09/07/2009 Patrick's 2009 Glastonbury Blog
1. Arrival
Well, here I am again. I’m not convinced that anybody made it to the end of last years’ epic write up, so I’ve decided to cut to the chase. Weren’t Blur really great? Tears, and all?
Well, ok, maybe not that quickly. Meanwhile, and to whet the appetite, what is there to come? There will be tales of breaking up fights in the Blur crowd, the epic saga of trying to escape Rolf Harris whilst carrying two pints of cider (not pretty); of a lady being rather carried away by Nick Cave, and of multiple Borats in green mankinis (half thong, half leotard) (“Oh my God, I can see his ****” as one girl helpfully commented). There will be stories of daring stage invasions, of the unexpected pitter patter of rain, and of course of the death of Michael Jackson, the news of which spread like a rising tide across the sea of Glastonbury tents. By late on in the evening you already knew, even though you’d not been explicitly told.
As ever, there will (no doubt) be a hint of subtext. I know some read this critique looking for allegorical content. Well, dig deep with your teaspoons boys and girls -; there’s a lot to get through.
So let’s rewind to Platform 8, waiting for the First Great Western train to pull away. It is Wednesday afternoon and my musical introduction this year has been a trip to see Grease at school in which my daughter was performing. Last year it was back-to-back Radiohead concerts in Victoria Park. This year I decided I better shape up -; I better understand -; to my heart I must be true… and all that. All very enjoyable. Good songs really. Crowd pleasers. Perhaps The Prodigy should have covered a couple of them during their set? Still, the reverse would probably have been equally inappropriate. Sandy performing Smack My Bitch Up might have been too much even for the more “progressive” parents.
On route, the only train-based incident was the tumultuous applause that greeted the announcement that sandwiches were now being sold at half price. Sadly, little take up, though.
Anyway, it’s a successful trip down and via a walk, the tube, another walk, the train, a short walk (and queue)…
…then a bus, complete with an on-board “choir” who worked through most of the Oasis back catalogue as well as repeatedly returning to “the wheels on the bus” -; still, at least they aren’t the psycho with the notebook, pen and dodgy haircut, right?! [As alluded to, I had a relatively daring hair cut near Paddington Station. This didn’t start out are as being daring - the bloke in the barbers took two mobile phone calls during the trim and appeared to start the haircut again after each conversation...]
Sitting upstairs on the bus and looking out of the front windows, the headlights fail to light up the road that I can see. We therefore appear to be zooming through darkness, into darkness. It’s not clear where the road goes, but we seem to be advancing. Only the changing images on the horizon, silhouettes of houses and trees against a faint bluey-pink hue (and the extreme g-force) indicate that progress is being made.
We arrive, and after a short trudge, my photograph on the “personalised” ticket proves good enough (hair cut included) and I’m not bounced. Through I go, into Planet Glasto. Let the show commence…
2. The Pitcher and the Piano
A fantastic sliver-of-a-moon is on show as I walk towards The Glade. This is near the location that erstwhile colleagues have set up camp. I'm joined again by Alistair, Angie, James and Mark, names swapped around (though not changed), for the purpose of discretion. The pitch is already made (The Glade being towards the Park Area for those in the know), and I arrive at 11:30pm to set up the tent. Not bad, having left London at 6:30pm.
There is a traditional Glastonbury fire waiting for me. This year rather than pillaging piles of wood that Mr Eavis has left lying around (for just this purpose), there are “outlets” selling bags of logs and bags of kindling. Thankfully the logs are still unbranded, but it’s perhaps only a matter of time. The bags of logs are half full, and the bags themselves are made of some sort of toxic orange string. I know this, as lots of charred remains were seen over the next few days. I think it was two bags for £10, or about 65p per log, but I might be wrong. Anyway, it is a late finish to the evening, fuelled by the odd glass of red wine, and I’m finally asleep around 3.15am. I sleep badly -; the ground is hard. Where is that nice rain to soften it up?
They say you shouldn’t wish for what you don’t want.
Ah there it is! 11.30am. It’s raining. Again. Long range forecasts and the detailed study of meteorological data are always a preoccupation in any run up to Glastonbury. What a waste of time! A week before, the forecast was for nothing but sun-kissed fields with temperatures soaring (like a bird on the wing) above 28oC. But it is now wet and windy, and part of my tent has blown off revealing me to the elements… How many times does “deja vu” happen until “already seen” becomes “always seen”.
Prior to the 11.30am final stiring I had awoken a couple of times to hear other lives in other tents. There is nothing like living close to people; I recall a conversation about dope that went along the lines of “it’s just your brain trying to confuse you” -; this being said several times by somebody who was clearly already confused. A few hours later that’s augmented with “Get off me -; I need to go to the loo”. Nice.
This year -; unlike one experimental year -; my tent is person sized, rather than gargantuan. So there is no portable Carnegie Hall -; and no guitar this year. In fact, the guitar playing has rather faded away in all honesty. I lack the patience (and time?) to gain enough skills where I’m not frustrated by my lack of skill (old age kicking in, perhaps), so it’s piano or nothing these days, drawing on some ancient Grade V/VI lessons. Old dogs? New tricks? So if it was Welcome to the Machine on guitar previously (three chords and the truth), then it’s Cymbal Rush on the piano nowadays. It really is all boiling over, everybody.
But this pitcher has no piano, so I’ll have to be satisfied with the offerings of others this year. And whilst there are no “dream bands” here for me in 2009, there is enough to see and do, some of which will be recorded here for posterity as we skip forwards and backwards through time.
