Me, I like to think that life is like a drink and I'm hoping that it tastes like bourbon
Yes, it's late. Life's been getting in the way. I know a fortnight ago is so over but really, if I don't write up what we did at Glastonbury ChrisC and I will spend most of next summer arguing over whether or not we actually saw Ebony Bones and what that band on the bandstand were called.
Everyone who does not need a lengthy exposition on a performing arts festival for their own personal harmony may move along now.
Even in a fortnight, details are becoming fuzzy. Where did we find those two thrones decorated with cockle shells in front of a teatable ? Or the dinosaur made of car tyres ? And where was that heap of sand where I stopped and used the bucket provided to make a castle ?
Who knows ?
Usual band convention: list of bands seen at the top of each day, those in [] are bands I heard only a little of, or wasn't paying proper attention to.
Wednesday
Sun Groove Messengers
I bounded out of bed far too early on Wednesday morning, giving myself time to braid my hair, work an eight hour day, and be ready to leave by 4pm. Actually, we faffed til five then had a clear run down the A303.
Sure, we sms'd to Carolyn. See you at the cider bus at half past nine.
Maybe not, we sms'd later.
Having got within spitting distance (if you're a camel) of the site by around seven, we spent an hour and a half joining various queueueues before we finally got ourselves parked. In the event, we did pass the cider bus at around half nine, but still with rucksacks in tow and tent in hand.
Once pitched, we headed out for our rapidly-becoming-traditional Wednesday evening meal from Katie's Thai Kitchen.... what! It's not there! A different Thai restaurant-trailer was parked in its space. Called, I dunno, The Taste of Thailand or something equally bland. Impostors! Fiends! Oh, wait, the sign behind the counter still says "Welcome to Katie's". Er... ok.
We ate, then went a-wandering until we found the bandstand, where we plonked down on the ground to listen to the lazy, Sunday-afternoon jazz of Sun Groove Messengers.
Going to bed later, I lay awake marvelling quietly. There were no significant stages running; The Glade, whose pounding bass would soundtrack our nights fron Friday onwards, was barely even built let alone plugged in. The noise was nothing but the fuzzy roar of a hundred thousand people talking to their mates. Bluntly, everyone else was marvelling noisily. A surprisingly loud, but friendly sound. I went to sleep.
Thursday
Stornoway, Golden Silvers, Ebony Bones, [Kap Bambino]
By mid morning we'd made it all the way over there to the Avalon café to see Stornoway. They're an Oxford band, who I'd highly recommend if you like your music vaguely orchestral and don't mind occasional banality of lyrics. We pulled up some grass and sat down in the big marquee, flowered chandeliers swinging gently above us.
Stornoway kicked off, and soon had a huge crowd. The singer beamed happily around the packed audience, obviously delighted that their music had pulled so many passers-by into the café. Then, in a moment of silence, he heard the tell-tale noise. The thudding patter of rain on the canvas roof: people weren't pulled by the sounds, they were driven by the sudden thundershower.
Actually Stornoway were great; as well as filling time nicely until the weather stopped and we were due to meet the ever-lovely satyrica for tea, they played epic songs with a slightly bleak edge. Exactly like a band called Stornoway should sound. Only with a trumpet.
An hour or three later found me in Jazzworld, hanging out by a sausage stall and peering suspiciously at single men. I don't make a habit of this. I was looking for brrm, armed only with the knowledge that he was in the area and that in wet weather he wore a hat and a waterproof. It wasn't wet, but I managed to collect the correct guy on only the second attempt. Brrm turned out to be very fine company, and accompanied us to the frankly damp environs of the Queens Head to watch a couple of bands despite several rather apocalyptic downpours. (Tip: to make friends at a festival, carry a very large umbrella.)
With extremely good judgement, he left before Kap Bambino came on; I'd been keen to see them but they were extremely dull. In fact, owing to unmitigated shiteness on the part of 02 that was the last we saw of Brrm; the other iPhone user we never managed to meet with at all.
