Glastonbury

Worthy Farm, Pilton | June 27th-30th

Whoever thinks Glastonbury isn’t what it used to be is wrong.

Glastonbury is an event which evolves year on year, incorporating advances in music and technology in order to create the most epic festival experience you can possibly have. It’s organised tightly, yet it’s lawless enough to provide you with adventure after debauched adventure, and everyone of note plays it for a cut price because they all reckon it’s one of the biggest, most culturally significant festivals on the planet. Not even the fact Mumford and Sons have re-affirmed the frail condition of British guitar music can dampen our excitement. You can never deny Glastonbury. You just deny yourself. And this year, the sun was out.

Thursday

On Thursday, a revised Dance Village – now called Silver Hayes – played host to a seven-hour Visionquest marathon at the Jamaican shanty town-style stage called The Blues. Later over at the Village Underground, the crowd revelled in the prospect of just how dark and scary Blawan might take it. Dark and scary won over as he built up to raging 140 bpm powertech. Perhaps Blawan’s first night enthusiasm had made a dent in his drinks rider, as techno horror anthem Why They Hide Their Bodies Under My Garage? was bizarrely wheeled back, puzzling even the unintentionally hilarious MC who’d somehow gained access to the stage.

With a roster of around 30 dancing transvestites and a soundtrack of pure unadulterated New York disco, there’s such a wealth of good feeling in the NYC Downlow area it’s hard not to be taken in. With a combination of bears, intrigued straight men and beautiful women, the sexual energy was palpably flowing. Crack returned here time and time again for the likes of Horse Meat Disco, Kerri Chandler and Maurice Fulton. But these were just our hors d’oeuvres, the mains were still in the wings.

Friday

Friday’s music made for a happy and fruitful introduction to the weekend with Tame Impala’s set growing from tepid to the full psychedelic guitar jam excellence we knew it could be. A trip over to West Holts for some 80s dance pop nostalgia in the shape of Tom Tom Club was extremely rewarding, with new track Downtown Rockers proving particularly infectious along with classics Wordy Rappinghood and Genius of Love, both of which resulted in an en masse singalong.

The news that Dinosaur Jr. have departed with their heroically unfashionable drummer Murph stirred a little heartache. But spirits were immediately lifted by the fact their set at The Park saw them on incredible form, with sweet ‘n’ fuzzy indie-rock anthems like The Wagon, Freak Scene and Little Fury Things sounding as good, if not better than they probably did back in the early 90s. Then Alt-J. Oh Alt-J. Yes the album is decent, even if the Mercury Music Prize was way too much, but the closing 20 minutes of their set carried about as much euphoria and noteworthy moments as our walk from the car park to our tents.

Thank fuck then, that Foals picked this occasion to execute a career-defining gig. Ridiculously hyped from the off, the energy of a ramped up Yannis Philippakis was at an unchartered level, ending up in the crowd twice while the rest of the band bounced onstage like men possessed. Inhaler and Providence did the heavy end of their new album total justice, while Olympic Airways and set closer Two Steps, Twice provide fans of the earlier material with more than enough ammunition. A stage show befitting a headliner added even further to their clout, but what we got on the Friday was a proper headliner, and that wasn’t Alex Turner’s mob rolling out the not-yet-classic hits. Portishead’s Other Stage headline performance yet again reminded everyone what a varied and truly beautiful beast Portishead are.

In a weekend that felt lacking in potent political messages, the appearance of a huge demonic David Cameron head firing red lasers from its eyes during Machine Gun, was a much needed blast of anti-establishment rhetoric, as was the rising mushroom cloud CND symbol. With Beth Gibbons’ voice sounding as piercingly emotive as ever, we had our first sob of the weekend.

Saturday

Crack’s Saturday was punctuated by the sun and the overwhelming theme of the weekend: tops off! Getting your top off, male or female, is a liberating experience and in the freethinking mecca that is Glastonbury, we took every opportunity we had to remove our garms and enjoy the sunshine. The best thing about the tops off experience is that it can take place in the blazing heat of a sunny hillside, as it did on Saturday afternoon with the sounds of Melody’s Echo Chamber in our ears, or in Block 9’s new Genesis stage with Bicep in full flow. If the mood takes you and the sun is coming up, then you know what to do. And as we trudged, topless, out of Shangri-Hell hours later, with a group of seven guys we’d acquired who all happened to be called Tom (we lovingly nicknamed them Tom Tom Club), the weirdness continued apace. Stone Circle, with the hippies, 7am. It’s all hazy, it’s all wonderful, a man turned round in front of us and it’s only bloody Skrillex getting amongst it. Excitement reached fever pitch, but we resisted the urge to discuss the finer points of EDM with the man himself. Oh, and Zoe Ball was there too – going in hard.

