Certainly, it proved a very different Glastonbury to any that your dear SOURCE reviewer had experienced before. By the time the tents were up, we were gasping for refreshments, and a stop at the Somerset cider bus was certainly in order. The first afternoon of Glastonbury proceeded pretty much in this in way, and by 9pm we’d collapsed in a shivering wreck and were not to be seen until 8 the next morning. The legendary SOURCE stamina was found wanting.
Refusing to take the previous evening as a benchmark, Thursday was to be taken at a slower pace, as we hoped the first bands of the festival would hopefully temper the excesses of our youth and enable us to experience night time at Glastonbury for the first time. Maximo Park started off the fray in a packed Queen’s Head tent and proved to go down a storm, foretelling good things for the weekend. An afternoon of further cider drinking sufficiently warmed us up for an evening of much dancing and singing. Certainly, the upbeat Ebony Bones and the far from dulcet tones of two-piece Kap Bambino got the crowd screaming and sweating sufficiently for Metronomy to kick up a riot for what was probably the best evening of the weekend.
Friday did not start so positively. Whilst cooking breakfast (rich tea biscuits, washed down with a can of beer) the sounds of Bjorn Again wafted over Big Ground. If you like Abba, I’m told they’re very good. Apparently, the same goes for Gabrielle Cilmi, who was spotted posing later in the hospitality section for the press as though she’d introduced democracy to China. The Maccabees were as good as ever, their new album really creating a festival-worthy set. N.E.R.D were unfortunate to have their set cut before they’d played any songs anyone could sing along to, while the Fleet Foxes, as musically amazing as their album promises, gave somewhat of a lacklustre performance, which was a shame, but no doubt a side effect of standing in front of a musically tasteless Pyramid Stage crowd waiting for Lily Allen, who was worshipped as though the savour of every sexually frustrated woman at the festival (even though she couldn’t sing and looked like she was on crack). Lady Gaga wasn’t as obscene as expected, but actually rather fun, while a trip to the Pussy Parlure for a sighting of the mysterious Orphelia Fancy girls proved to be futile, although provided a welcome taster to the evening dance tents. Once tired of dancing like an invalid, a quick run over to see Bloc Party sealed a somewhat average Glastonbury day. A retirement to the tent for refreshments seemed worthy, before dancing until dawn at various tents, including the Silent Disco tent and dancing to, you guessed it… Michael Jackson.
Saturday wasn’t as exciting as hoped. Rolf Harris was a laugh for the first song only. Dizzee Rascal was great fun, but a daylight slot doesn’t do many favours. Kasabian seemed to be satisfied that while they’re not going anywhere musically, at least they can still be excessively ugly and make the Pyramid Stage. Pendulum, despite not really being drum’n’bass, were frankly awesome. Dear reader, we’re not going to lie. Bruce Springsteen was very good, but eight-minute renditions of a song’s outro are horrifically wearisome… After two hours of the same stuff we just wanted his pacemaker to fail. Despite a rather unexciting day, the Guilty Pleasures DJ tent provided enough 80s dancing to Depeche Mode to finish the night with a smile.
By Sunday morning, tender was the word. Scorching temperatures and screeching hangovers were playing their toll on our mood, and a wallet devoid of anything useful didn’t help. However, after lazing around sufficiently to find some energy, Frankmusic was as brilliant as others have said, while the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Ladyhawke were enough to get us smiling and dancing again. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds were amusingly creepy, but perhaps needed to be appreciated away from a festival. The Prodigy were as loud as expected, although a pit full of press photographers didn’t really create the dancing mood that was evident on the other side of the crowd barriers. Blur were simply unexciting. Damon Albarn can’t dance, for a start. As we walked away to pack up our tent to get our 1am lift home, we couldn’t help but feel that this Glastonbury just wasn’t as good as last year’s…
In conclusion… Worthy Farm’s atmosphere was as great as ever, with nightlife to satisfy any raver, but ridiculous day temperatures and a rather generic swathe of bands weren’t enough to excite enough beyond a few well-known songs.
Things we noticed:
Tent heat kills polaroids – yes, the hard-to-find film you just spent £30 on.
Other photographers will batter you out of the way if you even so much look as if you know what you’re doing.
Similarly, dancing and singing in the press pit to your favourite songs seems frowned upon by press ‘professionals’. Miserable bastards.
You might think being ‘press’ at a festival is amazingly cool, it’s actually a rather lonely experience, and meeting up with your friends after bands is difficult when they’re too mashed to even answer their phones.
While you can’t find drugs at Glastonbury (because they’re illegal, SOURCE readers) it is very apparent that everyone is on them regardless.
Never accept vodka jelly off a random hippy. You will go blind.
‘Pinging’ stranger’s headphones in the Silent Disco tents is not a socially acceptable way of meeting people.
Despite seeing them six times last year, we should have gone to see Friendly Fires this year.
Glastonbury has a vast hidden hospitality/VIP section that the average Glastonbury goer will never see. Be grateful. It’s a horrific pretentious scene that will ruin your festival, even if they do have scented flush loos.
Bands like Kap Bambino on the small stages proved to be far more fun (and appeared to have more fun) than the bands on the bigger stages, who usually just seemed bored.
Nicholas Blake
