Crack

Sometimes you run out of adjectives. It’s commonplace in writing, when you can’t quite muster the correct words in order to convey an adequate description and weave together the facets of a story in order to paint the correct picture.

Often, the reason for this is the picture you are trying to paint is too colourful. Glastonbury Festival is one such event. Gathering the words needed in order to colour in the Pilton party isn’t just hard - it’s borderline impossible.

Incredulously hot days and late, late mornings, compounded by an otherworldliness the like of which many haven’t experienced before, made the heat soaked haze that was this year’s festival an endurance test. But if you’re going to have an endurance test there is no better place to push the boundaries than the best party this country has to offer.

Crack isn’t going to try and colour in Glastonbury, because you could pick 20 different people and they would have had completely different weekends, all equally as good and rewarding. Here are some of our musical highlights and some of what made our time there so special through the eyes of three different people.

GEORGE

Queuing in a field just outside the village of Pilton on the 23rd of June, the brutal strength of the sun bears down on several thousand similarly laden festival attendees. Those gripping the handle bars of wheel barrows quietly smug at their own preparations. All press forward, exuding anticipation - Glastonbury 2010 has finally arrived, and, for once, it is bastard warm.

Following an initial two days of sun, (Glastonbury starts on Wednesday for most) frivolity and debauched behaviour, we strolled off to see a few people play out a few tunes.
As Bombay Bicycle Club’s new album, Flaws, is currently staring back from Spotify I’ll start with them. Having not previously seen BBC, live or otherwise, I was immediately struck by the youth of the members. With an average age of 20, their inexperience on stage was evident. Nonetheless, BBC delivered an arresting performance on a sweltering John Peel stage.

Having been one of a privileged few who watched The XX at a small gig in Bristol last year, and knowing they clashed with little else a day later at the John Peel Stage, the decision to forego their gig at the Park Stage in favour of Gorillaz was definitely not something I’d repeat. With visuals you’ve come to expect, an absence of energy on stage and an apparent lack of respect for the thousands of onlookers and the fortunate position they find themselves in with U2’s cancellation, we’d left within half an hour and headed to Trash City and Shangri-la to console ourselves with some Annie Mac, Skream and Toddla T action.

This made the following day’s experience of watching The XX at The John Peel even more breathtaking. My opinion of the band, inherently biased after massively enjoying their album this year, was raised further after watching the static trio finally looking like they belonged on stage, climaxing with a (fairly expected, yet vocally stunning) live Florence Welch vocal on their remix of her cover of You’ve Got The Love.

It’s at this juncture I’m forced to confess that I’m not a massive fan of Muse. Rarely is this admission met with benevolence and is frequently the foundation of an unnecessary argument. Those slightly more passionate about the Devonshire ensemble and those that haven’t allowed the red mist to set in following my indifference, have almost always replied with the same question – “But have you seen them live!?!?”

I can now state that I have, and, although not fully converted, I too will be asking people that same question. For three people to control such a massive amount of noise and power is nothing other than an impressive sight, and, walking towards The Park, the setting of Four Tet’s DJ set, I found myself voicing my affections for the hour of polished entertainment I had just witnessed.

In spite of this, the memories of our following destination will stand hairs on end for years to come. Kieran Hebden’s 2½-hour set, held within the innocent walls of the Stonebridge Bar was, without question, a highlight for all present.

Choosing to entertain the crowd with his famously eclectic record collection, rather than play out his own creations, he captivated the small tent within the first half hour. Roaring along to the lyrics of Talking Heads was, excusing the shit awful pun, a Once in a Lifetime experience…

On the Saturday evening, a tough decision unexpectedly arose from the clutter of rumours that so frequently bounce around festivals. Thom Yorke had officially been announced on The Park Stage. At that same time, Mumford and Sons were tuning their instruments at the John Peel, inconveniently, at completely the other side of the site.
Hearing the news, our group divided. As it seems, neither faction was disappointed. Having rushed to the packed BBC Introducing Stage that morning to watch Mumford play just two songs, and so half knowing what was in store, several pairs of feet bustled in to watch the London based folk band.

Honestly, I find it difficult to recall having more fun in such a short space of time. The crowd sung aloud the length and breath of every track. The sweat and tears confirmed the unmistakable ecstasy of the foursome on stage. The look of joy and disbelief on the faces of surrounding friends completed an incomparable hour.


TOM

Any versed Glastonbury punter knows the festival is as much about the experience as the music. This is certainly true. But fuck me the music is bang tidy.

Despite the usual misgivings about the line up, (it’s not as good as it used to be. Etc. Etc.) the fact remains if you can’t find something here to titillate your eardrums, you’re either deaf or not looking hard enough. Yes, you could accidentally end up at a Keane acoustic set and the Main Stage did leave a lot to be desired this year (Paloma Faith, Tincy Squinchy Stryder), but there are 40 stages to explore here, not just two, as the BBC would have you believe from their over-hyped Main/Other Stage obsessed coverage.

Though it is at the Main Stage where the weekend really got into swing. After his much-reported fracas at Heathrow Airport some time ago, it was quite simply awesome to see hip-hop’s favourite caricature, Snoop Doggy Dogg, back on British soil. His career spanning, brilliantly cheesy, brilliantly delivered and totally OTT performance was a spectacle laced with hits and a flanked by security guards. Worth seeing if only for his huge diamond (diamante) encrusted microphone, the sight of 40,000 middle-class white kids singing along to Gin and Juice and PIMP will live with me forever.