Friday
Attila the Stockbroker, Fleet Foxes, Puppini Sisters, [Lily Allen], Little Boots, [Lady Gaga], The Specials, Neil Young, Bloc Party
There is a rumour (started by ChrisC) that I am a fool. This is because 11am on Friday morning saw me sitting outside a teepee in the Healing Field, chatting to a man brewing Rooibos tea over a brazier made from the guts of a washing machine. Once he'd had his cuppa, we retired inside the teepee so that I could have an hour's shiatsu to set me up for the weekend. It's not that ChrisC is inherently against teepees or massage or people who drink Rooibos tea (as far as I know); it's just that by being there I wasn't in front of the Pyramid stage watching Björn Again. Apparently they were bloody marvellous.
Disappointingly, I couldn't find the lovely Simone who made me so Tall at Glastonbury in 2007. This chap was very much at the spiritual end of shiatsu and was all about decongesting my spleen meridian when really I'd rather he'd made my neck a bit less stiff. Also, disappointingly, I got to find out the answer to the question "Why doesn't the rain come in the hole in the roof of a teepee?" Answer: it does. From my slightly damp shiatsu session I did hear Waterloo in the distance. On my way out from the tent at ten I'd already spotted the first traders putting out t-shirts with Michael Jackson slogans on them; for once a festival rumour of death turned out to be true.
This year's Glastonbury line-up didn't grab me as others had; there was no one I really felt I had to see. And, to add insult to injury, someone had organised the timetable so that all the bands I was keen on were on at the same time. There seemed to be vast tracts of Friday where neither ChrisC nor I cared much about the bands. Taking our usual approach that an hour is probably just enough time for a five minute walk we watched a bunch of acrobats and contortionists before deciding sword-swallowing really isn't a great spectator sport and heading off to watch Attila. Once he'd finished frothing, we spent most of the afternoon wandering wide-eyed around the works-in-progress Trash City, Shangri-La and Arcadia.
Neil Young wasn't a headliner I was crazy (horse) about, but I wondered if in years to come I might regret not having seen him. He wasn't a hugely popular headliner either; ChrisC and I managed to walk easily through the crowd to find Simon knowing only which speaker he was near. I watched Neil Young with them for a while, before sneaking off shamefacedly to watch Bloc Party (well, they were on my way home). I enjoyed Mr Young - recognising more songs than I expected - but the Pyramid headliners tend to do two-hour-plus sets, giving you plenty of time to watch a good chunk then slope off.
Saturday
The Broken Family Band, Peter, Björn and John, [Rolf Harris], Erik Truffaz, Spinal Tap, Murray Lachlan Young, Aisle 16, Bang-On, Harry North, The Wombats, Kasabian, Bruce Springsteen, The Wonder Stuff, [unknown covers band in Shangri-La]
Saturday was one of those mornings, where by about 7:05 your tent is unbearably hot. We pried ourselves out and down to the Other stage in time to hear the Broken Family Band come on. We hung around to watch the slightly odd Peter, Björn and John - more on that later.
We tried to see Rolf Harris. We really did. What we hadn't quite bargained for was that every single other person in the entire festival would be doing the same thing. The crowds trying to get into Jazzworld were immense, the field itself packed to the gunwhales with people trying to see what it is, yet. We squoze ourselves up against the rear fence shortly before security closed the entrances. (I believe that the Levellers held the front-of-stage crowd-record for the Jazzworld from their performance a few years ago. Unless that was truly riotous, they must have lost it.)
So we heard, but didn't see, the mighty Rolf. Which is a shame, because he sounded great (following Two Little Boys with a parody involving saveloys and bus-stops). Under cover of his carefully arranged ending ("if you want a good burst of spontaneous applause, you have to organise it"), I whipped a small square of cardboard out of my bag. Using my best scouting techniques, I lashed it surreptitiously to a fence and walked away.