I’m also going to progressively post my musings this year as holding back until my "novella" is complete could result in nothing for many weeks. I therefore hope you, dear reader, have the patience to check back if you find the story incomplete when first reading through. Just search for Blur (after this point) to see if I’ve managed to get my act together yet.
3. That Thursday Feeling
I struggle through most of Thursday. Glastonbury “proper” is not really upon us, but there is plenty of activity. I sample some Addlestone’s cider at The Bimble Inn. Maximo Park are opening at The Queens Head, but I find I really can’t be arsed. There is a lot of that going on today. I’ve gone into Glastonbury very tired this year -; not sure why, given the stresses of the previous year. Perhaps I’m tired as I’m able to be tired. At 8.30pm somebody called Undercover Hippie is in what used to be The Jazz Lounge -; a late night refuge of the previous two years, but no more -; it’s now called Chai Wallahs. Park Bench, Doublehead and somebody else (Mudson and Bad Science?) are performing. Undercover Hippie asks people to shout out subjects or words, and draws them into a performance. Very clever -; very entertaining.
Then something about Dworkins and Darwin. But I’m outta there. Or am I? There is an amazing clap of thunder, and the heavens open. Interesting. So I’m not outta there. All good things come to an end, and as the rain stops we make it over to see Ebony Bones. They were performing at The Queens Head, a stones throw (lob ... splash!) away. They were very strange and very loud. And I suspect not very good, but again, I might be wrong about that.
And then there are whispers about Michael Jackson as we are walking about, culminating in the suggestion that he is dead. Rumors of bands playing exclusive little sets (such as Kings of Leon) tend to pervade Glastonbury, so why not a scam about Michael Jackson? So I did what every festival-goer does these days -; I took out my HTC PDA (or equivalent) and went to the BBC news web site. What’s confirmed at that stage is that he’s been rushed to hospital with a suspected cardiac arrest.
And then it’s confirmed that he’s died.
But nothing appears to have changed.
Music is still playing in the background, people are still chatting and laughing.
So, just like that -; he’s gone.
The press would have you believe the clap of thunder and flash of lighting signified his passing, so momentus an event it was. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps they are not.
4. And it Rained All Night/Mung Beans
It subsequently rained from 2am, early Friday morning, to 12.30pm on Friday afternoon. Mr Hudson kicks off on The Other Stage, but this downpour is stopping me heading out to see Bjorn Again at 11am -; my plan to “jump start” my Glastonbury. Bjorn Again -; something new! An up and coming band. There is a lot of that this year. In fact, these guys are fresh compared to many at Glastonbury 2009 -; a band who, for 15 years, have been doing cover versions of a band who wrote most songs around 30 years ago. Still, they are pretty good, right? Abba. But whilst rain is only rain, I find I really can’t be arsed. Again. Have to do something about this lethargy.
We saw The Whip from the hill, and then my life force comes flooding back. Let’s head over the Glade, suggests one of the party. Johnny Marrs’ Band is on. I can hardly believe it. “Really?”, I ask. “Really”, I’m told. They only have about twenty minutes left of their set by my calculations. I get up, get out (Matt Bianco style?), and we’re legging it. Having been a relative fan of The Smiths, and then Electronic, and then of The The who Johnny Marr played with for a while (very potted history there), I really can’t believe we’ve stumbled on this exclusive. Why is he not on a bigger stage -; I guess this being his new band, they haven’t even got a proper name yet -; just an experiment maybe. Like Gorillaz.
And we’re there. We join the throng. Excitement is reigned back a little. They are playing a blues tune, harmonica et al. And if Johnny’s on lead guitar, he’s sporting a hell of a pauch. And hang on. He’s about 70. And err, well, kind of rotund. And from memory, wasn't Johnny Marr white?
This shows the problems that can occur when you hear things, but don’t read them. It’s not Johnny Marrs’ Band. It’s Johnny Mars Band. What a difference a letter makes. Like laughter and slaughter. It’s only a single letter. Oh, and an apostrophe in this case. Catastrophe.
The only noteworthy point about this whole affair is that George Clooney appears to be dancing in front of the stage, wearing leather trousers and no shirt. Presumably it’s actually George Cloony, based on the previous mix up.
Lunch is taken in the area of Glastonbury labeled “permaculture”. (I note here that Microsoft Word -; or at least my version of it -; tries to turn permaculture into “perm culture”. If there was ever a summary of the absurdity of modern life, there it is, buried in a spell checker…). Lunch costs £3.50 and fills my plate (which cost me a £1 deposit). We confirm that Michael Jackson has died to a couple sitting at the table (after explaining who in fact he was).
Meanwhile, somebody working in the area chirps up with a highly optimistic “if you see any mud, just put some woodchip on it”. This concerns me in the same sort of way that the entire deforestation of South America concerns me. Believe me you don’t want to cover “any mud” at Glastonbury with woodchip. It would be an ecological disaster, stripping bare the country of anything which is over twenty feet tall and alive. Still, we’ll come back to ecological disasters, as I think I might we spending five days at one. Not sure, but I have an inkling...
I should add at this point, that by 2am the previous day, the tent opposite was already holding a wake for Michael Jackson. The form of the wake was to repeatedly play “Wanna be Starting Something”. The irony was not lost.
