Four months ago, I promised you and myself that I would write a review of Glastonbury Festival 2015 to coincide with the review I wrote of Download Festival. My own laziness and ineptitude got the better of me though, and here I am, in October, trying to make up for it. As far as I'm concerned I'm determined to finish what I started, and yes, this includes the rest of the albums I didn't review when I did my "30 albums in 30 days" challenge (yeah... because that went well too).
Last weekend, the struggle began to get tickets for the 2016 event, but I didn't try this year for a variety of reasons that I won't bore you with. So here I sit, feeling a little bit nostalgic, about to shower your eyes with my recollection of my five day experience in a Somerset farm. Thankfully I remember it like it was yesterday, which is my cop out for publishing this stupidly late. Let me take you back to a time when it was still raining, we were still shit at rugby, and I still felt like kicking Kanye West in the gonads: 110 days ago.
"Let's hear it for Jay-Z. The man has got bollocks to come here, and play the tunes you don't even remember. Imagine if it was a c*** like Kanye West" - Amy Winehouse, 2008
I'm lucky enough to have been to a lot of festivals, ever since my first V Festival in 2006, but you always wonder what makes other festivals so special. Glastonbury is the main attraction, the Woodstock of Britain, whereas V is more like Austin City Limits.
I've got to be honest, I had my apprehensions about going to Glastonbury beforehand. The line up, as eclectic as it was, just didn't excite me, especially after Foo Fighters pulled out two weeks prior to the event, and I was still just about recovering from Download. I really need not have worried.
Travelling down by coach was the best idea anyone has ever had in the history of anything; none of the horror stories about queueing to get in (or out for that matter) had materialised. This was followed by two days of glorious weather and heavy drinking a la Castle Donington, but with the added glow of the view in the picture above. There won't be many views that will beat that in my lifetime.
Thursday gave us time to check out secret sets from Drenge and Wolf Alice, albeit outside the packed tent, but we squeezed our way in for Old Dirty Brasstards, an extremely enjoyable brass band who delivered top banana covers of everything from Uptown Funk to Man In The Mirror.
As soon as the first day of music rolls up, the clouds threaten a hissy fit and start leaking profusely. Choosing to begin our weekend at the Other Stage at 11am, we were greeted by "special guests" The Charlatans. There's no way to be kind about it, they were just drab. The band just didn't seem bothered, and the crowd reciprocated that.
The Cribs were at least a little better, but for a band who were once exciting and virile, their lack of anthems, save for a couple of songs, didn't scream progress to me. They may be doomed to an eternity of low key appearances if they continue this way.
A promising outfit, Everything Everything had everything everything going for them. The crowd was in a buoyant mood after finding their stride, and opening with Cough Cough set the tone for a creative and fun set. Let's all hope that their next album sees them propel themselves further up festival bills in the future.
Pulling an enormous crowd, Catfish And The Bottlemen frontman Van McCann had been throwing up half an hour prior to his bands debut at Glastonbury. This was not down to nerves, he was allegedly rather ill, but you would never have guessed it. Accepting his frustration with the crap weather making his guitar go out of tune, his anger seemed to make him play better, with the set culminating in some rock star-fuelled instrument destruction. Next time you see them here, they will be on the Pyramid Stage.
After Metallica won over pretty much everyone with their all conquering heavy metal set on the Pyramid Stage in 2014, many saw it as a gateway for other heavy metal bands to show their faces. Enter
Motörhead, the granddaddies of "rock n'fucking roll". Lemmy's health problems are well documented, and frankly it's a medical wonder how he's still standing. Despite the main man jumbling his words on different songs, the crowd were still hanging on his every word, and the 'head even managed to make the sun come out, confirming our suspicions that God is indeed a heavy metal fan. A mix of young turks and old codgers braved the mud, and the double barrel shotgun of Ace Of Spades and Overkill left the front section of the crowd collectively needing treatment for bruised bodies and whiplash.