Later in the afternoon we'd drifted away from the main stages, and come to rest in the Poetry and Words tent. "Wow," said a curly-topped poet. "At a festival like this, you've come to hear poetry. You're either epic doyennes of culture, or you're completely spannered and had to get away from it all." Well, technically neither, but a nice sitdown was welcome and I really enjoyed the stuff we heard. Note to self: google for Aisle 16 (five young guys who did variously solo and, er, not solo stuff. Choric speech ? Synchronised poetry ? I dunno.)
Passing through Jazzworld, I sat down to watch my bit of cardboard. It was disappointing. Then, just as ChrisC came back from fetching me some miso soup, a couple stopped dead in their tracks, hugged, and walked on.
I'd put up a sign which read "PUBLIC CUDDLING SPOT". Over the next ten minutes, we watched several couples, some groups of friends, and what we guessed to be a mum-and-daughter stop to enjoy the freely available cuddling spot. I went on my way happy.
And then I was even more happy when I spotted a group of people carrying small polystyrene triliths on their way to see Spinal Tap. But I digress.
Later, looking over ChrisC's shoulder I warned him to look round. There was a gang of trolls behind him. Now, this is the kind of thing I say all the time. Usually to someone who is holding a plate of chips. Having established that he wasn't holding anything stealable, he turned round. There was a gang of trolls behind him. Giving out free hugs. I love the circus fields.
One of the few bands I'd marked as close to 'must see' were The Gaslight Anthem. On our way towards them, we found a blackboard near the Dance and Fire stage. We immediately diverted (and found a mob of horses in evening dress, and watched a beautiful arialist suspended from a crane which swung him in a wide arc over the crowd, and nearly got run over by a pedal-powered piano, and found a party of mermaids being carried by old men) to watch Bang-On, the amazing percussion duo we encountered a few years ago in Manchester. So instead of seeing the Boss join TGA on stage, I was sitting in the sunshine with a plastic bottle full of rice, shaking it as directed by a man in an orange hard hat.
Then... disaster struck. We'd headed over to The Departure Lounge, a stage sponsored by Greenpeace and set up as part of their anti-third runway protest. It was, in itself, a work of art: a facsimile of an airport departure lounge, complete with uniformed staff who occasionally made people take off their shoes and hop through an arbitrary security gate. ChrisC and I were both keen to see The Low Anthem, a wonderful Rhode Island band I encountered recently. We'd missed their first set to see the Puppini Sisters. On the discovery of a third set (in the Departure Lounge) we'd missed the second to see Peter, Björn and John. Sitting by baggage check-in and watching the departure board, we discovered that the singer was ill and they'd pulled out. Disappointed, we watched a great slide guitarist (with a lacklustre voice) with rather less attention than he really deserved.
Back at the Queen's Head later, we saw the Wombats. As the singer said (in between frankly bizarre remarks about zebras and their means of ingress into this world) "it's the general concensus that at a festival the Wombats are always worth a squirt". They really are a top festival band, and for the first time in the weekend I was in a crowd where everyone seemed to know the words and be jumping up and down (celebrating the irony, naturally). Even if you don't know who they are, go and see the Wombats at a festival. They're a lot of fun.
We watched the first half of the Boss's own set, then stole silently away to Avalon to see the Wonder Stuff. Only we arrived late, because we got distracted by a show with fire jugglers, fire poi, fire devil sticks, people in flaming spinning hoops, enormous spouting jets of fire, and a couple of giant mechanial monsters that breathed fire. Did I mention I love the cirucs and theatre fields ?
The Wonder Stuff were brilliant, on their reunion tour ("you won't hear us utter those dreaded words... 'this is from the new album'"). Inside the tent with a few thousand manically bouncing fans was fantastic, but hard on tired feet. We repaired outside, and listened while sitting on one of the see-saws set up outside. You try doing that at Reading.
ChrisC and I perched on the end closer to the stage; at some point we realised a girl was sitting high up on the other end. And the temptation to stand up suddenly during Don't Let Me Down was immense... But we're nice people. We didn't.
