The buzz in the run-up to Glastonbury can be intolerable. The English have a tendency to be rather gung-ho about the importance and quality of their institutions. The football team. Winston Churchill. London itself. All are presented as the pinnacle of their respective spheres, even though they’re demonstrably nothing of the sort. So it is with Glastonbury. Tune into BBC radio a fortnight in advance and hear nothing but shoddy audio taken from festivals of years gone past. Listen to anecdotes from rock stars and radio DJs alike, chatting relentlessly about their experiences of the Best Festival in the World. Nobody does fun like the English.
As an Irishman with a distaste for English exceptionalism, my expectations for Glasto were fairly minimal, perhaps tinged with an active desire for it to be rubbish, just so I could act indignant about it all.
We left London on the Friday morning. My friend, the drummer of a popular rock band, organised the travel arrangements. He found a sleek black BMW convertible, which he rented through the Turo app off some fella who seemed dubious. How exactly this young man came by such a magnificent machine was a mystery, but we didn’t ask questions. About 80 quid each for his luxury Beemer? It was precisely the sort of car a performing rock star and his posse — a failing writer (me), a successful photographer, and a successful artist — should arrive at the UK’s premium festival in. We would do things in style.
Or, perhaps not. We quickly discovered convertibles have to store the roof somewhere after they’ve been let down. Who knew? They fold into the boot, which makes storing four people’s backpacks and tents something of a squeeze. We couldn’t manage it, and the roof stayed down. The A/C was busted, too, so we pissed sweat throughout the journey. So much for class and luxury, though we did pass Stonehenge and meet a famous model at a filling station, so all wasn’t lost.
We got in around five, having already missed a load of acts I would have enjoyed seeing. We set up the tents and cracked open some cans. We drank tequila, met some people, and headed into the site proper. The swarms of punters were jarring. The sky was moody. The evening passed quickly and pleasantly, and the drink flowed hard on an empty stomach. I queued for a food stall promising “delicious smoked chicken.” The stall lied about that. The chicken was neither smoked nor delicious and it cost ten pounds.
Having gotten the lay of the land a little, Billie Eilish was up on the Pyramid Stage. The first half of her set was good. She skulked about and generally held the crowd, but it all suddenly got very Donny and Marie when she did a duet with her brother. They played at each other, gazing into one another’s eyes and just being a bit creepy. I can’t speak for everyone else, but I found it uncomfortable.
Billie spoke very briefly about Roe v. Wade. It was upsetting. At best, it was a moment of vague catharsis for people attempting to wrap their heads around what’s happened. Many acts over the weekend spoke about women’s rights, with perhaps the most powerful statement being Kendrick’s “Godspeed for women’s rights” chant that closed his Sunday set. But the reality remains: catharsis isn’t enough. The United States drastically rolled back women’s rights almost overnight. The UK is run by a class of bloated blue bloods and sex fiends who despise the poor and who seem genuinely intent on pushing many of them to death. Good will and intense drug-taking in a field doesn’t strictly appear able to counteract that. It’s good for artists to talk about these things, and it’s good for people to have a release, but seeing Billie, an eloquent 20-year-old American woman, tear helplessly up on stage, just brought home the melancholy of where we now find ourselves.
Following a hazy Friday night of gin-drinking and disco-dancing in some backstage bar, Saturday began with a terrible hangover. Balance was soon restored with a fried breakfast, and we were off again on a long walk from the campsite to the Park stage. Katy J. Pearson was doing a 12:45 set, which was to be followed by Gabriels. Since the release of their single “Love and Hate in a Different Time,” I — and based on the massive crowd, plenty of others — have been quietly obsessed with vocalist Jacob Lusk’s voice. A former American Idol contestant, this man possesses the most magical, soulful falsetto, but his stage presence was far more flamboyant and fun than I’d expected. He looks well in a regal, flowing blue robe.
On the recommendation of a friend, we went to see Yves Tumor. I was promised glam. I received it. Audacious guitar solos and a front-person who throws themself around in leather and basically acts filthy. This was the set that allowed me to melt into the festival. The G&Ts were on the go, it was sunny, and we were watching the big screen as the singer licked the camera lens before proceeding to pound the living daylights out of it. An act like that really does loosen one up a bit.
Paul McCartney headlined the Saturday. I met lots of people who said he was shite, but I’m of the opinion he’s an 80-year-old Beatle and is therefore well within his rights to sound a bit ropey. But he wasn’t. His voice was pretty good, albeit shaky, and seeing him hold that bass made me well up. He did, at one stage, include video footage of Johnny Depp, which was uncomfortable. Dave Grohl and Bruce Springsteen appeared on stage for a few tunes, as did John Lennon’s isolated vocal for the encore. McCartney was on stage for about three hours, which is basically too long. But still. He’s a Beatle. I cried when he performed “Something” with George’s ukulele.
After that, I got lost in the southeast corner of the festival. A lot of people, and a lot of neon. Some shit techno and some decent techno. The memories get hazy.
Sunday began with Just Mustard at the John Peel Stage, just after 11. It was an early set, but they managed to draw a good crowd and sounded great. Lianne La Havas was nice on the Other Stage, and Moonchild Sanelly was fun at the Lonely Hearts Club. The crowd for Diana Ross was far busier than I could tolerate, so I shot over to Fontaines D.C. who, in fairness, pulled a hefty crowd of their own at the Other Stage. Jack White was kind of boring at a secret set on the Park Stage, and Jarvis Cocker was charming shortly after. The afternoon and evening passed in a sunny, drunken haze.
Kendrick headlined. I’ve seen a fair amount of massive hip hop artists on a big festival stage, and I rarely enjoy it. It seems in their effort to hype the crowd, they often hype themselves and make shit of their voices, just shouting into the mic. Not so with Kendrick. His voice was so measured, so delicious, the entire time. His stage show was maybe the best I’ve ever seen, playing out as a sort of ballet. I wasn’t a diehard fan before the gig, but I am now.
Late Sunday was when I found the weirdness. An Irish bar, which was basically an underground bunker, had an erratic atmosphere when we went inside, following a long, tedious argument with the drunken nuisance of a bouncer blocking the way. Inside, people were drinking cider and poitín, a terribly, terribly strong distilled drink the Irish used to make out in the countryside, away from prying eyes. There was a sort of open mic thing going on, where people were getting up and doing whatever performance came into their heads. I was out of my mind and in a fierce state of confusion at the time, but I do recall seeing some truly terrible slam poetry and some rather wonderful folk music from The Mary Wallopers, which made the experience worth it.
The journey home was awful. The organisers made a balls of managing the carpark and we were stuck in a standstill for hours. Luckily, with less stuff to bring back on the return journey, we could actually lower the roof. We looked fantastic stuck in traffic.
Glastonbury is, on reflection, what you’d expect. It’s fun, and they book the heaviest of heavy-hitters. The staff were generally lovely, as were the crowd. There is, in that sense, a certain magic to the thing. Dealing with 200,000 people in one place probably only works if there’s good will in the air. Still, it’s ultimately way too busy, way too expensive, and way too mythologised. Perhaps the veterans just need to chill out a bit. In the end, it’s just a big, fun festival.
Words by Tiernan C