Crack

We came we saw, and we kind of conquered. Now we feel a whole load better, presenting Crack's two-pronged review of Glastonbury 2011.


Ok so it rained ... and we suspect that those who couldn’t get hold of a ticket/'weren't too bothered by the line-up' will be pretending the weather made watching the BBC’s crooked coverage on iPlayer an acceptable experience. They’re wrong.

Glastonbury, come rain, mud or swarm of locusts is the one place you can't help but have the most fun you’re likely to all year. Five whole days of listening to music in a field with a selection of your nearest and dearest is helped along by the opportunity to explore the wonders that Worthy Farm has to offer.

Thursday’s Yacht Rock session in the Stonebridge Bar caused mass euphoria, perhaps owing more to the waves of excitement caused by our first official set of the weekend. Crack’s number one rassclart Julio Bashmore brought big, blissful beats to the WOW! Stage, and Belgian Hospital Records favourite Netsky followed with his special brand of liquid funk drum and bass, propelling us into Friday on a high.

Pyramid on the Friday meant Metronomy, and most notably W's in the air for Wu-Tang Clan to bring the ruckus. One of the sets of the weekend, Method Man entertained in dressing gown/latex glove combo, promptly leading the other members of the Clan through the whole Wu-Tang repertoire. Little Dragon was an absolute standout on West Holts, sending dreamlike sounds echoing through our head for long afterwards, accompanied by some full-on love for beautifully enigmatic frontwoman Yukimi. Mumford and Sons were at their folk-laden best on the Other Stage; on to Annie Mac – a Glastonbury staple - in West Dance, and then to Beat Hotel for reminiscing with Erol Alkan. Sometimes it’s just about maxing out your fun-o-meter.

Saturday brought the sun and the conundrum of clashing headliners - was it to be Coldplay, The Chemicals or Big Boi? Opinions were split, but general consensus seemed to be that each had its merits. Nicolas Jaar's ambient rhythms, Warpaint's harmoniously perfect set (adding to the lady-lust list), Friendly Fires' capturing of the perfect sun-setting over the Other Stage; all made for those moments that Glastonbury is famous for, reviving us in time for yet another foray into the night world.

The wonderfully dreamed-up realms offered outside of the main areas of Glastonbury are what it's all about after dark and on to sunrise. Dancing to a breaks set as the sun emerges over The Hub in Shangri-La, meandering through sketchy alleyways offering midget Bono karaoke, rampaging around the Bullring, scrambling through the mud as fast you can to make it from Skream's outrageous disco set in the Beat Hotel to the Spider in Arcadia and back to Stone Circle for nonsensical chats punctuated by the unmistakeable sound of wheezing balloons ...

Sunday inevitably saw everyone struggling to a slow start, but a good helping of dub from Jah Shaka, built upon by Hercules and Love Affair's amazingly shimmering tunes couldn't have provided a better tonic to lift the spirits after a series of brain-achingly sleep deprived days. Racing to Beyonce rewarded us with the stupendous Sasha Fierce killing it with her lovely lady lumps knocking out tune after tune, wrapped in sparkles, gyrating on the floor, and with a Destiny's Child mega-mix to blow your mind. Guilty pleasure? This isn’t even guilty: pop perfection clearly has its place among Worthy’s more traditional indie fare.

So that’s that, left suffering from the inevitable down (made all the worse by the fact that we now have to wait *shudder* 730 days until the next one), wishing that we could still be dancing all night and even missing having to get changed in a tent the size of the cupboard under the sink. Some of the images of this Glastonbury likely to stick in Crack’s mind despite the sinking feeling which tends to permeate the coming weeks will be an amalgamation of glitter-covered faces, wide-eyed folk clad curiously in tweed, tiny shellsuit shorts, sailors, cat whiskers, an odd pair of cataract glasses and a very special dance.

Glastonbury leaves you with a chasm-sized hole in your head. Real-life escapology on this scale leads to a number of seemingly unavoidable post-festival consequences.

The week-long recovery period, the slightly empty feeling that you didn’t cram half as much into your day as you perhaps should have, and the vastness of it all. Glastonbury is always over before it’s begun (the old adage that ‘time flies when you’re having fun’ has never been so accurate) and it’s impossible not to feel much of all the improbable incredulity packed into this weekend was missed. Yep, Crack’s got PGB (Post Glastonbury Blues). But you genuinely need to take a week and a-half out of your life to accommodate this level of partying. One day for prep, six for the festival and your return, and a further three or four for recovery. Glastonbury is an endurance test. But fucking hell, it’s worth it.