If the Q reviews are to be believed, all the fun at Glastonbury is to be had in Shangri-La after midnight. We braved the crowds (and the complicated one-way system) to have a quick glimpse at it as it began to wake up. It is a weird and wonderful place, a tiny town of dives and dens and discos and divas. We enjoyed a quick wander before the place became too packed and headed off to bed.
Sunday
[In Case of Fire], Micachu and the Shapes, [Chief], Art Brut, John Otway, The Capital Years, Tom Jones, Madness, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, The Magic Numbers, Blur
OK, Sunday got off to a weird start. We'd walked up to The Park, which is like a mini-festival all by itself, and lounged on the cushioned benches, by the potted palms, drinking smoothies. We listened to Micachu and the Shapes and were, frankly, a bit scared. Then we entered a low, round tent, left our shoes at the door, lounged on piles of cushions by low tables, and ordered bento boxes for lunch. Kind of accidentally, we'd wandered into a fully-functional Japanese restaurant and (thinking that by Sunday sushi might be chancing it a bit) ordered teriyaki salmon and miso soup. It wasn't only OK, it was really, really good and has raised the bar on festival food somewhat.
When we could be arsed to move again, we headed back down to the main stages and watched Art Brut. I regard Art Brut as a bit of a one-hit wonder and couldn't (then) name a single song other than Formed a Band (despite having seen an Art Brut franchise band a year or so ago). As it turns out, they are incredibly entertaining on stage, and I'd be very keen to see them again. I've since bought an album, but as far as I can tell the only reason to do that is so that you know the songs at the live gigs. They're really very funny; there's also something highly endearing about their strange branding. They are Art Brut, not individuals. "Ready, Art Brut?" asks the singer before each song.
Winding our way through the cool of the Permaculture areas, we thought we'd stop at the café there for their lovely elderflower cordial. I stood in a queue and marvelled at a perfect example of why you should never let hippies organise anything. Never, in my entire life, have I seen so many people working so hard to achieve so little. Without wishing to typecast anyone, I fear the three guys serving may be living evidence that marijuana can damage your short-term memory. The food and drinks are lovely, and cheap, but you just try getting them. On the plus side, because I didn't have the change, they let me off with paying only 65p deposit on the ceramic plate I should have paid £1 for. When I took it back, I made sure I didn't get my full refund (and that threw the guy even more).
On the way out, we paused in a little willow bothy and I tied another cuddling spot sign to the back of the seat. As we left, a couple dived in to have their cuddle.
The more observant (and anal) may have noticed that on Sunday afternoon, I pretty much sat (or stood) in front of the Pyramid stage. I never do that. Yet Tom Jones (so many thousand people singing Delilah), Madness, Nick Cave and Blur were an absolutely fabulous afternoon. Did you spot the odd one out ? Tom Jones, Madness, Nick Cave, Blur ? Yeah so did the crowd, who departed in droves leaving the rest of us to revel in Mr Cave's lunacy. Other acts, fearing unfamiliarity, might have started with a big hit - not Nick Cave, who launched into a searing version of Tupelo, and be buggered with anyone who didn't know it. He finished with a screaming apolocalypse of a Stagger Lee, and pointedly dedicated his entire set to the "late, great Farrah Fawcett".
Madness were a singalong riot (with their saxophonist on wires so he could fly like he does in the videos, poor bugger), and about a million people in the crowd jogging from one foot to the other. From the opener One Step Beyond to the encore of They Call It Madness was just hit after hit for the dancing crowd.
This is the first year I've ever seen (some of) all three Pyramid headliners. But Blur were, even to a fairly wishy-washy fan like me, awesome. As the Chinese-lantern-releasing Blur fans meandered away into the evening, still singing Tender, we met the wild starey-eyed crowd coming from The Prodigy at the Other stage. I think I made the right choice.
And so to bed, and an early morning packing up and tramping to the car. Monday morning saw further heavy rain, and a tactical driving error from me required a bit of pushing from ChrisC to get Johnson up the steep hill and out of the car park. Even with frequent stops, we were home by early afternoon.
