GLASTONBURY FESTIVAL 2007

If there is a God, he’s certainly got a sadistic streak. Arriving in the depths of Somerset last Thursday afternoon, we were greeted by weather conditions that, if not quite giving the Bahamas a run for their money, were perfectly cordial and conducive for lazing about on the grass, sipping on over-priced Carlsberg and taking in the sheer scale of it all. For a Glasto first-timer, it’s quite intimidating to behold; I’d heard it was big but it really is something else. But then, the heavens opened. And never closed. As a townie suddenly and frighteningly displaced to the wilds of the countryside, the sudden transformation of my surroundings from ‘solid’ to ‘liquid’ was disarming to say the least, but soon I came accustomed to it. I learned the three very different types of mud- the watery, splashy type; the thicker, slippery type and the viscous sludge of unrelenting evil. I learned that hay is the most valuable resource in the world ever. And I learned that buying £8 tents from Argos will not necessarily guarantee you a comfortable and (more notably) dry experience.

But despite the adverse weather conditions, I did occasionally venture outside of my tent to check out some of the great music on offer. Must admit it didn’t get off to the most inspiring start- Adjagas were a bit disappointing after their intriguing show at the Scala last October; their decision to dilute their traditional Sami folk with mawkish euro-rock served only to make them sound like mid-ranking Eurovision entrants. But they seemed like the Beatles in comparison to NME wank-fodder The View, who delivered a set so banal it made me want to gouge my eyes out with despair. Here’s a tip, lads- if you want to start mass crowd-pleasing clapalongs, please learn how to play in fucking time, thank you. Thank God then for my beloved Earlies providing salvation- admittedly they started off a bit flat but once they got into their groove their idiosyncratic orchestral-prog awesomeness seemed to win over an initially cynical crowd. It’s good to see an underrated band making such a good impression in such a mighty venue- hopefully it’s done something for their sluggish record sales. But even they were overshadowed by gypsy-punk mentalists Gogol Bordello who, as I’ve said so many times before, are one of the best fucking live bands on the planet. I’m happy to report they did nothing to dispel this opinion by getting the whole crowd to jump, pogo and at times slide about in the mudpit that was once the front of the Pyramid Stage; shame that Baro Faro and associated bass-drum-surfing behaviour failed to make an appearance but even so, they easily put on one of the most entertaining sets of the whole festival.

Yet this was all merely a prelude to the sheer awesomeness of the rest of Friday. Bright Eyes were a very nice surprise; didn’t really know what to expect but the ten piece orchestra and snazzy suits immediately grabbed my attention, and it was matched by a performance that was just as classy. As I’ve only really listened to Cassadaga (which I like a lot), the fact the set contained hardly any older stuff wasn’t an issue for me but it was clear a lot of the audience was disappointed. But hey, fuck ‘em- they’re probably bloody hippies anyway. Super Furry Animals, despite some clever gimmickry were a bit dull, so I took the opportunity to get a bite to eat and a sit down (which was harder to do than it sounds when everywhere in a two mile radius is a churned-up mud bath) before returning to see jaunty Scousers The Coral. I was totally into their debut back in the day, so I appreciated the fact that they played pretty much the whole of that album, and although the subsequent LP’s weren’t as strong they still passed the time most pleasantly. But it was what came next that defined the festival for me. Rufus Wainwright was superb; he’s a showman par excellence as well as having an amazing voice. His duet with his sister Martha on “Hallelujah” was a bit ramshackle but when it worked it was truly beautiful- a proper lighter-waving moment. But the inarguable highlight was when he came on stage dressed as Judy Garland and delivered a fully choreographed routine (with his backing musicians doubling up as back-up dancers) to “Get Happy”. Oh so camp, but oh so brilliant. ‘What could top this‘, I thought? ‘Oh wait, the Arcade Fire are next…’

It was a bit of a so-so start by AF standards, with the sound disappointingly thin during Black Mirror and No Cars Go and the crowd uncustomarily subdued. But once they got going, there was no stopping them- Laika was brilliant with Richard and Will on top form, leaping off the stage and throwing ladders and My Body Is A Cage was utterly magnificent, they’ve really managed to transform it into a worthy centerpiece of their set. And from Tunnels onwards, they were about as good as I’ve ever seen them. They nailed Ocean of Noise for the first time ever, Power Out seguing into Rebellion was nigh-on-perfect and Wake Up was one of the most breathtaking moments of my gig-going career; tens of thousands of people singing along at their top of lungs was truly one of those ‘moments’ people will be talking about for years to come. This brilliance was then followed by the equally glorious Bjork, whose delivered a truly mindblowing set. I’d never been a particularly big fan before, but she put on an astounding performance, complete with lasers, African musicians, full brass section, techno beats and her own formidable charm. I was knackered, but also completely mesmerised- never seen anything quite like it. And can I say, for someone who’s old enough to be my mother, she’s still bloody attractive (and blessed with the BEST ACCENT IN THE WORLD EVER.) All in all, as good a day of music as I’ll ever be lucky to see.