This gesture from older fans of Jackson who are clearly trying to reach out and touch the Glastonbury youth (careful now) with an emotional outpouring is starting to annoy somewhat. Apparently those holding the wake had their first “inappropriate” Michael Jackson joke arrive via text at 4.30am. Those who have read my missives from previous years (and in particular the diatribe about text messaging delays and IT infrastructure), will realize that this message, rather unexplicably, must have been sent at least ten hours before Jackson was reported ill. Conspiracy theory? You heard it here first. Mobile phone companies powerful enough to assassinate celebrities to "up" text messaging revenues? I’m kind of guessing it’s not O2.
I don’t think I’ve really written about any music yet. I really ought to get on with that…
5. Does anybody want a $200 ticket to watch N.E.R.D.?
So it seems appropriate to restart this “delayed response Blog” on a First Great Western service travelling back from Taunton, a station I last visited when being dropped off the Monday after Glastonbury a couple of years back. On that occasion, our lift back from the event had tragically been washed away by the rain and so we were left to use iron tracks to head back to London.
After helping out the permaculture cash float (they were short on £5 notes and in a scene reminiscent of the sketch in The Fast Show that has everybody exchanging coins at the bar to “help out”), we head off to see Attila The Stockbroker in the Cabaret Tent. Attila was long-admired by John Peel, and appears to be more cantankerous every time I see him. I admire this.
We then make it to the Pyramid stage to see “Special Guests” who are, as long predicted in the unofficial programmes, N.E.R.D. Sorry to all you people out there who like N.E.R.D., but I really didn’t enjoy the performance. Most of the lively banter from the stage appears to be geared around the fact that they, N.E.R.D., have been generous enough to grace us with their presence at Glastonbury. Apparently they would like to play a longer set and the “$100-$200” that all of us “English people” have paid for tickets -; seemingly just for the chance to see N.E.R.D. -; should guarantee that. I don’t stay to the end. Less is more, they sometimes say. I’d have gone to $300 if this could have been realistically achieved. However, as is the way of musical diversity, others are loving it down the front, so that’s great.
I’ve been ferrying around a backpack with a lot of unnecessary paraphernalia during the day, so I head back (via a track from Red Snapper at The Glade) to drop much off back at the tent. The evening appears clear and warm so I decide to risk ditching the heavy-weather gear. Two greenfly who have landed on my notebook are also left back at the tent. They looked pretty bored so I can only assume they’ve been with me since before N.E.R.D.
6. Beards and Cigarettes
I return to see a single track by Fleet Foxes. Perhaps I’m being very unkind and not giving people a chance this year, but again, I’m not impressed. I’m certainly not engaged. I feel I might be in an airport duty free, or perhaps deciding which variety of tomato to buy at the supermarket. Perhaps it’s lovely, moving music -; but the only direction I’m moving is away. There is no edge. Give me something! Previously I’ve witnessed people fighting with chairs in the middle of songs on the Pyramid Stage, mid-afternoon -; but here, the only excitement seems to be working out who’s beard is the darker shade of brown. But hang on -; is that a hint of russet?
OK. Desperate measures are needed. It’s time to head off to Bristol (all be it via Manchester). A city built high on the income from slavery, sharing the name of the elitist car manufacture; a city Sid James would be proud to have lived in (twinned with… err…). We’re off to see Lamb.
Lamb are a band (I didn’t know) with a somewhat tortured past, of broken down relationships and tensions. But the soundscape behind Lou Rhodes’ vocals, make for the first performance that has genuinely moved me. A speaker failure only adds to the desire to deliver something wondrous to a largely adoring crowd, and to that extent, for me, they deliver.
Then it is off for a temporary respite in Chai Wallahs, the Jazz Lounge replacement. Here, I’m impressed. One of the young lads (we’re perhaps talking ten years old?) is helpfully clearing away rubbish from the tables. He kindly removes our paper cups and general mess -; and then a full pack of Angie’s cigarettes. He doesn’t see me watching. Deciding this warrants action, rather than going with the Glastonbury flow, I challenge him. “But they are empty”, he said. That’s clearly why he’s pocketed them and not put them in the rubbish. Nice one. Come to our tent, pay for stuff, and we’ll steal stuff from you. Now this isn’t exactly organised crime -; merely opportunistic, but it’s not really “Glastonbury”. Or maybe it is. Perhaps the sanitised version of this festival that I’ve experienced the past few years is just that.
This event registers on my radar. Against the backdrop of the current economic downturn, I’m doing a lot of thinking this Glastonbury about what is right and wrong in the context of business and businesses behaviour. There is no business behaviour of course -; businesses are constructed out of people following systems that have been developed by people. Also, about what is easy and what is hard. I’m trying to work out how far my own self-perceived objectivity could (just could, mind you!) be subjective. I think I broadly have the answer. Or at least, a pretty objective one! Our own moral behaviours are of course dictated by the culture that we grow up in. But to a cry along the lines of “Forgive us Lord, for we know not what we do”, I’d suggest that a little bit of personal responsibility might not go amiss. If somebody works hard to earn money to buy cigarettes, then it’s really not for somebody else to steal them. Or perhaps the kid was filled with such a feeling of love from the Glastonbury experience he was just trying to stop my friend making a terrible error that could eventually lead to lung cancer. Yes. I’m sure that’s what it was in hindsight. How quick I am to judge, these days! Teaspoons sharpened?
They were Camel Lights incidentally.
