I suspect that Glastonbury 2010 may be remembered as much for the scorching weather as the performances, which is not to say that there was a shortage of top quality entertainment. Over the last year a number of people have told me that Glastonbury is too expensive at £185. A ridiculous amount of money. Yes. Ridiculously low. To see as many bands of repute as I did, let alone as many as I could have done if I enjoyed exemplary fitness and stamina, in any other context, or more properly, variety of contexts, would have cost many times that amount. And that's despite the non-appearance of U2 whose top price tickets last year exceeded £250. Furthermore, the sound quality at every stage I visited at Glastonbury, from the Pyramid down to a tiny outside rostrum in Shangri-La, is exemplary. Not so for U2 at Cardiff last summer, despite their much hyped stage and paying a three figure sum to worship at their altar (albeit much less than the maximum referred to above).
A drawback this year was the last of Ingerland's group matches in the World Cup which fell on the Wednesday and meant that the majority of ticket holders were at Worthy Farm that morning. I had an unavoidable appointment that afternoon and in any case, more than four consecutive nights on a half inch mattress would not be compatible with me being able to stand upright for the next month! What this meant was that despite arriving at 7 a.m. on Thursday after a 5.30 a.m. start, I found myself struggling to find a space big enough to pitch even my one-man micro-tent. I did it, though, this time on the edge of a main thoroughfare. This meant too many people walking past during the night, but also that it was easy to find in the dark. Last year's pitch was in the middle of a sea of bigger tents and involved a nightly search to track my bed down! Anyway, with the aid of some foam earplugs I managed 5 hours sleep each night except for 3 on Sunday when I elected to leave at dawn,making it home for 7.30 a.m.
Friday saw the Pyramid stage opened by the legend that is Rolf Harris. I dutifully waited on the front crush barrier from about 09.30 and was duly rewarded with the best place in the "house", at least once the press pack cleared off, having taken as many pictures of the crowd as of Rolf. I was particularly amused by the photographer with the pass reading "Czech Radio". Well, perhaps the Czechs have their own Radio Times.
Rolf was ailing a bit, having lost his voice earlier in the week, but you wouldn't have known. He lapped up the adulation and played most of his hits bar Jake The Peg, which may require too much balancing skill for an octogenarian. He fluffed the words on Two Little Boys but gave a reasonable explanation - about ten rows back were two people in full kangaroo costumes complete with spring blades so that they could jump several feet into the air. This put him off briefly, which was fair enough.
With Rolf wrapped up I struggled to get round to The Other Stage to meet an old school friend, TC, and quaff some much needed cider. I drank five pints of cider that day and five litres of water, which seemed about right, although a gauge of how hot it was is that I paid only a couple of brief visits to the legendary festival loos, so that was a result in itself!
I hung round with TC to watch the Stranglers. I'd seen them supporting The Who at Wembley Stadium in 1979 when, stubbornly insisting on playing their disappointing Raven album, they had ignored the hits with the result that most of the crowd ignored them. Older and wiser, their first appearance at Glastonbury saw them play nothing but hits for an hour, which is exactly what a festival crowd seems to want and expect. Shortly afterwards TC and I went our separate ways intending to meet again, but thwarted in that by the temperament of my 'phone battery. Hoping to bump into someone in a crowd of 150,000+ just ain't going to happen.
Remaining at the Other Stage I saw most of Phoenix's set . They're French but sing in English and were a bit Kaiser Chiefs-ish. Pleasant but forgettable, I watched them on recommendation, and also because I hadn't the energy to go elsewhere and then come back for the next act, La Roux, who aren't French at all. I wanted to like them and they were entertaining as a one off, but I wouldn't bother again.The singer (Elly Jackson) has a very shrill and slightly abrasive voice, while much of the music owes too much to the synth-pop of the 80's to be taken seriously as ground-breaking. You can dance to it, of course, but I'm not sure why you would choose to when the world is full of more exciting fare. Ms Jackson pointed out that her parents who had never attended a festival before, were sat at the mixing desk halfway back in the arena. Very proud they looked too, but I think their daughter might be better producing records for other people. Still, what do I know?
The downside of a huge festival is that you can guarantee that there will be scheduling clashes between acts you want to see. Everyone had (rightly) recommended Florence, but that meant I missed Mumford & Sons in the John Peel tent (which would have been like taking a particularly malodorous sauna), and most of Dizzee Rascal, just making it back to the edge of the Pyramid arena to see him duet with Florence like he did at the BRIT awards. The crowd were certainly "up for" Dizzy.