Saturday proved to be less impressive. The Hours put on a decent, if uninspiring set that frankly I can’t really remember much about. Guillemots were good, if still only a pale shadow of their glory days- Fyfe’s love of experimentalism has seemingly overcome his ability to write a good tune, which is a real shame for a band who used to get the balance so perfect. Still, as long as they still have songs like Trains To Brazil and Sao Paolo in the repertoire, they’ll always have a place in my affections. Holy Fuck were dead impressive with their crazy Casio keyboard lo-fi techno; performance-wise they reminded me favourably of the fantastic Battles, although they lacked the jaw-dropping creativity and technical skill of that band. On the way to see Duke Special at the Queen‘s Head, I passed CSS who despite my indifference to their Astoria show in April seemed to be putting on a damn good performance. Indeed, I probably should have stayed to watch them because the Queen’s Head was so crammed it was impossible to enjoy the performance, even though he was really rather great. Afterwards, we went to check out the Klaxons; maybe I was too far back, or perhaps I should have been waving a glowstick, but I didn’t get them at all. Still, the lead singer’s obvious emotion at playing the Other Stage was quite touching, even if I found their music a bit bland. I briefly retreated to my tent, where I listened to the dulcet tones of the Pigeon Detectives wafting from the John Peel Tent. To my surprise, they were pretty good- despite being one of those identikit British indie acts riding on the crest of the post-Arctics zeitgeist, they definitely knew how to work a crowd and although their songs won’t win any awards for originality, they were a lot better than those of their peers.

Rested up, I squelched my way to the Pyramid Stage for the evening’s entertainment. Paul Weller impressed me far more than I expected, no arguing he’s a bit middle of the road but the atmosphere was good, you could bop to his tunes and he wrapped up with Town Called Malice which made everyone happy. But subsequently, I was left with a dilemma- stay in my cushy spot near the front of the Pyramid Stage for the Killers or mosey off down to check out !!! and hope for the best on my return? Naturally, I plumped for the option that required less effort, which meant dealing with the hordes of irritating upper-middle class 16 year olds screeching excitedly for the charisma-free Kooks. In fairness, they did deliver a competent performance (and are thus several leagues about the fucking View) but I couldn‘t get at all enthused by their derivative guitar-pop. And the wait wasn’t even worth it in the end as the Killers, for the most part, were monumentally dull. Despite all the pyrotechnics and impressive stage sets, murky acoustics and a pedestrian performance sucked the atmosphere out of the place and the buzz that would normally surround such a high-profile show was conspicuously absent. Even big-hitters like Somebody Told Me were devoid of energy, meaning the lesser-known songs from Sam Town’s really didn’t stand a chance. You really could just see the collective look on the audiences face- “I missed Iggy Pop for THIS?” They slightly redeemed themselves at the tail-end of their set with great renditions of “Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll”, “Mr. Brightside” and “All The Things I Have Done,” but on the whole it was a terribly shrugworthy performance. Ah well, you can’t win them all.

By the final day, the paucity of interesting headliners and a desire to do something a bit different led me to check out some bands that I wouldn’t necessarily normally see. And it was a course of action that definitely paid dividends; Aqualung were a lovely Sunday morning treat with their piano-led balladry, Tiny Dancers’ cheerful pop was pretty decent and The Noisettes impressed me mightily with an electrifyingly charismatic performance. I made a brief detour to the Other Stage to see Cold War Kids, who were magnificent- Nathan’s bluesy howl and intense performance really made their songs come alive on this intimidating stage. The sun making an appearance during closer ‘Hang Me Up To Dry’ was a wonderful piece of serendipitous timing, but the whole set was delightful enough to ensure them a fair few new fans. I then returned John Peel-wards to see The Rumble Strips (who were a lot of fun and I’d love to see again) before making the long and traumatic trek to the turgid bog that constituted the Park Stage. Which, as luck would have it, proved to be an utter waste of time as Micah P. Hinson had broken his arm and cancelled (what a fucking wuss.) And what added insult to injury is that we had to survive twenty minutes of that overhyped drug addict Pete Doherty deluding himself he was a modern-day Bob Dylan rather than a pitiable, emaciated wretch who could barely strum a guitar. So we marched back over the fields of woe to the Jazz Stage to see Beirut; it has to be said the band had been a bit too liberal with the alcohol consumption prior to the show and thus found it difficult to keep it together but nonetheless they got the whole crowd tapping their feet with their Balkan-infused balladry. (Saw them on Monday at the Southbank Centre and Tuesday at the Koko too, where they put on far more accomplished performances.) Then Scott dragged me to see left-wing agitator Billy Bragg on the Leftfield stage, which to my utter shock and surprise I really enjoyed. I may strongly (at times vehemently) disagree with his politics, but he seems like a genuine chap as well as an impressive orator and a damn fine comical lyricist.

So we had reached the end of the last day of Glastonbury, and I had one more big choice to make- The Who or the Chemical Brothers? In the end, we plumped for neither- we all went along and had a fucking great singalong to the Bootleg Beatles instead (Hey Jude FTW!). It was a bit silly, but it seemed to sum up the whole Glasto ethos- it’s not just about the music, but having a lot of fun at the same time. And a lot of fun was certainly had- indeed, camping with a group that I didn’t really know worked out very well as I didn’t have my time spoilt by politics. Yeah, it was uncomfortable and wet and I got fuck-all sleep, but I honestly can’t wait for the opportunity to go again next year...as long as I don’t have to see the View again.