But this wonderful madness was preceded by some unforgettable performances. It’s already common knowledge that Savages are one of this country’s most viscerally powerful live bands right now, but their venomous post-punk sounded more galvanised than ever on the John Peel stage. But then the dilemma. If we checked out Nas at the Sonic stage, we might not get a decent place for a certain canonical rock ‘n’ roll act. We decided to risk it, because after all, Nas is the author of the platonic form of a classic rap record, and his 2012 album Life Is Good was the best he’s made in about 50 years. He rocked up with a live band, and we got to see him nail six or seven tunes including The Don, NY State of Mind and Represent.

OK, so maybe some of Ronnie and Keef’s riffage sounded a tad sloppy if you watched it on TV, but The Rolling Stones unleashed a hit-laden set that generated a collective sensation of mass euphoria. And if you didn’t feel a lump in your throat during Wild Horses then you’re a heartless bastard. The encore of You Can’t Always Get What You Want and (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction provided arms-round-your-mate moments from a band that are the epitome of pure rock ‘n’ roll. You want a headliner? That was a fucking headliner, and age should have proved no barrier to people’s love of this experience. A fire breathing phoenix, a backing choir and fireworks created a climax that’ll live long in the memories of all in attendance.

Sunday

Cultivated but raw, dignified yet gloriously sleazy – Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds’ set reminded us that the world would be a much poorer place without them. Undoubtedly the best dressed band of the weekend, they fired through their greatest misses including The Mercy Seat, People Ain’t No Good and Stagger Lee, which saw Cave lock eyes with a female fan down the front, sending an excruciatingly intense sensation through the audience. Unfortunately, an unquestionably low point of the festival hit us later on. After The Park stage played host to Cat Power’s increasingly diverse and accomplished musical output, and as the last few bars of her recent track Ruin ebbed away at the suspiciously early curfew, a large crowd arrived in expectation of jaw-dropping surprise act to grace the stage.

The National? Atoms For Peace? Either would have done, and Cat Power’s set had finished with more than enough time to accommodate another act. The crowd waited for around 30 minutes while a new light rig was brought out, before a voice came on the speaker system informing us that there would be no secret act on the stage. After Pulp, Biffy Clyro and Radiohead have delivered sets in recent years, the decision to programme the stage like this was bewildering and, at worst, unfair. The Park’s loss was Bobby Womack and the balloon dispensers’ gain, as we all enjoyed some soulful nitrous to pixelate our sorrows away.

We felt a peculiar chill when accidentally witnessing roughly two minutes of Mumford And Sons’ finale of With A Little Help From My Friends, where, you guessed it, they got some of their mates (The Vaccines, Vampire Weekend and more) out for a heinous rendition. We’re all for fresh faces at Glastonbury, but when your headline slot has been secured solely on record sales and winning Grammys (which let’s face it is hardly the barometer of British musical taste) you leave yourself in real danger of alienating the progressive blueprint Glastonbury has established in recent years.

But a trip to the Dance Village for The Wow!’s Hessle Audio showcase was the electronic highlight of the weekend, as these young British techno creators yet again proved no-one in the UK does it half as well as they do. Jackmaster’s sunrise set in The Temple provided an aptly rousing finale, with Love Is In The Air and I’ve Had The Time Of My Life ramping up the cheese factor and the love factor equally. Best party DJ in the world, bar none.

As we gazed on two security guards dancing their little socks off and many, many people below partying until the sun rose up in the sky, you couldn’t help but feel a bit teary. It doesn’t really matter where you are at Glastonbury. You could be partying in 50 other places and be having an equally incredible time. But for this reviewer, with his nearest and dearest around all weekend making the social element as crucial to the event as the decor, the music and the party, it again surpassed what it’s possible for a festival to achieve. To the circle for some Alice In Wonderland shit. Glastonbury is one big rabbit-hole.

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Words: Thomas Frost, David Reed , Anna Tehabsim

Photos: Chris Cooper, Barry Delaney, Lloyd Parker