Gorillaz (who had been recruited to cover for U2 after Bono hurt his back lifting his wallet) were a few minutes into their performance when it seemed clear to me that the tactic last used when Kylie Mynogue's illness prevented her appearance, of promoting the second name on the bill to headliner, might have worked better. Gorillaz put on an impressive show in that they have bespoke animations for most of their songs and had persuaded all the guests from their records, even Lou Reed, to perform live. Live but not spontaneously. The films set the speed of the performance as rigidly as a metronome, and having been at the front for Rolf I was now nearly at the back, where the sound was very clear, but no longer in synch with the visuals due to the distance. There didn't seem much to be gained from this situation over watching a recording (and the BBC coverage didn't make me feel I missed much), so I set off on another wander. From the top of the Pyramid field there is a fabulous view over towards Glastonbury Tor and also right across the festival site. In the far corner (had to be, didn't it?) I could see plumes of flame shooting up and I remembered that one thing I'd missed in 2009 was the fire show in Arcadia. By this time (10.30 p.m.) though, my feet and back were making themselves known, so I set out to find the "Bourbon Street" Jazz & Blues bar, a new feature for 2010. This I did, and flopped for half an hour in front of another pint of cider and a competent if unremarkable blues band who looked like they were still at school. Maybe they were.
Then I set off on the trek to Arcadia. This is a relatively small area of the site,but expanded from 2009, devoted (at least while I was there) to what I believe are known as "Bangin' Choons". Well, there was plenty of banging anyway, earsplitting volume and hardcore trance music which I have some affection for, although it gets a bit wearing if you're sober and disinclined to dance. The main DJ booth was situated in a tower several stories high, equipped with vents that shot plumes of flame outwards and upwards with varying strength in some sympathy with the music. Not sure how eco-friendly it is, unless Mr Eavis has been bottling his cattle's bi-products, but it was certainly memorable. Just as crowds were flooding from the more orthodox arenas into the nocturnal corners of the site, though, I recognised again the unmistakable feeling of fall-asleep-standing-up fatigue and plodded back to my tent.
Wish I could say I saw the full show illustrated in the video, but my lack of stamina let me down - I'd guess these pictures were taken at about 2 a.m.!
Saturday might normally be considered the "big" day of the festival, but I had been unimpressed by Muse as a choice of headliner. Despite my best efforts and the exhortations of two customers who are also fans, I've found myself unable to like them. All was not lost, though, as there are always plenty of alternatives available. Most obvious were the Pet Shop Boys who I've seen before and who certainly put on a show, but I've seen the DVD of their current tour and I (rightly) guessed that they would be performing a cut down version of that show. More tempting was George Clinton's Parliament & Funkadelic, but I'm getting ahead of myself. There was a whole day to fill first.
An unexpected discovery in 2009 was the Blazing Saddle stage in a corner of the theatre area. I came upon it completely by accident while attempting to find a toilet that didn't make me want to retch (which I successfully did. Hurrah!). Purely by chance, the stage was hosting Dance Wave, a samba band from Scotland. I thought they were wonderful, although my elation may have stemmed in part from my relief at discovering the alternative to Portaloo Hell! The band is comprised of students for the most part, so presumably has a rolling membership, although I certainly recognised several faces when I caught them again this year. Given the weather, a welcome aspect of this relatively minuscule stage is that it casts a very convenient shadow for much of the day, so I happily started Saturday reading the paper while waiting for Carnival Collective and then Dance Wave, both samba bands. By the time I'd enjoyed them both, wet my whistle and had a smackerel of something, Jackson Browne, third act of the day, was on the Pyramid stage. Californian easy listening in the blazing heat, an ideal combination and in fairness, much better than I'd have expected.
"Basic" is a word that might also be applied to the next act, Jack White's "The Dead Weather", but in a less positive way. Easily the worst act I sat through, and down there with the worst I've seen any time anywhere. A true case of The Emperor's New Clothes. Mr White, aside from the White Stripes has also enjoyed success with The Raconteurs for whom I have some affection. Unfortunately he now seems to feel that any noise he chooses to make is worthy of release to a wider audience. The Dead Weather played song after song that were little more than shapeless rants, the tunes simple to the point of ignorability and the lyrical content heavily reliant upon the shouting of a meaningless phrase for the umpteenth time. Perhaps it was exciting and experimental. I just thought it was lazy and crap.
Happily Shakira was able to dispel the gloom thus generated with a bright and breezy if ultimately lightweight sequence of songs which roughly alternated between English and Spanish. She is one of the world's great wigglers but where other acts seem to recognise that there's something special about playing Glastonbury, she was slick, professional and fulfilling her contract.
Which brings us back to the headliner dilemma. In the end I decided to make for West Holts and Funkadelic by way of the Bourbon Street bar. Parliament/Funkadelic sounded great for a while, although starting with a drawn out melancholy guitar solo in tribute to a recently deceased former member was probably not the finest piece of stagecraft I've witnessed. As is the way with Da Funk, though, it can become rather repetitive. At one point George Clinton was joined by his granddaughter who squealed an extended song of praise for weed ("Something smells like a skunk and I want some" went the chorus), and shortly thereafter I thought I'd go and try and catch the last couple of Pet Shop Boys songs. Got the timing wrong on that one though, as I reached the Other Stage just as they left it. At this point I realised that I hadn't really eaten anything since breakfast, so I went back to the celebrated Jerk Chicken stand where a team of men barbecue a constant stream of spiced fowl. Very nice it was too. So nice that I had some more the next evening!
