Sunshine In A Bag

Glastonbury Festival, Worthy Farm, 23-27 June 2010

The world needs another pretentious review of Glastonbury like the centre of Leeds needs another Greggs...so grab yourself a steak bake and make yourself comfortable, this is going to be a ramble.

Regular viewer(s) might remember my last trip to Pilton was a damp affair and one spent mostly on my own. And my loyal fanbase might also recall that my last trip to a big festival ended with me wishing for a pox to fall on everyone under the age of 23.

This was going to be different though. The weather omens were spectacular, a different gang was assembled, U2 were forced to pull out – all amazing things.

A few words for the weather. Bloody hell. A bottle and a half of suncream kept me from turning completely into burnt toast. It felt wrong to complain, and it was only occasionally unbearable, especially when it turned my tent into a canvas oven and made me one grumpy customer. Still it was nice to be able to sit down whenever we wanted, a luxury that wasn’t granted back in 07.

First of all, a few non musical highlights… when someone says “it’s hard to put _____ into words” they’re either being lazy or honestly can’t find adjectives to describe underscores. But in all seriousness, it’s hard to put Shangri La into words. But here are a few: broken down dinosaur cars. Corridors of faulty alarm clocks leading to a club in a wardrobe. Random karaoke resulting in one of my companions singing my favourite song. The word “Beleavis”. Neon TARDIS. Some of these might have been imagined. Can’t really tell.

Big thanks to whoever recommended walking up to the top of the hill past the Tipi Village and not looking back until you get there. My God. One of the best views I’ve ever witnessed. The scale of this place…has to be seen.

Also, special mention to the guy in the maternity gown shouting into a banana. You rock.

On to the music then. Corinne Bailey Rae was the first act seen on Friday, and was well suited to soaking up the sun. I’ve always had a soft spot for Like A Star. And her soulfunk rendition of Que Sara Sara was spot on. Willy Nelson got through 27 songs in an hour, either most of them were about shooting his dog in the face or I was quite drunk by then.

Snoop Dogg arrived to all the fanfare you’d expect. He was entertaining enough, but if we’re going to be technical all he did was shout over other people’s records. Bit of a pointless Olé Olé Olé chant too. Darn us Brits and our Soccerball. But he’s a charmer and you forgive him. Sheeeit.

Dizzie Rascal has evidentially spent the last couple of years slowly climbing up the mainstage bill and learning a trick or two on the way. He knows how to make things escalate. A full live band now back him up, and thank fuck he didn’t bring out J*mes C*rd*n. This boy is a star now. Accuse him of selling out if you want, but he’s been facing those claims since his first album. Now he can throw the riff of Reptillia into Jus A Rascal or spit out Stand Up Tall over Smells Like Teen Spirit like it ain’t no thang. I had to miss Florence for this, but she showed up at the end for Dirtee Love. And naturally Bonkers was all kinds of mental. The hill went nuts. Good show young man.

Gorrilaz stepping in for U2 was the perfect idea in theory. Albarn did the emotional headliner last year with Blur. This time round he could feed his arrogant side with his gang of pixels and half of the Clash. Gorillaz’ performance has had some criticism, and I’m going to add to it slightly. For the all the high points – and there were many – we had to put up with too many average album tracks and directionless preaching about plastic bottles. A shame, because as a crowd we were so up for it. Dare, Dirty Harry and Stylo all sounded amazing. And the special guest roster will probably never be beat. I mean really, Shaun Ryder, Mark E Smith and Lou Reed? It’s the world’s most unlikely pub quiz team. Just don’t ask them about the 70s. Or the 80s.

Feel Good Inc and Clint Eastwood came as a massive relief in the encore, but even Snoop Dogg coming out to once again sing his own song over someone else’s couldn’t hide the fact that this could have been a lot better. Del Tha Funkee Homosapien, we needed you.

Saturday saw more exploration of the site, so not many bands were properly viewed. The Lightning Seeds were a pleasantly nostalgic start to the day, having the decency to play the song 97% of the crowd were there to bloke along to.

While the rest of my companions saw The Dead Weather, I took myself to find my favourite baguette (hello Growler you filthy beast) and throw myself at the beauty of The National. Matt Berninger’s baritone pulled the sun into the dust, and Mr November made me cry a little bit. They were followed by The Cribs, always good for a show and something like the 17th time I’ve seen them. Still not playing You’re Gonna Lose Us though. Silly Jarmans.

George Clinton felt like one of those acts you had to see because you wouldn’t catch them anywhere else. Over the course of the hour his band probably only played around six songs, and his granddaughter sure has some filthy hobbies, but you can’t argue with the Funk. Or four pints of 7% cider. With a voice like sexy charcoal, he moved us to our bones.

Saturday night saw much exploration of the after-hours activities, including a silent disco complete with 3D Jimmy Saville explaining the delights of British Rail. Honest. I have witnesses. All this meant that Sunday was a bit of a lost day. The football was a big Fail and the heat was at its most punishing. Nothing a bit of speed drinking wouldn’t see to. It wasn’t until 8pm that I properly watched a band. Faithless aren’t designed for the daytime, so were a bit lost in the twilight hours of the festival. All the tunes were there, but it lacked a proper connection.

Plus, they were just warming up for a legend.

Stevie Wonder. It was the set we all wanted to hear. All the songs you could wish for. We Can Work It Out was my favourite, but it was a highlight among highlights. You truly felt like you were watching a master at work. It was effortless. Even brought out Eavis at the end to remind us why he’s a farmer and not a singer. But who can blame the guy. 40 years of the greatest show in the galaxy.

Glastonbury has spoilt other festivals for a lot of us now. Whether we would all feel this way had it shat it down all week is uncertain, but having already spent a damp week in paradise I can confirm that nothing else compares.

But that’s not going to stop me some trying. Next up: Big Chill.