We stride out across the fields to see Noah and the Whale. They are quite young and quite good. Not sure I wouldn’t still expect them to be playing at a US college graduation ceremony. But there is a bit of a following there, so they appear to be making an impression. I have at least heard of them! Somebody wants a song to be dedicated to a wedding that’s taking place (or perhaps has just taken place), and the lead singer Charlie Fink dedicates the whole gig to them. A nice touch -; he then hands over the play list at the end to them. Ebay here we come.
We slog back to the tent again, stock up with some drinks, I think, and then we’re off to see Neil Young. Now for more than one of our party, Neil -; and Bruce -; and Crosby Stills and Nash are making this a Glastonbury above Glasonburys. This is not the case for me. I have some Neil Young in my collection -; and clearly to headline a night a Glastonbury you have to be right up there -; but Neil’s music has not been part of my “growing up”. It doesn’t have the impact that the music has that I listed to when I was between fourteen and twenty-two years old. I didn’t cycle into Oxford on my bike to fall in the doors of Our Price Records to buy a Neil Young double picture disc album... For others, I did. (“Welcome… ha ha ha!”)
7. Revelation
So I stay for the first four tracks, tick the box on my very large metaphorical piece of paper that has Neil Young written in an undefined font size and then move on. I’m off to see Doves in the John Peel tent. An appropriately brooding photo can be seen below.
For me, this turns out to be the highlight of the weekend. Alas none of those I’ve come to Glastonbury with share this experience with me, but (and I’m not just saying this as you were not there -; honest!), for me, it is the best gig by a long way. Doves have been around for a long time. They have a great set of songs from their albums, and the crowd all really want to be there -; it’s the best reaction I’ve seen.
Positioned about twenty rows back, slap bang in the middle (sound matters to me), I take it all in. Up until this point I’d really been questioning what I was “getting” out of Glastonbury 2009. None of the bands I’ve seen so far would have caused me to go out and buy tickets for a one-off gig -; I’m therefore drifting from performance to performance when I could have been sat in my chair at home, or surrounded by perfect noise by a favourite artist (regular Glastonbury Blog/Review readers will know who that is!) running along the South Bank of the Thames on an early weekend morning or through Richmond Park in the setting sun of a summer evening. What price the sore legs from slogging across the 900-acre site, and what price the sore back (an inflatable mattress seems too decadent for Glastonbury or camping, after all)? Well, I think it’s the cost of a Doves concert. Virtually free -; given N.E.R.D. was $200.
They end with a beefed up version of a song they wrote long before being Doves (as Sub Sub) called Spaceface which is set to a backdrop of 2010: A Space Odyssey with David Bowman taking on Hal, interspersed with the a few video clips and pictures of John Peel. David Bowman’s final words “The thing's hollow -- it goes on for ever -- and -- oh my God -- it's full of stars” seemed to sit very comfortably with where Mr Peel may be, and not for a second implied any self-importance with reference to the contents of his renamed tent. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. I suspect N.E.R.D. could have learnt something.
So at last, my Glastonbury has come alive.
So much so, that it’s not 11:30am that I shambolically come to life the next morning (as it was the previous), but 9.30am. I’m off to pick up coffees along with a croissant or two (and a tea) to jump-start the camp.
8. Can you tell what it is yet? Err -; Yes. And controversially, it’s not very good…
I decide to wander off. VV Brown sounds nice enough, but I don’t remember anything significant about the performance. I skirt around The Other Stage. I’ve decided that I’m going to strike out for Jazz World, and Rolf Harris.
But first, I’m in the Greenpeace tent with Mark close to where people are lining up to spell out the word “No” with regard to Heathrow Terminal 4, this to be covered by the BBC. There are enough people to do this. However, probably not enough to spell out “No!”, alas. And British Airways appear to be coming in for some stick in the heart of the tent as well...
A short wander sees me picking up a business card from somebody promoting a new design for a wind turbine. This is something that registers with me both for reasons of professional interest and long term survival. I take the card. Maybe I’ll find it again after Glastonbury and do something with it […nothing, yet, readers…] Then again, we are already working on all this.
But clearly, there are bigger issues that are concerning me - I’m becoming increasingly nervy about going to see Rolf. The end of the world may be neigh, but there is an Antipodean codger about to hit the stage. Whilst I’m not into only “snobbishly high brow” entertainment, looking to be “moved” or “challenged” (or both) by every performance, I am slightly concerned at the so called “comedy” overtone that is becoming all pervasive this year. Serious can be boring, but with Attila the Stockbroker, John Otway (more on him later) and Bruce Springsteen residing legitimately in the “comedy camp” (ouch!), others are also crossing over. Spinal Tap, yes. But Madness? When is fun, comical? And here I am, off to Rolf Harris which feels rather like nailing something to something else.
As I head over to see him, I start to question what the hell I’m actually doing. Do I like Rolf’s music? No. Do I like his painting? Well, yes, but I don’t think he’ll be doing any. People talk excitedly about seeing him. “He’s great.” “Can’t wait.” But is he? Can I?
I get really quite near the front while you can still move. But with fifteen minutes to go, I decide to pop off to The Brothers Bar to pick up a couple of pints of pear cider. This feels important. In fact, essential! And so when Rolf comes on and the place is rammed, and I have no chance of making it back to anywhere near the front -; or indeed, virtually anywhere, as I’m still at the bar, queuing up.
