And it came to pass that a great gathering appeared in the Vale of Avalon where the ley lines meet betwixt the Mystical Tor to the flat west and the Welsh Bluestones in the east toward the solstice sunrise. The Orwellian Prophecy had come to pass many moons before and the Raving Stoners were driven by Swineherds from the Bluestones toward the westward marshes. Since that time many had gathered where Pilton Man had first appeared and their numbers multiplied year on year from thousands when we were in the flush of our youth to tens of thousands and now hundreds of thousands so multitudinous that they caused the Great Net to crash with much cursing and beating of breasts and sacrificing of virgin mice. During this time the great Battle of Oasis was fought as the northern hordes ravaged the land but peace had once again descended and the dieties Oxfam Greenpeace and Wateraid held court by the Great Pyramid raised at the intersection of the ley lines. Since the Great Pyramid Erection the lineage followed thus. Hippy begat Punker who begat Indiehead whilst Rasta communed with Punker begatting Techno who communed again with Rasta with the offspring of Dub and Step. Hippy and Indiehead lay together and lo in a far northern clime Baggy was immaculately conceived coming forth to commune with Sister Disco and Brother Funk. All spurned Country who ensnared and lay with Punker to beget Psycho Billy. And the peoples of Avalon danced joyously and communed under tents and hugged nakedly near their saunas. The mighty dieties Broadsheet and Redtop looked down from on high and warned those outside of Avalon of the nefarious and musically incestuous activities within. And a great storm was sent to punish the revellers with lightning thunderbolts and a month of rain falling in an hour. The festivities continued albeit with an hour delay and the dieties sent down a plague of seagulls and toads to worry and harass the revellers. But amongst the throng a mighty force reared in the Far Southern Reaches drew back the Techno Axe and playing a stupendous and mystical tune finally banished the storm back from whence it came. Thy name is Jagwar Ma and all bowed down in wonder. Following a bit of a bop. This is the word of the Lord. Amen.
Sorry. Not sure what came over me then. I seem to be channeling Michael Moorcock. Please read on and forget all about the first paragraph. And alright. I lied about the toads.
Way back in the autumn Ramsay Mark and I spend nearly 2 hours hitting F5 trying to get through to the Glastonbury ticket site when Jo waltzes along with a cursory attempt on her iPad and gets straight through. If I wasn't so happy with getting tickets I'd be a little miffed I'd just wasted 90 minutes of my life and got repetitive strain injury in my forefinger. The time has come and having spent 10 days looking at the weather forecast trying to find a site that doesn't predict non stop heavy showers I invest in a new waterproof jacket and pack on Wednesday night having eschewed 5-a-side due to risk of leg injuries. Note well Pete! Thursday morning Debbie and I set off in gorgeous sunshine the sort of weather where you cannot imagine it ever raining again but as we pass the Welcome to Somerset sign the west country weather gives us a warning shot with a couple of rain showers. We reach the site in really good time and as we open the car doors it starts raining more persistently. Of course. At least the trudge up the hill isn't muddy and we walk down to our favourite Bushy Ground camping spot where the 2010 England World Cup defeat to Germany was shown but the Glastonbury organisers have correctly predicted that we wouldn't even get through the group stage and not bothered with a screen. Which is handy for us camping if a bit disappointing from a fans point of view. We hear from Mark and Claire that they've heard a severe weather warning and decided to go glamping (well, compared to our site) in a local field. Ominous indeed. Soon Ramsay and Jo arrive and the tents are up in a drizzle but it's not enough to dampen our spirits which is what we drink to get ourselves in the mood. After a fair bit of getting ourselves in the mood we wander down to the West Holts nee Jazz Stage bar to see our friend's son. After a fair bit of hanging around they're still not on so we wander off but do catch them during the weekend as they're playing about four times so more of that later. We do a fair bit of meandering about the site soaking up the atmosphere popping in on a couple of stages and tents which happenings have escaped me. As we're nearby we see our first memorable (as in I can remember that I saw them) band
Credit to the Nation who I loved back in the day. It's pretty good fare and I enjoy the first few songs but they don't seem to have progressed with the times and sound a bit dated. Maybe it was my mood and expectations of seeing new stuff over the weekend. As we're at the Rabbit Hole we carry on up the hill to the Crows Nest to look out over the site and listen to the DJ then wander back down to the Stonebridge Bar to jig about a bit before making our way home for a much needed kip having been up for the best part of a day. Time flies when you're enjoying yourself.