The arrogance to suggest Crack had a Glastonbury experience comprehensive enough to provide any kind of firm universal definition would essentially be codshit. After gigs were witnessed, parties crashed and the Stone Circle done (at least once) Crack’s weekend on Worthy Farm contained colour, adventure and excitement.

Mooching around the site itself offers you enough scope for entertainment without actually checking out any music at all. Between enjoying a pint and a game of Twister on the world’s biggest mat and looking around some of the unbelievable installations, sculptures and incarnations, much of Glastonbury is about being visually blown away.

A quick jaunt down the railway track to either Block 9, The Common, or especially Shangri-la heralds some of the most jaw-dropping mind fuckery you’re ever likely to experience at a festival. The back-street darkness of the post-apocalyptic Shangri-la, with 20 person gatherings through tunnels and numerous other mini-clubs, with the full-blown party madness of The Hub as a central focal point, is a huge draw. The effort level in the construction of this back-street wilderness is unprecedented. Rooms where you control the music, to decontamination areas where actors play deranged scientists, the city of Shangri-la is built up around a dystopian future storyline. A walk around the blocks heralds not only the festival’s foremost space-cases, but also some of the wildest music on the entire site from the bassy madness of The Hub which witnessed sets from Rob Da Bank, Breakage and P-Money, to glorious back-street sets from Hot Creations boys Jamie Jones and Richy Ahmed and, if you happened to be there (because we certainly weren’t), Thom Yorke and Nigel Godrich’s DJ set in the fuselage of the aeroplane in The Unfairground. Aaahhhhh, I don’t think you get that at V Festival, do you?

The now traditional secret sets in The Park area have become a regular hit, and the two 8pm sets performed on Friday by Radiohead and Saturday by Pulp provided firm reminders of Glastonbury’s power to get the biggest stars to lay down their egos. Pyramid Stage headline size acts playing on a small stage can be truly jaw-dropping. The contrasting performances from two of British music’s most important bands were huge. Only a band of Radiohead’s pedigree could use Glastonbury as a platform to showcase the debut airing of their new album material, with the cream of King of Limbs premiered and cautiously pushed out by a talkative and reassuringly nervous Thom Yorke. Yes, it wasn’t a set littered with Radiohead classics, but Radiohead remain one of the only bands who can play whatever they like from any of their records and it would still be absolutely captivating. Those expecting an OK Computer roll-out were disappointed. Hardened fans were not.

In total contrast, Pulp’s greatest hits sunshine explosion on Saturday was exactly the formula required to remind everyone in decibel range why they were, and are, one of the most important bands of an entire generation. Sorted For E’s & Wizz is the best festival anthem ever, Common People is a contender for literally the best song ever, and as the beautiful guitar on Babies simmered over a sun setting across the Park Stage you knew you’d witnessed something very, very special. Quintessentially English, both thematically in their songs and personified by Jarvis Cocker, whose dialogue with the crowd was witty and relaxed – at one point making reference to the suggestion that the authorities might be checking excrement samples for drug use: “They wanted to take samples from the toilets to see if there's drugs in there," he explained. “Firstly, who's going to take that sample? Secondly, fuck off. Everyone's in this field having a good time.” The Glasto feeling epitomised.

Other notable musical mentions from the weekend included Soul Clap followed by Futureboogie’s groove-laden battering of The WOW! BB King’s deep soul blues on the Main Stage, Lykke Li on a beautiful sunny Sunday at the ever-consistent Park Stage and Paul Simon’s timeless selection of Graceland classics on the same afternoon, Omar Souleyman’s mad as a hatter Arabic/techy explosion on West Holts and Gold Panda’s oriental beat works at Cubehenge.

And then that inevitable bump back to reality. The wish that this festival could go on days and days longer is a forlorn dream. But even if you didn’t quite make sense of all of it, you’ll always have the view from the Stone Circle, looking out at a man-made city the size of Sunderland, operating by wonderfully different rules for five days of total brilliance.



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Review One: Angel Middleton

Review Two: Hulio Burgeois

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