In fact, the “MC” who is introducing him grabbed my attention first. “I say ‘Rolf’, you say …”, and crowd chant “HARRIS”. “I say ‘Rolf’, you say…” … “HARRIS”. This goes on a bit. Lots of plaudits about how great Rolf is, and then “I say ‘Rolf’, you say...” ... “HARRIS”. The crowd is being worked up. Surely there is no need for this for somebody as great as err… Rolf… HARRIS.
And then he’s on -; to huge applause. And he’s off. Well, singing. He’s already launched into one of his truly dreadful songs. And then another. Now I may just be bitter as I’m still queuing for my drink, but I mean, honestly. When did you get together with a bunch of mates of an evening, and decide to sit around and watch Rolf Harris DVDs. Last Tuesday. Oh sorry. And last Wednesday? Well, clearly, I’ve got this wrong.
“I say ‘Rolf’, you say...” Well nothing, actually. I’m attempting to leave. Only it’s proving near impossible. The picture below shows the queue trying to get "in" to see Rolf, as I'm trying to get "out" with my cider.
Such is the fanaticism that surrounds Rolf H, than I’m encased in a mass of humanity. And only some it is trying to flee. I’m slowly channelled out as others are trying to flood in. My cider is in a cardboard carrying case, rammed against my side. I lift it sky high. There is actually nowhere to stop and drink it. Nowhere to pause. We’re stationary for nearly ten minutes, then inching forward. If I take out one pint, the other will spill. It’s a dichotomy. Everybody in front of me (and I mean EVERYBODY - see above) had decided to try to see the Great Man and had then given up and turned around when confronted with the crowds. It's slow going...
What are they all doing here? Are these people mad? This of course is the same self-delusional point of view we get into when sitting in lines of traffic, stationary on a motorway. We look out of our windscreen and curse all the other drivers in front of us, and then glance in our rear view mirror. The person in the car behind is of course doing the same, and you are included in the cursing.
The fact that I’ve already questioned why I was there before the great Stationary Rolf Experience took place is irrelevant. Because there I was.
So I’m sorry to all of your Rolf … HARRIS fans out there who thought it was great. It really wasn’t. Honestly. Objectively. Take it from me. And I’ll see you all at the Pyramid Stage next year -; for unless Rolf books 50 nights at the 02 and then comes a cropper, that’s where he’ll be.
Incidentally there was only one longer queue that I saw all weekend. That was at the Orange recharge tent. Here is around 40% of it (in fact, a collage of seven pictures stuck together). The irony is that having taken this on my orange PDA the battery was run down, and err... well...
9. Life Imitating Art -; or Art Imitating Life?
By 1:30pm I’m sitting down again, propped against the sound stage barrier in front of the Pyramid Stage. The sun is beating down, and a really friendly couple I get talking to offer me sun tan lotion. They are recently married. She’s been to Glastonbury many times, but this is his first. He seems slightly dazed, confused. Not surprising really - he’s about to watch Eagles of Death Metal.
So I’m now sitting in the sun, safely (with my pear cider -; I suspect none has ever made it this far) reading the Guardian obituary about Michael Jackson. The summary BBC obit on their news pages described him as both “The King of Pop”, and “Wacko Jacko” in one sentence. I suppose that was the issue. Perhaps an easy way of saying “innocent or guilty”, without actually printing “victim or perpetrator”. Some people will know, but by now, I suspect their own memories may have changed to the extent where they only remember what they believe happened rather than what happened. Glen Tillbrook made a good point later in the weekend, but we’ll come on to that one in due course.
I’m joined by the others and we watch the “Eagles”. They are actually pretty accomplished (how patronising!), and “good fun”. Oh. The irony of being followed by Spinal Tap (therefore, in theory they are lower on the billing) is not lost, and the lead singer is entertaining about this. He’s been trying not to swear apparently, as he says both his son and his mother are watching (and listening). It’s an oddly human moment in a faux-Hells’ Angels world. The death metal feels a bit light, however. Having witnessed Napalm Death at the height of their powers at Brixton Academy (you suffer lasting all of six seconds -; a moment firmly nestling amongst my “concert greats”), I wonder if Fleet Foxes are back on stage. Well, not really -; but you get the sentiment I hope.
On come Spinal Tap. And my barriers are down. This was never going to be anything apart from genuinely funny. And even the bits that are not that funny, may of course be funny and in fact self-parody. They are not as funny as they can be/should be, but perhaps that’s also funny. Do you review them as a living breathing band, or focus on the half-inflated Stonehenge that appeared, as expected, with dancing goblins? Does it really matter? “Let’s think about global warming for three mintues, and then get pissed”, shouts out David Ivor St. Hubbins, and do you know - that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking as well. I identify with Spinal Taps’ message. Dear God. But perhaps that’s the point.
“Beelzebub went to Brighton, The Prince of Darkness left Pinner”, go the lyrics on “Warmer than Hell”. The excesses of heavy metal issuing a 180-second rallying call. Supremely silly. And again perhaps that’s the point. In fact, of course it is.
I’m not going to write much about Pete Docherty this year (who we saw next on The Other Stage), as he’s had his fill of commentary in pervious Blogs. I was neither over nor under-whelmed by him this time. I think he needs to do something new. Then he may get a few more “column inches”.