Friday and we're up pretty early considering the late night and the scorching sun drives us from our beds, OK, thin inflatables and sleeping bags, to have a bit of breakfast, mix our day's drinks and hit the main site. Debs and I decide to go via the Other Stage to catch a bit of
Blondie and while not stopping to dance we take in amongst other songs a Misfits cover, the brilliant Rapture and a great cover of the Beasties' Fight for your right to Paaarrtttyyyy. Very corny I know but I assume that Harry sang it with the same irony as the BBs. Maybe not. We've now arrived at Williams Green where we meet up with 5-a-side and gigging buddy Pete, cloud dispensing Wendy, and motorhome Lee; Mark and Claire who are in our Glasto ticket 6-some; and our mate Bruce's kid Khaldoun who we haven't seen for a while and is great to see. Most of us enter the tent for the phenomenon that is the
Fat White Family. Greatly anticipated by myself having missed them due to having a 1975 ticket (don't ask) and Failed Day (don't ask) they don't disappoint in fact excel expectations. When I come to describe them they don't sound fantastic but when you hear them they are brilliantly fresh. Musically that is, possibly not as individuals. They have a tight sound but in a very laid back couldn't give a damn way serving up a heady concoction of attitude (come on, this is rock and roll and should be expected) sulkingly confrontational vocals with a big dirty stripped back rock and roll sound weaving through 50s RnR blending in psychobilly tinges through 60s garage psychedelia and into 70s early punk. Wouldn't surprise me if they'd not listened to anything more recent. It's pretty packed and sweaty in here and all too soon we're released back into the sunshine to shake our heads in wonder. As I owe drinks to Jo for securing the tickets and Claire for giving me a free Sunshine Underground ticket a few months ago (thanks Claire, once again it was a great gig) I stride the 10 yards to the cider hut for a round. What a venue. Cider 10 yards and unpopular toilets 50 yards away. The perfect distances. And lots of seating with weird stuff going on like a swarm of bees buzzing by. Next up it's
East India Youth and as not everyone's cuppa some of our little party disperse and some just hang around soaking up the rays. Having seen East India a few times I've high expectations but, again at Glastonbury, they are surpassed. He starts off with beautifully delivered vocals over haunting electronic music. This drifts into laid back electronic near frippery (intentional use of that word) and Ramsay mentions Rick Wakeman, god forbid, but I can see what he's getting at. Just as I'm worrying about getting into prog rock in my old age despite fighting against it in the Turntable Wars back in the 70s on the side of the Righteous Punkers our man Youth picks up his bass and I know it's gonna kick off with some serious on the job sampling building up a soundscape before launching into full on handsintheairshakeyerassjumpupanddownheadbanginghardcoreelectrodance. Phew! Unfortunately not many in the tent realise that they are witnessing this and are hardly tapping a foot. I could give a monkeys and I know I'm right to be so enthusiastic. Both me and Ramsay can't be wrong can we? Anyways I'm vindicated when a girl who is also enthusiastically enjoying the wave of danciness comes over to tell me I have a lot of class dancing around like an idiot (my description not hers, idiot I mean, she really did say class) and can't understand why others aren't. All too soon EIY says he thanks and leaves us gasping for breath. I chat to the girl who mistook my mad dad dancing for class and along with her friend every topic we talk about there's some weird coincidence. As she lived at Morte Ho in Devon and worked at the farm where most of us have camped and at the Woolacombe night club which was frequented way back except when Khaldoun was too young to get in I take them outside to meet the others. More coincidences emerge including St Pauls in Bristol and Kings College and we eventually stop gassing. It's only 3pm Friday and I can't believe I'll see a better 2 hours of music all weekend. However the party is young...