Curiosity was just around the corner, as rumours were flying around over who was going to replace Florence and the Machine as the sub-headliner for the Friday night now that she had been promoted to the peak of the event? The anticipation was palpable, so me and my fellow campers decided to wait from our campsite (which was within view of the Pyramid Stage) to see who would rock up. In the greatest anti-climax of all time, it was
The Libertines. The fucking Libertines. I've long made my feelings for them known, and I've always wondered why people hold their indie tripe in such high regard; a couple of songs are okay, but that's it. Well, determined not to be biased when watching their set from a safe distance so that I may not catch whatever drug-induced illness Pete Doherty was carrying at the time, what I observed was total, utter bollocks. Out of time playing, out of tune guitars, drunken mumbling instead of singing, and generally just some below average songs just made me realise that I may actually be right on this one. I long for the day when this band aren't covered in the glory that they don't really deserve, breeding fans who make Oasis fans look like wordsmiths. Replacing Foo Fighters with Florence and the Machine was bad enough (even though I don't mind Florence, it's just I've seen her live before and she was nothing too spectacular), but to then add The Libertines to the line up just made me think that there was someone up there looking to piss me off a little bit more. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts.
Running for the Other Stage,
Mark Ronson was halfway through his set, but it looks like we caught the good bits. Closing with his well-renowned cover of Valerie, and a star-studded guestlist of Grandmaster Flash, Mary J Blige and George Clinton joining in on a triumphant Uptown Funk, I have never seen a crowd enjoy themselves this much. Busting our best white guy dance moves, it was a great experience to settle us into the night.
It says a lot that I was seeing
Enter Shikari for the fifth and sixth time this weekend. A band who I have very on-off moments with, yet they tour like no other band and seem to pop up everywhere I go. However you feel about them, do you dare doubt their credentials as a live band? For one hour that seemed to fly by, the John Peel Tent was a permanent circle pit. Ravers and metallers alike beat the crap out of each other in the name of music, and the band still haven't lost their exuberance. They may never turn into world beaters due to their wayward style of music, but they will always draw crowds and deliver results in impressive fashion.
The Saturday was about one man only: Kanye West. Not in my eyes though. A controversial gay fish, the very foundations of his existence are built entirely on blocks of idiocy. I'm sure
Sleaford Mods had a few choice words for Yeezus too, but their set was focussed on angry, incoherent spoken word. I'm not sure whether they take their alternative, anti-political hip hop seriously, but I sure as hell didn't. What I did was laugh every time frontman Jason Williamson rapped the words "Mr Jolly Fucker", and I ended each song with a raised can of Wifebeater. Strangely enough I enjoyed their set, but probably for reasons based on humour rather than respect.
The only word I can use to describe
Ella Eyre's sun-soaked set was "forgettable". Bigging up Kanye didn't help her cause much either.
Clean Bandit brought some summer tunes into the fray. Rather Be and Real Love had everyone on their feet, and a cover of Robin S' Show Me Love was the icing on the cake.
A band I was most looking forward to,
Death From Above 1979, sadly delivered the most disappointing set of the weekend. Ever since the explosion of Royal Blood in the UK, there have been a lot of punters sticking up for DFA1979, claiming that they are more original and better in every sense of the word. What I witnessed though was a bassist who played like an animal, but didn't know where he was, and a drummer whose lack of enthusiasm produced an unpleasant aura around their set. Would've helped if we could understand what he was singing too. Was it a bad day at the office, or was it the wrong audience?
Getting into the Left Field area was a task in itself, as the 300-capacity tent was about to play host to
Enter Shikari for their second appearance of the weekend. There is a level of intimacy at any Enter Shikari gig, but it was something special here. Changing their set up from the previous night, they appropriately threw out their political mind-melter Arguing With Thermometers halfway through the show to a rapturous reception. In what was one of the sweatiest gigs I've ever been to, it even came with two free back massages courtesy of some rather intoxicated fellow punters.
Saturday culminated in a sea of lasers and glowsticks with Joel Zimmerman, better known as
Deadmau5. Combining his chilled sounds with big drumbeats, everyone's favourite Canadian rodent drew a large crowd, with some leading the chants of "fuck Kanye!" between songs. A shameful lack of his bigger songs did deter me a little bit (Sofi Needs A Ladder, Brazil, I Remember... anyone?), but once the set got going from the off, the party never stopped. It put me in the right frame of mind for when I stumbled through Shangri-La later on whilst holding a chocolate martini; it was quite possibly the weirdest, most hedonistic place I've ever been to.