Crosby Stills and Nash then play Glastonbury. Whilst this is an iconic moment for many, alas there is no emotion (nor recognition) to be wrung out of the performance for me. There is a thought that Neil Young will join them as a long time ago a “milestone album” was recorded by the four of them. (As it turns out, Neil chooses not to -; or perhaps with his higher billing CS&N choose not to. Whichever way, the scheduling - whether pre-agree or not, never allowed for this possibility.) Perhaps the debate between C.S.N.Y. and Y.C.S.N was just too much. Anyway, they play well, but it doesn’t mean enough, so I head off. I chill with Mark outside the Acoustic Tent for a bit and with beer in hand make it in to see the last few songs performed by Lisa Hannigan. Quite folky, and quite listenable to. But then on the last track there is a real edge -; it’s harder -; and is really good. Enjoyed that. Thanks, Lisa.
And then we await Newton Faulkner. It's at this point that I've made a mental note to bring a better camera to Glastonbury next year. Here are the two best photos of Newton Faulkner I have from this years gig:
It could almost be Rolf HARRIS. Or Anita Harris for that matter. Or possibly Richard Harris, or at least a cardboard cut out of him.
I’ve seen Newton three times before I think, from The Roundhouse to The Other Stage. This time, it’s closer to The Roundhouse. It’s a very intimate performance. He’s instantly likable, and seemed to really “want” to play his songs to us. Many performers over the weekend are there to play their songs and perform, but the feeling that it’s for you -; for the audience -; is, I’d say, relatively rare. He tried new songs -; some of it a bit risky. He’s hugely talented as a musician. Startlingly so, really. So that’s pretty good. We’re near the front (the beers are carried above heads to maintain our position -; excuse me! sorry! sorry! coming through!!)
Along with Lamb, I feel an album coming on…
10. An Objective (Objecting?) Review
After Newton Faulkner, it’s Tindersticks. Lifted from the first Google link to “Tinderstick reviews” I find the following brief summary: "The core of the group is Stuart Staples (mumbling vocals), David Boulter and Dickon Hinchcliffe." Now, that word mumbling seems to crop up a lot. An NME review takes it further. “Nottingham miserablists the Tindersticks haven’t offered us any new music since 2003 and, from listening to ‘The Hungry Saw’, you’d think that they’ve spent every day since then in a dark room, rocking backwards and forwards.” The rather excellent pitchfork.com rates them rather higher with a very positive review here. But it’s not for everybody - this, clearly demonstrated by the man outside The Acoustic Tent that we pass as we leave. “I’m at the Acoustic Tent. It’s ****ing crap.” Ah well.
So, we’re off to see Springsteen. Describing Bruce earlier as a comedy act was clearly just a lame attempt to get a laugh. He’s far from funny, as George Bush can testify (something I fear we’ll never see). But let’s move on.
The Stars and Stripes are flying high over Glastonbury. I watch Springsteen preform five or six songs, and once again utterly fail to connect with a performance. I pack up my Confederate Flag (which is of course only hung up in my 4x4 to be ironic), and well, we really want to go and, well, walk in the sun, but till then tramps like us baby we were born to run. So run we do - to Jarvis Cocker, though we stop on the way and help somebody who has just passed out. We arrive as they slump; offer water and aid; and then continue on our quest. Jarvis clearly has power -; to put us there right then! Jarvis of course has experience of challenging God-like performances, so I'll not be detailing this turn of events to him.
So there is he, looking just like he did five days later on BBC Question Time, the latter a put-up job if I ever saw one just so Dimbleby could ask him about THAT stage invasion, MJ being hot news, and all that. Anyway, on stage, he’s great, and plays a long 12-song set ending in a magnificent “You’re in my eyes (discosong)”. It’s introduced with “is anybody scared of saxophones”, and must have lasted well over ten minutes.
But what’s that lurking above the stage?
Jarvis makes reference to it. “I’m trying to work out who that is. I keep thinking it’s an angel that’s come to take me to heaven -; or perhaps more likely somewhere else”. It’s MJ of course, just dropped in to say high from on high. Very funny at the time.
Jarvis doesn’t make any more MJ references than that one. Half way through, a tribute to Jarvis is paid (as we find out later by a fan crashing the stage). He toasts Jarvis. “"Without this man, Britpop would have been ****. He gave it integrity, which no-one else did.” And that was that.
I’m next to a massive Jarvis Cocker fan who wishes he’s lived through The Jam. He knows all of the recent Paul Weller songs, but can’t believe he’s standing next to somebody old enough to remember when “Start” went straight in at Number One -; a rare event way back then. Ahhh... and post-Jam, the sublime Long Hot Summer EP by The Style Council. Those were the days. It’s falafel and chips for tea (appropriately enough), and we sit around a camp fire that has lit just fine and discuss Rolf HARRIS. Nobody else made it to see Rolf from the camp. Lucky sods.
I’m asleep by around 2.30am, and up by 10am. And off to see Howard Marks. I read one of his books (haven’t we all -; just one). He’s talking about God condoning smoking, and then plays a five minute song by a German DJ which includes some words by Dylan Thomas, and I think, some by Howard Marks. I drift away, as it’s pretty poor, really.
11. You’re in the Army… Now (who remembers that one?!)
Ah -; it wasn’t Bruce Springsteen I meant of course to include in my "Gang of Three". It was Status Quo! So I'm infront of the Pyramid Stage to watch them. Alas, they can’t stop complaining about having a short set and therefore having to crack on. They are also sniping about the time they are on (naturally, they should be following Blur). This reminds me a bit of The Wurzels attitude a couple of years back. Lots of people are dancing about to Status Quo, and I spend a lot of time resisting the temptation to reach for the air guitar. I succeed. Two kids in front of us are sitting in fold up seats playing Top Trumps. I think it is dinosaurs or something, though I’m not convinced I didn’t spot Francis Rossi on one of the cards. Maybe it's 1960's pop stars. Important difference. [Rossi and Lancaster got together initially in 1962, becoming The Status Quo in 1967, the year I was born.]