When do next year's tickets go on sale, again ?
Everyone who does not need a lengthy exposition on a performing arts festival for their own personal harmony may move along now.
Even in a fortnight, details are becoming fuzzy. Where did we find those two thrones decorated with cockle shells in front of a teatable ? Or the dinosaur made of car tyres ? And where was that heap of sand where I stopped and used the bucket provided to make a castle ?
Who knows ?
Usual band convention: list of bands seen at the top of each day, those in [] are bands I heard only a little of, or wasn't paying proper attention to.
Wednesday
Sun Groove Messengers
I bounded out of bed far too early on Wednesday morning, giving myself time to braid my hair, work an eight hour day, and be ready to leave by 4pm. Actually, we faffed til five then had a clear run down the A303.
Sure, we sms'd to Carolyn. See you at the cider bus at half past nine.
Maybe not, we sms'd later.
Having got within spitting distance (if you're a camel) of the site by around seven, we spent an hour and a half joining various queueueues before we finally got ourselves parked. In the event, we did pass the cider bus at around half nine, but still with rucksacks in tow and tent in hand.
Once pitched, we headed out for our rapidly-becoming-traditional Wednesday evening meal from Katie's Thai Kitchen.... what! It's not there! A different Thai restaurant-trailer was parked in its space. Called, I dunno, The Taste of Thailand or something equally bland. Impostors! Fiends! Oh, wait, the sign behind the counter still says "Welcome to Katie's". Er... ok.
We ate, then went a-wandering until we found the bandstand, where we plonked down on the ground to listen to the lazy, Sunday-afternoon jazz of Sun Groove Messengers.
Going to bed later, I lay awake marvelling quietly. There were no significant stages running; The Glade, whose pounding bass would soundtrack our nights fron Friday onwards, was barely even built let alone plugged in. The noise was nothing but the fuzzy roar of a hundred thousand people talking to their mates. Bluntly, everyone else was marvelling noisily. A surprisingly loud, but friendly sound. I went to sleep.
Thursday
Stornoway, Golden Silvers, Ebony Bones, [Kap Bambino]
By mid morning we'd made it all the way over there to the Avalon café to see Stornoway. They're an Oxford band, who I'd highly recommend if you like your music vaguely orchestral and don't mind occasional banality of lyrics. We pulled up some grass and sat down in the big marquee, flowered chandeliers swinging gently above us.
Stornoway kicked off, and soon had a huge crowd. The singer beamed happily around the packed audience, obviously delighted that their music had pulled so many passers-by into the café. Then, in a moment of silence, he heard the tell-tale noise. The thudding patter of rain on the canvas roof: people weren't pulled by the sounds, they were driven by the sudden thundershower.
Actually Stornoway were great; as well as filling time nicely until the weather stopped and we were due to meet the ever-lovely satyrica for tea, they played epic songs with a slightly bleak edge. Exactly like a band called Stornoway should sound. Only with a trumpet.
An hour or three later found me in Jazzworld, hanging out by a sausage stall and peering suspiciously at single men. I don't make a habit of this. I was looking for brrm, armed only with the knowledge that he was in the area and that in wet weather he wore a hat and a waterproof. It wasn't wet, but I managed to collect the correct guy on only the second attempt. Brrm turned out to be very fine company, and accompanied us to the frankly damp environs of the Queens Head to watch a couple of bands despite several rather apocalyptic downpours. (Tip: to make friends at a festival, carry a very large umbrella.)
With extremely good judgement, he left before Kap Bambino came on; I'd been keen to see them but they were extremely dull. In fact, owing to unmitigated shiteness on the part of 02 that was the last we saw of Brrm; the other iPhone user we never managed to meet with at all.
