Fuck it. I don’t care any more. I don’t give a shit - I’m fucking sick of this now so here it is. I’ve been trying to write a summation of my very first Glastonbury for ages but I just can’t decide how - I’ve had an objective critique (a bit wanky), a haphazard personal highlight reel (self indulgent nonsense), a day-by-day guide (waaaay too long), a fresher’s guide (endless gushing) and a band-by-band review (boring). But I need to say something; it was my first Glasto for God’s sake. None of these formats seemed to cut the proverbial spicy yellow paste and would all run on for pages and pages so with four windows currently open on my screen and a small amount of time on my hands I’ve decided to have me a little cut-and-paste lottery to try and do a little bit of each. If you’re after a review, or a remotely good read, I’d look elsewhere.

 

So in no particular or chronological order, here goes…

 

I remember losing my virginity vividly, as if it were just yesterday. Nervous, brief and not entirely dissimilar to documentary footage of a newborn deer attempting to stand for the first time, I believed I had left my stupefied girlfriend in her room gasping in a twitching heap unable to comprehend the whirlwind of carnal swordplay that had just been unbridled in her own unaccustomed boudoir. You see, this year was my very first Glastonbury and as big firsts go that is a doosie of comparably stupefying significance. I’d heard from innumerable accounts how Glastonbury is a fundamentally different experience from other festivals and, as anyone who has yet to make their first trip will know, the irritating doe-eyed reminiscence of the smug alumni can be reduced simply to three salient points, thus:

 

(a) Glastonbury is vast and cannot be wholly experienced in but one year

(b) you could go and have a great time without ever seeing a band, and

(c) when you get home you won’t be able to recall large chunks of what actually transpired.

 

But going to a festival and not seeing any bands seems a bit like going to a brothel and doing nothing but talking to the nice ladies there; I wanted to take in as many and as much in as possible but it was obvious from the start things would have to be missed. Still, as a wide-eyed fresher I was looking forward to seeing things for the first time with a sense of wonder the experienced Glastonites may take for granted. I did miss the moment when Lada Gaga revealed herself in a manner certainly not becoming of a true lady, though. Slag.

Breakfast with Howard Marks - Feeling guilty for missing Rolf Harris the day before and generally not taking great advantage of some of the more unconventional acts, I dragged my poor thumping skull to the Glade to have a quiet smoke and a listen to Mr. Nice spin a yarn. Funny guy, obviously, but he looked really fucking old, hunched over his laptop playing obscure tunes in their entirety, his thick hair now flecked with distinguished greys. His gruff Welsh lilt seems tailor made to tell anecdotes, including the story of his only ever whitey which he  pulled on live TV as a guest who was supposed to be extolling the virtues of cannabis legalisation. He somehow proved, through theories that seemed airtight at the time but have since escaped me, that if there is a God he is a smoker and if you reach the Pearly Gates with spotless lungs he’ll confound the fact you never even used them and cast you into hell. ‘’And mine are proper fucked’’. After the show as we filtered back out into the harsh daylight an audience-wide general ‘been there, son’ commiseration was given to the guy curled up fast asleep on the grass next to an empty tin of beans with a spoon in it. Wherever they fall, there shall they be buried.

 

The 56 pound price tag of the train ticket between London and Castle Cary alone caused me to leave deep white bite marks in my knuckles in silent despair but it did seem like a good plan as the prospect of driving home on the Monday was about as appealing as a vinegar-soaked cacti enema. However, five hours waiting at Castle Cary to board said shuttlebus in the harrowing sunshine, never more than 10 feet away from literally the planet’s most irritating ‘Look at me! I’ve got a flagpole, a loud voice and a personality!’ toss sock was deeply unpleasant. Cigarettes were smoked. Bags were put down, only to have to be picked up again two minutes later so the queue could shuffle ten more feet. Much booze was drunk, until I was. Those that drove had it no better though – a group of friends was stuck in the clammy congestion for ten long hours, unfortunate fools.

 

All this was forgotten though as from the top deck of the bus I saw the majestically spine tingling sight of The Pyramid Stage tearing through the sunlight over the crest of the hill on the way in, before an endless vista unfolded revealing the truly ludicrous scale of  this whole operation in music and folly. At this point, I got pretty fucking excited.

 

Bloc Party – Come to the conclusion that Bloc Party are actually pretty dull. Their set had absolutely no momentum or flow, they didn’t seem that arsed, the crowd took to making fires to pass time and all those in my immediate vicinity took to sniffing poppers. I wished I had seen Neil Young instead, though Kele just about rescued it towards the end hammering through 'Two More Years' and 'Helicopter', causing me to dance oddly. Thinking about this, that might have been all those poppers I sniffed. 

 

PENNIES - The things the so-called big money festivals have always got going for them are lineups that always change the shape of your trousers, and if you divide the price of the entire weekend by how many top bands you would have paid to see it still unarguably represents cracking value for your rubles. Glasto isn’t cheap, though. A plate of something or other is six pounds, your average pint of something else is 3.80, water is 2.00 – usual festival rules apply. Here though, as the whole site is one big stage area, there are no entrance searches so you’re not forced to either pay nigh-on four pounds for a 90p can of lager poured before your very eyes into a flimsy paper beaker, or get creative with increasingly unlikely and painful stuffed orifices. So take your own ale wherever you want, but you’ll be pining for an ice cold cider as soon as the sun comes out

 The Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Step over you pretenders, the only person genuinely weird and cool enough to pull off this big collared neon electro 80’s revival is Karen O. Loads of tunes from the new album, 'Zero' and 'Dull Life' stuck out as the sexy-as-hell O struts like a loon on a full moon wearing an outfit that looks like a Jackson Pollack magic eye picture that's been chewed up by someone who then sneezed. It goes without saying 'Date With The Night’ is immense, ripping a black hole right through the middle of a tranquil sunny afternoon

FRIDAY NIGHT - Strange sights, strange things occurring. Trash City was too much: too many flames, people, lights, robots, noise. One club, a small spherical tent with Twelve Monkeys-esque TV monitors battering my eyes played nothing but ten second excerpts of TV themes, which ended before you had the chance to throw a shape – you could get an angle or two out at best. To Shangri-La we shambled, seeking less schizophrenic stimuli. Wandering down an alleyway, stopping briefly to observe one poor wreck horrified and fascinated in equal measure by the soft, glowing fabric walls of The Snake Pit, we find an innocuous doorway presided over by a friendly face. I clutch my bag of wine protectively, everyone else long since given up on alcohol. There is an unsteady man, a large wrap of MDMA across his palm, just inside the doorway. The music is funky, KFC soul. We befriend MadMan and we share our wine and his beers. Jollity. 'Shake Senora (Jump In The Line)' by Harry Belafonte plays, I dance at one with Beetlejuice. Hours have passed somewhere… Daylight outside, we discover the bar still open and order ciders. I talk to a man covered in mud, he doesn’t know where his tent is but neither do I. The walk home is long, broken up by a Welsh man called Dave. We stop to chat, have a picture taken with him inside a jet engine, go home, sleep little.

 

 Part Two to follow...

 

 

Posted In Festivals, Mar 31 2011. Words - Luke