Half way through the set Alistair is offered a light by somebody from Pirates of the Caribbean. Alas Alistair lost the jet lighter that I bought him last year.
There is bit of a lull, so we buy some lunch and I read the newspaper. We find a jet lighter that I take a 60% share in, but it proves worthless. We see a fraction of Linda Lewis’ set at Jazz World which does little for me, a track by Kate Walsh, and then leg it to see John Otway in the Cabaret Tent. We can barely get in. A pretty permanent fixture at Glastonbury, it’s always “fun” to see Mr Otway.
Having listened to Tony Benn a couple of years back, I thought I’d try to get to hear Nick Clegg, but they’ve relocated the hotbed of political debate to the other side of the site, so it’s not to be.
Instead, I watch 30 minutes of Glenn Tilbrook. He was really engaging, very personable. And a great moment -; touching (but wait...), then genuinely funny, and then ultimately touching again. He started talking about Michael Jackson and how he thought is was tragic that he’d had fame forced on him, having had such a pushy father. He lamented how from a very early age, Jackson's childhood has been taken away from him, and he’d been thrust onto the stage, and how wrong and tragic is was. Pause. “So on that note, I’d like to introduce by son…”. I can’t remember his name or age (perhaps 6 or 7 years old?), but he was duly wheeled out on a wooden platform with a pair of bongos, and they played a few songs together. Very funny -; and very sweet. Father and son performing at Glastonbury together. Just having fun, really. I liked Glenn Tilbrook. He seemed like a really nice guy.
12. It Must be Love. Love… Love…
Well, we’re nearing the end of the write up. Well done for making it this far, through more than seven thousand words if truth be told. Like you, I’m in for the long haul. I’ve decided to abandon sustenance (both food and drink) with the aim of being at the front of the Pyramid stage for the next six or seven hours to see Madness, Nick Cave and Blur. There are lots of other performances going on that I’d have loved to have seen (namely Bat for Lashes, Gong, Glasvegas and The Prodigy), but you can’t do it all at Glastonbury. I’ve managed to avoid Tom Jones though. Sorry, but I’d rather pull out my own teeth. No that’s not strong enough a sentiment. Ah yes -; that’s better. (Sorry, I’m keeping that one to myself.) Anyway, I don't know why - just don't like Tom. Prefer Thom.
So, an evening on the old pins beckons as on come Madness. It’s a really entertaining set with lots and lots of songs -; nineteen in fact. Their collective families join them on stage at the end, everybody having a great time. House of Fun is a riot, and on It Must be Love rather oddly I have my only real Glastonbury moment this year. Sometimes music takes you back to a place that you’d forgotten existed. This song did it for me. Suggs has a few gentle digs at the excess weight of band members which is delivered with a lot of humour (and taken on board with a modicum of homour), and the video for Baggy Trousers is recreated on stage. A high wire act of sorts, but with age taking its toll.
13. Cave Dwellers
So Madness leave us, and madness joins us (after a lengthy pause). Nick Cave was probably the most surreal gig of Glastonbury for me. A combination of both on-stage and off-stage activity make it, well, “different”. I’m within touching distance of the barrier in front of The Pyramid Stage at this point with three people in front of me...
... and about ninety-three thousand behind ...
... the crowd continuing to grow as the evening goes on. I don’t have any Nick Cave albums, and know little of his material, but I’ll be remedying that shortly.
In the "audience to be", things are kicking off. First of all a couple of guys who could very genuinely have been in The Bad Seeds (for that’s what they claim) are late for the gig and "need to get on stage". They’ve worked their way through the entire crowd. So we let them though, knowing we are being hoodwinked in order that they secure a good position centre stage. But they keep going, ultimately being lifted over the barriers, and summarily ejected. All very strange. Is this the plan? To be thrown out before Nick Cave arrives? Genius. Maybe. And then it gets odder. Nick Cage arrives and starts to perform. I’m not sure he’s really noticed us. But then he starts performing "at us" rather than "for us", I think. Perhaps all part of the show -; and it’s some show at that.
He's started by dedicating the set to Farrah Fawcett, and it goes from there...
Throughout, he's stalking about on stage like a man possessed. Menace, with style. I’m not sure if you’d end up drinking Jack Daniels with the Bad Seeds or turn on your heels and run as you entered the bar and spotted them. Regardless, they are an intrinsic part of the on-stage presence.
As hinted many thousands of words ago, three Borats are dressed in green mankinis. (I’ll let you do the search on Google images if you are not up to speed on this, but I warn you, it’s not pretty!). They are very close to the front. For Madness? Yes. Spinal Tap? Yes, again. Tom Jones? Why not. But at Nick Cave? As detailed at the start of this blog, rather too much was showing. I guess mankinis are best (if there is a “best”, here) viewed from anywhere but the side (and preferably in a black-out). Nick appears not to have noticed, but is, at the same time, becoming increasingly wolverine as he prowls about, occasionally spitting, and generally looking more disturbing (but still immaculate).