We all sort of drift apart and Debbie and I wander along to the Dance Area (at least that's what I know it as - I guess nearly the whole festival except for the main stages could be classed as dance now) to see Beckie and Simon's son Daniel playing bass with
Izzy Bizu at the BBC Introducing Stage. Our hero looks a bit sheepish and gives his mum's madly waving friends (another couple our age are there) a tentative wave back before having to explain to the singer who the over enthusiastic geriatric fans are. They play a great set of soulful funk and I am seriously impressed with the bass playing. I'm not an expert but having spent a lot of time dancing jiving and pogoing to a selection of the world's best bassists I know a good plucking bass line when I hear one. Izzy herself has a beautiful voice and with the tight band belying their age backing her it's a great gig. Check them out here... http://www.bbc.co.uk/events/errnc8/acts/apnxn3#p021rqxb
As we're close to home Debbie and I go back to the tent for some nosh and to chill out. Whilst we're there the Mark and Claire severe weather warning that we scoffed at hits Glastonbury with a vengence and we're subjected to a thunder and lightening storm with biblical rainfall that looks lovely but means most of the stages have to shut down until it's passed and turns the site into a mud bath. Not as bad as some years I've been as I think that drainage has improved a lot. Once the rain stops Debs and I venture out towards the Park but of course we mistime and get caught in another deluge. Ah well once your wet you're wet and a boot can only attract so much mud before any extra just falls off. By the time we're at the Park it's stopped raining and we're ready to indulge in a spot of all american punk rockiness in the very able form of the
Parquet Courts who are running a little late as all the main stages were shut down during the lightning. We meet up with Khaldoun again plus Callum son of Ramsay and Jo's friends and we all jig along to a heady mix of east coast american indie punk rock. As the young uns drift mosh ways Ramsay eventually persuades me to do the same and having dumped coats and bags on others me and The Otley Lad find ourselves being pushed and pummeled by The Kids. After all that excitement we go down to the Other Stage to see
Interpol who I usually like but they sound laboured without any buzz, maybe we've been spoiled today, and Debbie and I wander over to see the boy Bragg. Being a Left Field regular
Billy Bragg is guaranteed a warm welcome and well deserved. He's a consummate performer blending chat with great songs and giving us a fair bit of political encouragement. The songs are good and I always forget what a great guitarist he is, but taking up half the set to preach to the converted, and that's putting it mildly, we decide that Billy has enough supporters both musically and politically and exit the tent to allow some other couple to raise their fists in defiance at those outside. Mainly outside of Pilton.
After wandering around and grabbing some food, we eat extremely well all weekend not eating any trash not even late night chips, we go see
MIA. Although not a massive fan I saw her here a few years ago and really enjoyed the live set. She starts with loads of people in white Stop Tamil Deportation T shirts on who then throw out to the crowd scores of big glo sticks that flash very quickly giving the impression that the front of the crowd (unfortunately we're not that far in) is a seething mass of vibrating dayglo worms. It's pretty cool and for the rest of the night we see the odd wand lurking around Glastonbury here and there. The music is a good mix of funk, reggae and straight up rapping interspersed with exhortations to dance, an explanation of the T shirts and a rant about how the BBC won't stream her show cos of T's (I've since seen a denial of this by the beeb). As we're up by the Avalon we take the advice of a guy we were chatting to pre-MIA and go see an old Two Tone classic. The Avalon tent is filled to capacity and we squeeze in and wait for a full sound check to tediously finish before the stylish Pauline Black (recently featured in an exhibition seen by me and Maya of modern day rude boy pictures) takes the stage with
The Selecter. They launch into the hits and after good deal of skanking and hopping we leave to see a band at a slightly different end of the spectrum, at least unlikely to be featured in a rude boy sharp dressers exhibition at Somerset House. At the nearby Glade we catch what very disappointingly turns out to be the end of the
Steve Hillage Fuses Gong and System 7 show that sounds a bit variety but is far from it. I mistime by an hour so we see one Gong song from the Angels Egg trilogy if I remember rightly but don't quote me on that as it's difficult to play my cassette tapes then they're off. I take the opportunity to try to find Pete which convinces me there's some sort of parallel Glade in the universe which he frequents and I don't. It's not that big a place to find someone. Anyways System 7 come back on for a bit of techno blitzing before they all hug each other and bow to the audience and I think I hear Steve say thanks to Daevid Allen who wasn't playing with Gong due to illness but maybe he was well enough to take the stage. So a brief introduction to the Joy of Gong and family but unfortunately not the glissando guitaring of Hillage. As near the Old Railway Track, our salvation in getting home if rudely interrupted by a bloody farm house, in the middle of the Somerset countryside it's damn inconvenient, we contemplate the Park's attractions but as we had a late one last night and it is the early hours we sludge off homeward to sleep the sleep of the innocent. That's what Gong does for you. I drift off dreaming of Daevid Allen singing of PHPs (no, not the scripting language) with FWF followed by Steve Hillage's glissando guitar backed by EIY. Ahhh.....