Friday
Attila the Stockbroker, Fleet Foxes, Puppini Sisters, [Lily Allen], Little Boots, [Lady Gaga], The Specials, Neil Young, Bloc Party
There is a rumour (started by ChrisC) that I am a fool. This is because 11am on Friday morning saw me sitting outside a teepee in the Healing Field, chatting to a man brewing Rooibos tea over a brazier made from the guts of a washing machine. Once he'd had his cuppa, we retired inside the teepee so that I could have an hour's shiatsu to set me up for the weekend. It's not that ChrisC is inherently against teepees or massage or people who drink Rooibos tea (as far as I know); it's just that by being there I wasn't in front of the Pyramid stage watching Björn Again. Apparently they were bloody marvellous.
Disappointingly, I couldn't find the lovely Simone who made me so Tall at Glastonbury in 2007. This chap was very much at the spiritual end of shiatsu and was all about decongesting my spleen meridian when really I'd rather he'd made my neck a bit less stiff. Also, disappointingly, I got to find out the answer to the question "Why doesn't the rain come in the hole in the roof of a teepee?" Answer: it does. From my slightly damp shiatsu session I did hear Waterloo in the distance. On my way out from the tent at ten I'd already spotted the first traders putting out t-shirts with Michael Jackson slogans on them; for once a festival rumour of death turned out to be true.
This year's Glastonbury line-up didn't grab me as others had; there was no one I really felt I had to see. And, to add insult to injury, someone had organised the timetable so that all the bands I was keen on were on at the same time. There seemed to be vast tracts of Friday where neither ChrisC nor I cared much about the bands. Taking our usual approach that an hour is probably just enough time for a five minute walk we watched a bunch of acrobats and contortionists before deciding sword-swallowing really isn't a great spectator sport and heading off to watch Attila. Once he'd finished frothing, we spent most of the afternoon wandering wide-eyed around the works-in-progress Trash City, Shangri-La and Arcadia.
Neil Young wasn't a headliner I was crazy (horse) about, but I wondered if in years to come I might regret not having seen him. He wasn't a hugely popular headliner either; ChrisC and I managed to walk easily through the crowd to find Simon knowing only which speaker he was near. I watched Neil Young with them for a while, before sneaking off shamefacedly to watch Bloc Party (well, they were on my way home). I enjoyed Mr Young - recognising more songs than I expected - but the Pyramid headliners tend to do two-hour-plus sets, giving you plenty of time to watch a good chunk then slope off.
Saturday
The Broken Family Band, Peter, Björn and John, [Rolf Harris], Erik Truffaz, Spinal Tap, Murray Lachlan Young, Aisle 16, Bang-On, Harry North, The Wombats, Kasabian, Bruce Springsteen, The Wonder Stuff, [unknown covers band in Shangri-La]
Saturday was one of those mornings, where by about 7:05 your tent is unbearably hot. We pried ourselves out and down to the Other stage in time to hear the Broken Family Band come on. We hung around to watch the slightly odd Peter, Björn and John - more on that later.
We tried to see Rolf Harris. We really did. What we hadn't quite bargained for was that every single other person in the entire festival would be doing the same thing. The crowds trying to get into Jazzworld were immense, the field itself packed to the gunwhales with people trying to see what it is, yet. We squoze ourselves up against the rear fence shortly before security closed the entrances. (I believe that the Levellers held the front-of-stage crowd-record for the Jazzworld from their performance a few years ago. Unless that was truly riotous, they must have lost it.)
So we heard, but didn't see, the mighty Rolf. Which is a shame, because he sounded great (following Two Little Boys with a parody involving saveloys and bus-stops). Under cover of his carefully arranged ending ("if you want a good burst of spontaneous applause, you have to organise it"), I whipped a small square of cardboard out of my bag. Using my best scouting techniques, I lashed it surreptitiously to a fence and walked away.
