Glastonbury – Review

The weekend began ominously. Forked bolts of lightning threatened to bring down the hillside pylons, taking out the Pyramid stage along with many of the unprecedented 100,000 punters that turned up during the opening 24 hours.

Some of those unfortunate enough to live in the North had already been subjected to torturous 14-hour journeys, as zealous festival-goers clogged up the M23.

The menacing clouds soon passed, though – long enough for the ladies to sizzle their shoulders and the boys to boil in their tents come the inconsiderate appearance of the morning sun.

The Specials bounced, Bruce wanted to build a house, and Rolf Harris brought the place to a standstill as 75,000 packed themselves into the Jazz World arena at half twelve on Saturday afternoon.

DJ Yoda took everyone inside the Dance West tent on a journey back through the last twenty years of popular culture, mixing the nostalgic with the topical. He cut and scratched slices of audio and video, even managing to wedge-in a late-notice Jacko tribute.

MJ was in heavy rotation around the site after Thursday night, but despite the requisite respects being paid, it seemed the sad news came too suddenly for most bands to rehearse hasty testimonial cover-versions.

The best performance of the week, for me, came in my favourite venue – Chai Wallahs (where you could down a herbal shot and smoke grape-flavoured tobacco through a Shisha pipe whilst checking out some beat-boxing).

Mud Sun ripped the roof off with their sharply-observed Hip Hop musings, and tongue-twisting freeform rhymes – one hilariously envisioning an ad-hoc African drum session in Tesco on a Wednesday afternoon, involving members of staff, boxes of Kitty Kat and a frozen cod.

Great sets were also played by Mik Artistik, Imelda May and Blur (was Damon overcome by pure emotion or too much pear cider and a dodgy hot dog?). A special mention must also go to the bloke giving it his all just outside the Dance Village with an acoustic guitar and a very respectable crowd for 4.30am.

The organisers really pulled out the stops this year with their overhaul of the hedonistic after-hours arenas; Shangri-La, Trash City and Arcadia. There were prowling vampires, great balls of fire, circus acts, processions of Mad Max-style vehicles, and grotty clubs that were only open to those with tattoos.

By night, these sprawling mini-villages provided delight, distraction and twisted electronic beats for those not yet ready to retire to the safety of their temporary canvas homes.

As with any decent Glastonbury, the best music was stumbled across accidentally (much like the poor girl-in-a-state who fell into around 20 tents before diving head-first into a bush of stinging nettles, or the grizzled Geordie making his way up Muddy Lane at a sideways 45 degree angle – only falling over a couple of times).

Similarly, all best-made plans turned to mud, and a great portion of those must-see acts were missed (damn you East 17, for delaying your set for one and a half hours!).

Back home, as the dirt and smoke was washed from our aching bodies in that first glorious shower, the over-riding feeling was that it had all been completely worthwhile. You can put us down for 2010 now, Michael…

James Somers

Family Friendly

Showers on Site

Campers and Caravans Ok

Festival Run Shuttle Bus

Green Credentials