What can be said about Glastonbury that hasn't already been said? This.
We arrive Thursday 3am, and are immediately dispatched to the 'sinbin' for late arrivals. Cracking a beer to celebrate our arrival at the UK's biggest and most notorious festival, it begins to rain. Of course it does.
The Arcadia Stage towers over a crowd of expectant eyes tilted heavenward. A girl swings bat-like from a hoop, shiny-lycra-legs hooked through the circle, hand raised in salute. Atop the stage her compadre is wielding fire like a caveman warding off tigers, chains swinging, a primal roar in his throat. Next door, hundreds pour through Trash City, gazing at the taxi which has crashed into the top of the hotel and remains there, smoking, hazard lights flashing. Pan out further still and you'll see the railtrack – the vein which feeds Glastonbury east to west - choked with people. Security are turning people round, telling them to go round the houses. 'Shangri La that way' they bellow through megaphones. Over at the Other Stage, a blonde haired man is trying to climb one of the flag poles, but it has been pre-emptively greased earlier in the day and so he slides down, jumps up and slides down.
Glastonbury this year is different. It feels more intimate, friendlier somehow, more emotional. It could be the momentum making up for last year's low ebb. It could be all the dad rock they've programmed to balance the criticism levelled at Jay Z. It could be the sun. But really, it's the death of Michael Jackson. He's everywhere. Coming out of every radio station, every car stereo, every burger van. The t-shirt sellers seem to have had designs already mocked up and hundreds of punters are walking round in R.I.P MJ shirts just hours after the news is announced. He's in the raised fist of Q Tip as he salutes the 'Greatest that ever was', in the eyes of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs Karen O as she dedicates 'Maps' to the 'King of Pop', in the voices of the fans who spontaneously break into song all over the site, all weekend. Unbelievable. He'd be touched.
Glorious Glastonbury. Where do you begin? 137,500 punters swarm over the site this year, ant-like and reeling in their various combinations of wellies, pac-a-macs, wigs, vintage garb, lycra animal suits and hot pants. No other festival provides such scope, such variety. It really is like a city, with its split personalities and contrasting boroughs. It stretches from Shangri La in the south west to the dance village in the east, with the majestic pyramid stage resplendent at its centre. The stone circle is its crowning glory on the hill of the south periphery, steeped in history and tradition, and peopled at sunrise with circus performers, charity workers, musicians, party crews, litter pickers, policemen and a couple of dragons. Glastonbury is incorrigibly, beautifully plural, and when you're there for four days you relax into the drunkenness of the various and the random. There is no point rushing, planning, having an agenda, you must simply go with the flow.
This year, much talk swirls around the secret guests. Rumours are rife. We hit the whispers as soon as we drive in and meet the first stewards who are convinced (correctly) that Lady Gaga is playing at Club Dada. 'Fleetwood Mac are the secret guests on the Pyramid Stage!' we hear people babbling excitedly. Unconvinced but unwilling to miss them if we're wrong, we trek over in time to see N.E.R.D start up. Trekking back up to Emily Eavis' marvellous area The Park, we are among the lucky few who have learned that Jack White's new band The Dead Weather are the secret guests here and it takes a few minutes before we clock Jack bashing away and mic'd up on the drums. These brief few songs are undoubtedly one of the highlights. The raw bluesy rock that is JW's stamp cuts through the cheers and the atmosphere tickles the hairs on my neck. Alison Mosshart (or 'Baby Ruthless' as she's dubbed today) of The Kills, and Jack White – effortlessly cool – lean into one mic, lip to lip - to sneer their unreleased duet 'Will there be enough water?'. It's hypnotic.
Madness are also brilliant, the classic British ska sending everyone bananas, thousands of flags flying, it feels patriotic. Freefall Collective on the wonderful three tiered Arcadia stage tumble their heavy breaks down onto the exploding crowd and then we sprint over to see Q Tip on the Jazz Stage. The man is a legend. A finely tuned, well honed superstar and to watch him strumming his vocal chords like the perfectly toned instrument they are is incredible. He starts off quietly, a whisper, building it up and up and then 'Yo! It's a vivrant thing a vivrant thing'.
I'm constantly awestruck by the sheer scale of this place, walking through the crowds, admiring the people, the eddies of smiles, the shouts and cheers; fun is occurring across the land in fields you will never see to music you will never hear. You can see the party stretching right away into the distance, to the very horizon. It's everywhere. Exploding. The best party on the planet right now and I'm in it.
By maapu
There have been hunches that Glasto has had its day, that the new moneyed festival crowd will move on to smaller, more luxurious 'boutique' events, placing intimacy above the sheer scale of this sprawling monster. But no other event so assiduously ups its ante each year, through pioneering programme initiatives, mind-blowing production, charity drives and ecological measures. No other festival beats the line-ups, the massive range of artists who play here; every kind of music is represented on the site – there is quite literally something for everyone. It's amazingly impressive – you're never too far from a toilet, some admittedly better than others, no glass on site means no cut feet, everything runs pretty much like clockwork. Everyone is saying this is the best year; and I think it feels that way too. Sunday is epic in its programming, one of the best days ever, beginning with the absolutely rocking Yeah Yeah Yeah's to the Noisettes incredible show on the John Peel stage and ending with Blur.
Damon Albarn, in full flow.
I never realised I knew so many Blur songs, but watching them now, I'm full of the words of this band, singing my heart out along with every one of the crowd. My sixteen year old self is back, beside the other resurrected teenagers from the 90s standing around me, hands aloft, heads thrown back belting it out: 'It looks like we might have made it, yes it, looks like we made it to the end!' As Damon finishes singing 'To The End', he begins to cry. He sits down, head in his hands, the camera closes in, transporting his tears to the entire field, to the world. The crowd is silent, and then a cheer breaks out, a resounding roar of appreciation for this legend that stands before us. 'This Is A Low' begins, and his wavering voice not quite over the tears echoes across Glastonbury. It's the sad songs which work the best, the epic rendition of 'The Universal', the transformation of 'Tender' into a Glastonbury classic.
An amazing thing happens when they sing 'Tender'. The crowd won't let him finish. The words echo round the crowd, we keep on singing, refusing to cease. The band shrug and start up again too. And it continues: 'Oh my baby, oh my baby, oh why, oh my', it continues all night, all the next day, all over the site, people singing the lyrics of a band they'd long forgotten, long thought were over. Magic.
Lowri Clarke
Images by Andy Ellis (except stone circle)
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