The final song (number fourteen for those of you counting) is called Stagger Lee, and it’s startling. He’s reworked it and made it angrier than ever before. Not angry. That’s a weak word. Insane. Full of feedback and dispair. And then, as if the Borats aren’t enough, a young lady in the audience decides to climb up on someone’s shoulders, and well, err, anyway.
You saw it here first.
Nick appeared to notice. But notice the audience reaction - none. Not an eyelid batted. Nick Cave has our attention.
So that was that. Thanks, Nick. Really good.
14. It all went past in such a Blur...
A thirty minute pause takes place whilst a set of steps is carefully attached to the front of the stage for Mr Albarn to be able to walk up and down. Health and safety are out in force, and I’m sure the rails are checked for splinters before sign-off. Not sure what a Risk Assessment for Glastonbury would look like. A lot better than ten years ago I suspect.
This gig has been VERY hyped in the run up to Glastonbury, and whilst I have all (well, nearly all) of Blur's albums I’ve never been a hardcore fan. But from Tender (which becomes an anthem for the evening) to Girl’s and Boys, to Beetlebum, to Coffee and TV and on to For Tomorrow, it’s fair to say they’ve got some cracking songs. I saw them at Brixton Academy quite a few years back and thought they were great. This is, well, bigger.
I was also right up close for the first part where you can really see the band, see how they are performing together. Some bands really are “bands”, and others are collections of musicians. On that Sunday evening Blur really were a band. It’s hard to believe they could get on without each other, really. It’s definitely an event.
I’ll not wax lyrical about the performance, as there are many 5 star ratings elsewhere for you to read. But yes, Damon did appear really moved at times, and did sit down to take it all in. It’s pretty intense down at the front, so I decide to head back -; just a bit -; so I can enjoy the performance rather then spending half my time just trying to stay upright. The view below is from my new vantage point.
15. "You can't beat a bit of Bully!"
From my new position I see a couple of lads -; perhaps one 17 or 18 years old and clearly having fun (but slightly the worse for wear), and one perhaps in his early 20s. The younger is dancing around, banging into the older guy who is reacting by grabbing him and aggressively shoving him forwards. It’s done with real venom -; not a “watch out mate”, but with what comes over as real hate. The unpleasant, nasty look on his face disturbs me. This interaction between the two of them happens a couple of times, then stops, and then it happens again, the younger guy either not realizing he's crashing into the other guy, or just being an idiot. And then guy behind raises his arm, points his elbow out, and attempts to crack it first into the guy’s neck, and then his nose.
It was interesting standing there watching this happen in slow motion, stone cold sober. I daresay that it was alcohol fueled, but it just came over as bullying. Nasty, bullying. Very occasionally I witness “companies” doing this to each other. And companies are just collections of people, so that means that people are actually doing this. Corporate culture and all that is obviously an excuse. It shouldn’t be about doing what you can or getting away with what you can; it’s about doing what you should. If the majority of our right honorable MPs had taken this approach, they might have done rather better. Or we can look at certain Ponzi schemes for other examples. “Nothing personal - it’s just business” is one hell of an excuse. Once again, a little personal responsibility, please. But if our kids grow up surrounded by “can” rather than “should”, then they'll not get it either unless we explain.
Back to the guy -; the strong guy -; the tough guy -; who’s being aggressive and generally hateful. It’s well documented of course that it’s generally the bully that’s the weak one, but that doesn’t help when you’ve got an elbow in your face at a Blur concert. So there I am, holding them apart, and I’m shouting at them (so I can be heard) that they are ruining it for everybody, and err, in words a little like this, they really had better stop what they are doing. They are so confused by this tirade that they stop, and we have no more nonsense. Who’s the bully now? Sadly, sometimes in life you just have to get cross. Cutlery drawer shut.
On comes that rhythm, ever so gently, I think initially from Graham Coxon’s guitar. We all know what it is. It feels like a clock being over wound. Like standing at the start of a race that you can’t lose with the countdown ticking... 10, 9, 8... Like being on the wing of a small plane, feet over the edge, parachute on, knowing you have to jump. Like a rush of life approaching. It can only be one Song. Song 2.
Kerr Pow! Nothing like it. I think Glastonbury Tor might have slipped slightly. Pleased to meet you!
16. Let's (w)rap it up
On my way back to the tent, I stop to warm my hands by a pile of burning rubbish, a chair propped on top (“don’t worry mate, it was only eight quid”). I double back and photograph it. It looked like this:
I wonder at the time if anybody from Greenpeace is warming themselves by the flames, the orange glow lighting up the mess that is all around us.
Video clips of people sorting out recycling after the event give a warm glow, but not as warm as that bonfire that I stood and watched for a couple of minutes. Whilst you can blow out a candle, you can't blow out a fire - once the flames begin to catch, the wind will blow it higher. (With thanks to Peter Gabriel, I wonder about this...) When people take internal flights to keep costs down because it’s “most economically advantageous” it’s time to stand back and sort some of this stuff out. The problem is nobody is really prepared to do it.
We left our pitch like this:
Holier than thou? Why not.
So there it was. Glastonbury 2009. Enjoyable, and relatively dry for a change. As ever, there is nothing like it, but this year, for me, not as remarkable as other years. I’m sure the Eavis camp described it as the best ever (this, an annual event), but I’m left tired and a bit confused, I think. But as the days go on and I return to post-Glastonbury normality, I realize that I had enjoiyed myself with good friends, and all in all, it was, well, err - fun! Great fun.
Thanks for reading this. I trust your teaspoons aren't too blunt. Catch you later, I hope.
Patrick