Later in the afternoon we'd drifted away from the main stages, and come to rest in the Poetry and Words tent. "Wow," said a curly-topped poet. "At a festival like this, you've come to hear poetry. You're either epic doyennes of culture, or you're completely spannered and had to get away from it all." Well, technically neither, but a nice sitdown was welcome and I really enjoyed the stuff we heard. Note to self: google for Aisle 16 (five young guys who did variously solo and, er, not solo stuff. Choric speech ? Synchronised poetry ? I dunno.)
Passing through Jazzworld, I sat down to watch my bit of cardboard. It was disappointing. Then, just as ChrisC came back from fetching me some miso soup, a couple stopped dead in their tracks, hugged, and walked on.
I'd put up a sign which read "PUBLIC CUDDLING SPOT". Over the next ten minutes, we watched several couples, some groups of friends, and what we guessed to be a mum-and-daughter stop to enjoy the freely available cuddling spot. I went on my way happy.
And then I was even more happy when I spotted a group of people carrying small polystyrene triliths on their way to see Spinal Tap. But I digress.
Later, looking over ChrisC's shoulder I warned him to look round. There was a gang of trolls behind him. Now, this is the kind of thing I say all the time. Usually to someone who is holding a plate of chips. Having established that he wasn't holding anything stealable, he turned round. There was a gang of trolls behind him. Giving out free hugs. I love the circus fields.
One of the few bands I'd marked as close to 'must see' were The Gaslight Anthem. On our way towards them, we found a blackboard near the Dance and Fire stage. We immediately diverted (and found a mob of horses in evening dress, and watched a beautiful arialist suspended from a crane which swung him in a wide arc over the crowd, and nearly got run over by a pedal-powered piano, and found a party of mermaids being carried by old men) to watch Bang-On, the amazing percussion duo we encountered a few years ago in Manchester. So instead of seeing the Boss join TGA on stage, I was sitting in the sunshine with a plastic bottle full of rice, shaking it as directed by a man in an orange hard hat.
Then... disaster struck. We'd headed over to The Departure Lounge, a stage sponsored by Greenpeace and set up as part of their anti-third runway protest. It was, in itself, a work of art: a facsimile of an airport departure lounge, complete with uniformed staff who occasionally made people take off their shoes and hop through an arbitrary security gate. ChrisC and I were both keen to see The Low Anthem, a wonderful Rhode Island band I encountered recently. We'd missed their first set to see the Puppini Sisters. On the discovery of a third set (in the Departure Lounge) we'd missed the second to see Peter, Björn and John. Sitting by baggage check-in and watching the departure board, we discovered that the singer was ill and they'd pulled out. Disappointed, we watched a great slide guitarist (with a lacklustre voice) with rather less attention than he really deserved.
Back at the Queen's Head later, we saw the Wombats. As the singer said (in between frankly bizarre remarks about zebras and their means of ingress into this world) "it's the general concensus that at a festival the Wombats are always worth a squirt". They really are a top festival band, and for the first time in the weekend I was in a crowd where everyone seemed to know the words and be jumping up and down (celebrating the irony, naturally). Even if you don't know who they are, go and see the Wombats at a festival. They're a lot of fun.
We watched the first half of the Boss's own set, then stole silently away to Avalon to see the Wonder Stuff. Only we arrived late, because we got distracted by a show with fire jugglers, fire poi, fire devil sticks, people in flaming spinning hoops, enormous spouting jets of fire, and a couple of giant mechanial monsters that breathed fire. Did I mention I love the cirucs and theatre fields ?
The Wonder Stuff were brilliant, on their reunion tour ("you won't hear us utter those dreaded words... 'this is from the new album'"). Inside the tent with a few thousand manically bouncing fans was fantastic, but hard on tired feet. We repaired outside, and listened while sitting on one of the see-saws set up outside. You try doing that at Reading.
ChrisC and I perched on the end closer to the stage; at some point we realised a girl was sitting high up on the other end. And the temptation to stand up suddenly during Don't Let Me Down was immense... But we're nice people. We didn't.
