing man with a giraffe on his head was grabbed by a collectively irritated crowd and manhandled out of the way. Here’s to mob justice.
Random friends made – Patty, a seasoned Gastonbury veteran met in the queue at Castle Cary station. Rosie, a bright-eyed girl met in the queue at the Dance East stage with whom I shared Michael Jackson-related shock – good luck to her in her Politics degree. Rob, the man whose gazebo provided us with a landmark to find our tent on dark, rainy nights. The lady against the crash barrier at Blur who coped with my bellowing in her ear for two hours – thank you, madam. which would go almost unmatched in the whole festival. Go to see Ladyhawke and dance your arse off. Superb.
Rating: 4*
The Boxer Rebellion – Other – 12am – I would find it hard to overstate the affection I hold for a band whose transcendent second album Union challenges Editors and Interpol for their crown of consummate art-rockers. Their set on Sunday morning was, however, a little underwhelming. This was mainly because the band themselves seemed rather overwhelmed by the Other stage, which did only scant justice to the haunting wail of a band who sound like Editors might if REM’s Michael Stipe were at the microphone. Ruggedly good-looking though they were, wearing black against a black banner against a black backdrop did not help. Nonetheless, is was a good set, albeit one that didn’t entirely live up to my inflated expectations.
Rating: 3*
The Penguin Café Orchestra – Acoustic – 3pm – After three longs days on your feet, you really don’t want to stand around while an orchestra spends (literally) a third of its allotted set-time tuning up. As one interminable ukulele after another was twanged, violin sawed and double-bass slapped, a slow hand-clap began in the Acoustic tent. Finally, some minutes later, the Penguin brigade launched into a disappointing and unmoving set. Perpetuum Mobile, which sounds so beautiful on record, sounded flat and there was little else to move the crowd or the soul.
Rating: 1*
Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Other – 4.30pm – Karen O is as mad as Lady Gaga, but less scary (and with more underwear). She screamed, squirmed and scurried around the stage in bright leggings and peacock feathers as the Yeah Yeah Yeahs rocked the crowd in the mid-afternoon sunshine. Two superb, raw albums were followed up this year by a disco-synth tinge which has added a whole new lush dimension to the frenetic brilliance of a band who had the crowd in the palm of its hand from the word go. A spectacle it most certainly was, as a huge eyeball was hurled into a crowd who could barely control it as Karen O yelled out in her inimitable, screechily anthemic way. The highlight was Maps, a love-song as only the Yeah Yeah Yeahs know how.
Rating: 4*
Ladyhawke – John Peel – 6.10pm – Ladyhawke’s brand of eminently danceable, shoutable, wonderful indie-disco is made all the more charming by virtue of the ever-so-pretty Pip Brown’s shyness and modesty in front of an adoring, high-octane crowd in the John Peel tent. The set opened with an electric rendition of Magic via a sumptuous performance of Paris is Burning and finished with a euphoric singalong of My Delirium that would go almost unmatched throughout the whole festival. Go to see Ladyhawke and dance your arse off. Superb.
Rating: 5*
Bon Iver – Other – 7.30pm – On paper this looked like too high a billing on too large a stage for the tender strains of Justin Vernon’s heartbreakingly beautiful songs. But, with a remarkable sleight of hand, the whole set was electrified with fantastic subtlety, turning one-man-and-his-guitar soulful numbers into swelling, soaring rock epics, creating the best love-in atmosphere I saw at the festival. Vernon seemed chatty and at ease with a crowd who lapped up the warmth of a sterling set, with singalong codas unfazed by the drizzle and a rendition of Blood Bank to die for.
Rating: 4*
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – Pyramid – 8pm – I only caught the end of Mr Cave’s shenanigans as I sidled my way into the Pyramid crowd for the headline act, but was blown away by a spectacle of grizzly, growly glory. A demented, motley crew they may seem with their wild western vibe, but the place was jumping and grinding to the full force of an angry man.
Rating: n/a
Blur – Pyramid – 9.50pm – A show of transcendent, unrivalled brilliance in a performance to blow away the crowd, the critics and the cobwebs. Albarn, Coxon and co. seemed utterly consumed and possessed by the fervour and grandeur of the occasion and seemed to pour their whole soul and being into leading the biggest, most ecstatic singalong Glastonbury has ever seen. Their set lasted for two hours, but one couldn’t help but feel they could have played for three or four without outstaying their welcome or playing a disappointing track. As if there was ever any doubt, songs like Parklife, Girls & Boys and Country House brought the house down, but room was spared for absolutely spectacular renditions of Out of Time and Trimm Trabb that will live forever in the memory. After his years as a semi-reclusive and brilliant dabbler in other fields, Damon Albarn was well and truly back as a jack-the-lad frontman. He was briefly reduced to tears at the back of the stage by the emotion of a crowd who loved him as much as he must have loved Justine Frischmann to write so gorgeous a song as Tender about her. The band had to stop and wait at the end of their sparkling seven-minute performance of Tender to allow the crowd to cling for dear, delirious life to the refrain, which rang around the 100,000-strong crowds and out into the Somerset countryside. When the violins rang out at the beginning of the incomparably gorgeous Universal at the end of a second rapturous encore, the crowd realised that this glorious set was coming to an end, leaving happy tears in the eyes of all those lucky enough to have been there.
Rating: 5***
AWARDS
Best acts – Blur, Ladyhawke, Metric, Lily Allen, Regina Spektor, Bloc Party
Best t-shirts – “Fuck Google, ask me!” and “I Facebooked your mum”. I thought that one t-shirt read “You’re gonna go to hell for what you’re doing in my mind”, but it turned out to say “…for what your dirty mind is thinking”. I prefer mine.
Best flags – “Phillip Schofield is my bitch”, an Eddie Izzard tribute with “Do you have a flag?” and a cracking drawing of the sad milk cartons from Blur’s Coffee and TV.
Best food – A halloumi wrap from Oli’s was damn tasty, and a series of burritos were very well received. None of which was as good as a tin of ravioli mixed with a tin of beans and sausages on the last night, however. Here’s to Leftover Mélange.
Best costume – Three men dressed as seagulls in the Field of Avalon ate a bit of my lolly, which was surreal all round.
Funny moments – When the guy with a giant tennis racket in the Blur crowdwas assaulted by many, many beach balls and sent crashing to the floor. Also, when a moshing man with a giraffe on his head was grabbed by a collectively irritated crowd and manhandled out of the way. Here’s to mob justice.
Random friends made – Patty, a seasoned Gastonbury veteran met in the queue at Castle Cary station. Rosie, a bright-eyed girl met in the queue at the Dance East stage with whom I shared Michael Jackson-related shock – good luck to her in her Politics degree. Rob, the man whose gazebo provided us with a landmark to find our tent on dark, rainy nights. The lady against the crash barrier at Blur who coped with my bellowing in her ear for two hours – thank you, madam. which would go almost unmatched in the whole festival. Go to see Ladyhawke and dance your arse off. Superb.
.
Random idea for next year - take all those bands who blatantly only have one good song and make them play, one after another, in an hour-long one-hit-wonder set on the Pyramid stage. It'd save us all a lot of time and dross.
Bands I wish I had seen - Doves, Bat for Lashes, Florence and the Machine, Neil Young, Rolf Harris, Tom Jones, Bombay Bicycle Club
And a shout-out to Dan, Dave, Tuj, Jon and Maria for being thoroughly excellent festival buddies and to Anne for recommending the Dirty Boots stage.
.