Sunday dawned sunny. Again. This is a mixed blessing if you are under a single layer of tent fabric as the first you know of it is when you realise that the condensation is running down the walls and that yesterday's socks are trying to run away on their own. I'd established a routine by now, involving extensive tending to the whims of my feet. Still managed to get some blisters, but nothing like as bad as last year.
Then time for breakfast, a bacon and sausage baguette and double espresso. I returned to the same vendor each morning on the basis that they hadn't poisoned me before so probably wouldn't this time. Nevertheless it was interesting to note that as the festival wore on and the staff became more exhausted by their twelve hour shifts, my breakfast was slung together with increasing abandon / economy of effort. Can't say I blame them - the ambient heat enhanced by the constant operation of industrial cookers made the working conditions very unpleasant to say the least. It was noticeable that, for all the sunshine, nerves were becoming increasingly frayed in some quarters. I heard barely a crossed word in 2009, but this time there were a few stand-up rows to eavesdrop on (like you could avoid hearing them), the most spectacular of which took up a large tract of the Other Stage arena while I was having Sunday breakfast. The couple were fifty yards from each other but bellowing enthusiastic abuse for all to enjoy .A few hours later I might have assumed it was street theatre, but not at 7.30 a.m.!
My first appointment of the day was The Yeovil Town Band on the Pyramid stage, cranking out jingoistic favourites like The Dambusters, Jerusalem and The Great Escape in anticipation of Ingerland's doomed second round match that afternoon.
Next the Blazing Saddle and another performance by Dance Wave. My enthusiasm for them stems partly from the fact that I'm a sucker for a bit of drumming but also that they look like they are having a great time. If they were somewhere more convenient than Scotland I'd be tempted to try and join up! Again, the shade during the late morning hours before the performance was a welcome relief.
I did watch a bit of Paloma Faith's performance on the Pyramid. She came on in a harness attached to two over-sized helium balloons and it went downhill from there. She'd like to sound like Amy Winehouse but doesn't quite manage it, not helped by being made to look ridiculous before she warbles a note. Sack your management, love!
I missed most of Norah Jones, but the last couple of songs were pretty enough, as was she. Not an ideal festival choice, though.
Slash bade his audience give some love to Ray Davies, erstwhile Kink and national treasure, and that they did. Starting off with just another guitarist at his side, he then introduced a conventional band before going all out with a full choir. Hit after hit came and went, an advantage of three minute songs being that you can fit an awful lot of them into an hour, although he did grumble that he wasn't allowed to perform his full set. Meanwhile England were being crushed by Germany in South Africa, but only blind faith would have told you otherwise.
The Ray Davies singalong was followed by Jack Johnson, my cue to take break before the evening's top acts. Nothing against Mr Johnson, but just not my cup of tea.
Penultimate Pyramid act was Faithless, who have been on my must-see list since they were announced, this enhanced by TC who had seen them at Glastonbury before and assured me that Maxi Jazz has great stage presence. Which, indeed, he has. Sister Bliss scowls at her keyboards throughout, but the front-man keeps smiling as they go through a catalogue of songs that you know without necessarily remembering the titles. Insomnia and God is a DJ are particularly memorable, but so too are songs from their latest album The Dance which I downloaded on my return. I wouldn't expect to "get" Faithless live, as I've never been much of a dance fan, but lyrically they can hold their own and there's no question that, while swollen in anticipation of Stevie Wonder's arrival, the crowd were very much impressed. I thought Maxi Jazz looked relatively old, so it's a relief to find that he is three years older than me rather than unwell.
Stevie Wonder is ten years older than me, but as with Bruce Springsteen last year, you wouldn't know it. I saw him at Birmingham's NIA a couple of years ago on a comeback from the break he'd taken on the death of his mother. At that time, while the show was professional and full of wonderful music, I was disappointed to find that he seemed somewhat subdued as if still brooding on his loss. If that was the case, he's recovered by now, as his entrance, playing a portable "keytar", testified and his sense of humour had recovered too.In the course of encouraging world peace and so forth he observed that "If I wasn't blind I'd be spending a lot of time kicking ass". You'd be forgiven for forgetting that he is blind but for a brief moment when he seemed to lose a button on his equipment and needed a roadie to sort it out for him. Another great singalong selection, concluding with a presentation to Farmer Eavis and a rendition of Happy Birthday which proved that he should stick to agriculture and organising festivals! And that was Glastonbury 2010 for those of us who couldn't face an even later night wringing the last penny of value from the Dance Village or Arcadia. For me, there was that rendezvous with the jerk chicken I'd promised myself, before three hours sleep and a weary tramp through fog-filled fields to the car and a swift blast up the M5 to my own kitchen.
The weather will almost certainly be less good next year, but if I can get a ticket, I'm there!