If the Q reviews are to be believed, all the fun at Glastonbury is to be had in Shangri-La after midnight. We braved the crowds (and the complicated one-way system) to have a quick glimpse at it as it began to wake up. It is a weird and wonderful place, a tiny town of dives and dens and discos and divas. We enjoyed a quick wander before the place became too packed and headed off to bed.
Sunday
[In Case of Fire], Micachu and the Shapes, [Chief], Art Brut, John Otway, The Capital Years, Tom Jones, Madness, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, The Magic Numbers, Blur
OK, Sunday got off to a weird start. We'd walked up to The Park, which is like a mini-festival all by itself, and lounged on the cushioned benches, by the potted palms, drinking smoothies. We listened to Micachu and the Shapes and were, frankly, a bit scared. Then we entered a low, round tent, left our shoes at the door, lounged on piles of cushions by low tables, and ordered bento boxes for lunch. Kind of accidentally, we'd wandered into a fully-functional Japanese restaurant and (thinking that by Sunday sushi might be chancing it a bit) ordered teriyaki salmon and miso soup. It wasn't only OK, it was really, really good and has raised the bar on festival food somewhat.
When we could be arsed to move again, we headed back down to the main stages and watched Art Brut. I regard Art Brut as a bit of a one-hit wonder and couldn't (then) name a single song other than Formed a Band (despite having seen an Art Brut franchise band a year or so ago). As it turns out, they are incredibly entertaining on stage, and I'd be very keen to see them again. I've since bought an album, but as far as I can tell the only reason to do that is so that you know the songs at the live gigs. They're really very funny; there's also something highly endearing about their strange branding. They are Art Brut, not individuals. "Ready, Art Brut?" asks the singer before each song.
Winding our way through the cool of the Permaculture areas, we thought we'd stop at the café there for their lovely elderflower cordial. I stood in a queue and marvelled at a perfect example of why you should never let hippies organise anything. Never, in my entire life, have I seen so many people working so hard to achieve so little. Without wishing to typecast anyone, I fear the three guys serving may be living evidence that marijuana can damage your short-term memory. The food and drinks are lovely, and cheap, but you just try getting them. On the plus side, because I didn't have the change, they let me off with paying only 65p deposit on the ceramic plate I should have paid £1 for. When I took it back, I made sure I didn't get my full refund (and that threw the guy even more).
On the way out, we paused in a little willow bothy and I tied another cuddling spot sign to the back of the seat. As we left, a couple dived in to have their cuddle.
The more observant (and anal) may have noticed that on Sunday afternoon, I pretty much sat (or stood) in front of the Pyramid stage. I never do that. Yet Tom Jones (so many thousand people singing Delilah), Madness, Nick Cave and Blur were an absolutely fabulous afternoon. Did you spot the odd one out ? Tom Jones, Madness, Nick Cave, Blur ? Yeah so did the crowd, who departed in droves leaving the rest of us to revel in Mr Cave's lunacy. Other acts, fearing unfamiliarity, might have started with a big hit - not Nick Cave, who launched into a searing version of Tupelo, and be buggered with anyone who didn't know it. He finished with a screaming apolocalypse of a Stagger Lee, and pointedly dedicated his entire set to the "late, great Farrah Fawcett".
Madness were a singalong riot (with their saxophonist on wires so he could fly like he does in the videos, poor bugger), and about a million people in the crowd jogging from one foot to the other. From the opener One Step Beyond to the encore of They Call It Madness was just hit after hit for the dancing crowd.
This is the first year I've ever seen (some of) all three Pyramid headliners. But Blur were, even to a fairly wishy-washy fan like me, awesome. As the Chinese-lantern-releasing Blur fans meandered away into the evening, still singing Tender, we met the wild starey-eyed crowd coming from The Prodigy at the Other stage. I think I made the right choice.
And so to bed, and an early morning packing up and tramping to the car. Monday morning saw further heavy rain, and a tactical driving error from me required a bit of pushing from ChrisC to get Johnson up the steep hill and out of the car park. Even with frequent stops, we were home by early afternoon.
When do next year's tickets go on sale, again ?