Despite the tent leakage and the fact it was the last day, Sunday was no reason to whine. However, I should be thankful I'm still here after managing to spill a cup of tea on my mates severely sunburnt leg. Had he killed me there and then, in the afterlife I would've cursed his name for not waiting until at least the end of the day. Taking in the start of the day from the campsite, we drifted in and out of sets from
Hozier and
Patti Smith. The former has been getting on my nerves ever since Take Me To Church became one of those songs that just never leaves the airwaves, but I weirdly found myself singing along to said song, and his more impressive release Someone New. Patti Smith though, was about as captivating as a broken toenail. That is until she brought on a special guest: The Dalai Lama. I prayed that he drop his wisdom on us unworthy ones with a fire new mixtape, but the man preached love and care to the perfect audience, who were lapping up his every word. Talk about surreal experiences...
A sentence I never thought I'd say or write: I saw
Lionel Richie live! Only at Glastonbury would you get this man. Filling up the appropriately titled "legend slot" previously filled by Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers and *ahem* Rolf Harris, the crowd numbers swelled well past 200,000, which smashed the record held by Dolly in 2014. You could tell Lionel was genuinely thrilled to be there, but it was also rather moving to see just how surprised he was that everyone was there to see him. Everyone from hippies to punks to old time rockers made up the crowd. With over 100 million records sold, you'd think he'd be used to such a monumental audience. A communal sing along to Hello, Dancing on the Ceiling, and Three Times a Lady left the singer stricken and caught off guard, and at times he found it hard to control his emotions. He was an absolute joy to watch, and my Mum will forever be jelly.
In a complete juxtaposition,
alt-J were up next on the Pyramid Stage. They may not be the kind of act that gets crowds moving, but shakers like Fitzpleasure at least ensured that the crowd got their dancing shoes on briefly. There was still time for Left Hand Free and Tessellate to leave spectators dazzled. Critically acclaimed albums and sets this high up festival bills can only mean good things for this trio. It's refreshing to see an act with such a left field style of music dominating the British music scene, and long may it continue.
The weekend climaxed with Pilton Farm bathing in glorious, ear bursting rock n'roll courtesy of
The Who. Many saw this as an underwhelming booking as they had last topped the bill in 2007, and didn't really have anything new to show for it since then. This was all soon forgotten though as Daltrey and Townshend struck us hard with hit after hit after hit. I wished they still had the youthful energy displayed in the above picture, but you can't really blame them for ageing I guess. Pete Townshend at least demonstrated some throwback angst as he tore down the visors next to the drum kit in frustration at not being able to hear the drummer, but alas there was no drum smashing, or playing guitar with his teeth. Even though the set felt a little short, ending on Won't Get Fooled Again left everyone more than satisfied, and there is no way I can complain after I had rendezvoused with The Who.
Bravo for reading all of that, or some of it if you skipped here to see if it would ever end. Well yes, it thankfully does; this is the last paragraph you weakling. It may have been the weakest Glastonbury line up in recent memory, but why should I care? Glastonbury isn't just about the music. It's a magical place with so much happening, and nobody would begrudge you for getting lost in there, or wanting to stay forever. We may have been one of the youngest groups of people there, but it didn't show, as everyone had this careless free spirit about them. Give me Download's music with Glastonbury's layout and you've got my perfect festival. I spoke to Michael Eavis on the Sunday, and in my hot flush I forgot to ask him to book all of my favourite bands next year. Had I done that then I might have been first in line to book a ticket for next year. It's Download for me next year, but if you're reading this, you need to try Glastonbury at least once in your lifetime. Tell 'em Sam sent you, and say hi to Michael for me.
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I'm going to see if I can talk about Fightstar without mentioning frontman/heartthrob Charlie Simpson's turbulent past in teenage trio Busted... well that went tits up didn't it?