After checking out These New Puritans deliver an assured John Peel performance, the stage was set for the gig of the weekend. Rumours had been rife about the nature of the special guest at The Park stage. The Strokes were a strong guess, David Gray (fuck knows where that came from) had worryingly been mentioned, and some 14 year-old assured me, “it’s definitely Bob Dylan”.

To my absolute joy it was Thom Yorke. Watching perhaps the most innovative artist of my generation play out stripped-back versions of his solo work in the Glastonbury sun was a bit much at times. Thom’s delicate, poignant and fragile songs laden with messages and special undertones made this a gig that few would have forgotten. It became a gig none who witnessed will ever forget, when half an hour into Thom’s solo set Johnny Greenwood came out and helped Thom work through a Radiohead montage of Weird Fishes, Pyramid Song Street Spirit, Karma Police and Idioteque. Unrivalled, unmatched and the biggest reminder of the place Glastonbury Festival has in the hearts of the highest echelon of artist.

The Park continued its fine form all weekend with Danger Mouse’s new incarnation, Broken Bells, an afternoon of yearning synths and lyrics from Beach House and a magical headlining slot from The XX. Another highlight was Dirty Projectors, who crunched out their staccato riffs and backing singer supported experimentation with cracking results. After the stage was incarnated a number of years ago, it found its place among the more traditional facets of the Glastonbury experience. The Beach House gig in particular proving it’s an aesthetically stunning part of the festival to enjoy a blissed-out moment.

Empire Of The Sun rounded off a hedonistic weekend at the Park with a live-show, owing a huge nod to the imagination of lead singer Luke Steele. Re-imagining the band as an otherworldly concept act, Steele’s live show positions his band as space travellers and my God the risky concept did not disappoint. Flanked by four dancers and visuals that reinforce the otherworldly theme, (sun, stars, nebula’s etc) this is a mind-bending live experience that has been in the making for sometime. The longevity Empire Of The Sun’s debut album has enjoyed has much to do with the craftsmanship and care put into creating this live show. It was incredible.

Other bigger-band highlights include The National stepping up to heavyweight status on The Other Stage and Foals absolutely destroying The John Peel Stage with their aural assault, stage dives and the most enthusiasm this editor has ever seen from Yannis and the boys. Frustrating gig of the weekend went to LCD Soundsystem, who put together their usual percussive master class, but fell victims of their own track length and having to leave a number of solid gold classics absent from their set-list. If Mr Murphy had been given two-hours it could have been perfect.

Sunday night drifts onward with Bristol disco-dons Futureboogie giving our dancing feet one final going over in The Igloo and Shangri-la scaring the shit out us one-final time. Night fades into morning and The Stone Circle heralds its usual selection of space cases. It’s beautiful in its own way.

Glastonbury is an experience that works on two levels, having charted my musical experiences, the sounds you hear over the four days of musical mayhem only tell half the story. It’s just brilliant that so much of what you hear at Glastonbury is perfectly in tune with the sheer visual incredulity of the most mind-bending festival on the planet.

NAT

You’ve spent 365 days counting down until the next one, painstakingly paid £180 for a ticket and furiously organised the ‘necessities’, but it’s not the headliners – Stevie or no Stevie – that has you sweating at your desk with excitement. For the past six years Glastonbury has kept enticing me back along with 169,999 thousand other people, not because of the music, but for everything that can’t be found on the Pyramid Stage or in the Dance Village, or at any other festival for that matter.

It is the weekend for the weird and the wonderful, the intoxicated night owls and the experimental exhibitionists that explore the beautifully warped imaginings of Glastonbury after dark. The headliner finishes and a one-way system down the infamous railway track takes you to the magical alt-world of mayhem. Night is what Glastonbury does best and the reason why ticket price means nothing and experience is everything.

Trash City, The Common, Block 9 and Shangri La (RIP Lost Vagueness) are where those fantastic ideas hidden in the dark corners of the mind are played out. Prepare yourself for the unexpected, the slightly scary and more weirdness than you thought you could imagine. Step inside the doorway of one of the festival’s many infamous clubs and find yourself upside down – furniture on the ceiling and lights on the floor – or be refused entry by another for lack of tattoos or exuberant moustache (no one’s caring whether it’s real or fake). There is a contortion of gay bars, such as those imitating the NY scene of the seventies, scrap-metal sculptures and even a life-sized apartment block with one of London’s very own tube trains crashing out the top. And if that’s not enough, there’s Bez’s Acid House Club where Bez, yes Bez from the Happy Monday’s, can be found gurning over someone else’s turntables and not doing very much else. (Possibly my funniest Glasto ‘celeb’ spot, ever.)

In the cold light of day it seems hard to imagine that all the craziness that happened actually happened, and to be honest, hard to remember. The colours, the lights, the hidden doors, the transvestites, the secret gigs, the clown masks, the horse suits… it all blurs into a kaleidoscope of colour, intense sounds and ecstatic feelings. The wonders of the nightlife at the end of the railway track are intense and indescribable – experience is everything, remember.

If things become a little too sketchy after four days and too many treats, you can always head down to the Stone Circle, but let’s face it you’re likely to find yourself surrounded by similar states. Maybe even a six foot seven man wearing a ‘Betamax’ tape as a mask… a manikin head… using a megaphone at 11am to scare the shit out of people on Monday morning. You know who you are.



Words: Thomas Frost, George Scrivener, Natalie Brandweiner

Photo's: Jake Applebee, Matt Smith, David Yeo

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