Saturday is a little murky but it won't dampen our enthusiasm. After a shared breakfast of rye bread and marmite (aren't I the generous type) the happy campy foursome (me Debbie Jo Ramsay) mosey on down to Williams Green for a relaxing lunchtime drink and to listen to some easy on the ear music.
The Wytches spoil that plan by battering our eardrums with out and out heavy rock riffing that is the nearest I intend to get musically to today's main stage bear hunting headliners. To be fair The Wytches are pretty good and they blow yesterday evening's cobwebs away blaring out standard rock which doesn't sound ironic like nearly all heavy rock sounds to me and when I close my eyes I can imagine Tony Iommi up on stage. As we enjoyed that so much, well, some of us did, we stay for
Blank Realm who serve up fairly likeable aussie indie rock although the singer's a bit dodgy and the bassist is a bit smug. Anyways they go fairly well for a Saturday afternoon enabling us to regain our strength for the trek up to the Park for that is where the brilliantly named and even more brilliantly musical
Jagwar Ma are playing. Just before they come on the rain starts and it falls pretty steadily for the entire set. That doesn't stop either Jagwar Ma delivering a blistering set or stop us punters from dancing around like we're on a well sprung wooden dance floor rather than a sea of sticky mud. OK, possibly some of the groovy moves weren't quite as well executed in the mud but it didn't stop up trying. The band really enjoyed being on stage and brought on the drummer from Warpaint for the last few songs. They couldn't tell us enough how they appreciated being watched in the pissing rain and we loved them all the more for that. Class act. As Arcadia is close by and the sun is now out we troop along to watch Norman Jay who we saw last year in the sun playing a great soulful groovy set. If there's one thing I ought to learn about Glastonbury it's that you can't recreate last year's highlights and sure enough the music is pretty tame and we then learn that it's Craig Charles on the deck and not our Norman. Realising our terrible mistake we wander off back to Williams Green to check out
Fujiya & Miyagi who churn out some pretty decent electronic oriented heavyish rock and our musical tastebuds are back on track. After that me and Debs troop down to the John Peel tent to see our first band of the weekend there. Very odd writing that as it used to be the place where all hung out. There are now tents on the hilly bit where we used to sit between bands and the lovely bar there is gone. We get to see Little Dragon who are so poor they don't deserve to be in bold type. Bland.
We struggle through the mud to the Beat Hotel for a cocktail and listen to the funky music and watch the bad dancers. Although Debbie and I were going to see the next two Peel tent bands we can't face struggling through the mud again and instead plum for the Other stage where the legendary
Pixies take the stage. They play a great set of indie rock standards taking us back to the 90s indie disco scene. The band are tight and the singing by all comers makes the hairs stand on end even the drummer when he sings his song to the delight of the crowd. It's not often I name songs mainly cos I can never remember them. I know they sang the new one Bag Boy that I really like. Did they sing Monkey Gone To Heaven? They definitely played a heavy blinder of Debaser and possibly the best and darkest song of the weekend in Nimrod's Son from which the blog's title is taken. You are the son of a mother fker for sure. Afterwards we meet up again with Ramsay and Jo and as we've forsaken Mark and Claire at the Peelie we succumb to the Park again to see Mogwai. That's not unbold due to their crapness but cos I've not come onto them yet. Sorry, explaining syntax must be extremely boring to you dear reader but if anyone's reached this far it will keep you on your toes. As I was saying before I was interrupted the four of us, plus a couple of friends our Otley couple have bumped into, go back Park side and in the Rabbit Hole buy some cocktails, well, rum and coke masquerading as a cocktail as it's got a twist of lime in it. We then bump into Pete and Wendy again and watch what turns out to be a very good band playing activist tinged indie techno by
New Build who are some of Hot Chip it seems and a girl singer who's name I can't remember (Google / Twitter says Joy Leah Joseph). Gets a few of our crowd dancing along with others and maybe it's my black with white polka dots shirt but some girl comes up to me asking for MDMA to which I reply do I look like someone flogging MDMA and she goes off disappointed and another guy comes over saying that the circular lights 70s disco style are dancing around on my polka dots and doing his head in to which I tell him that's why I'm wearing it so I don't have to see it. Seemed logical at the time. After one of those lovely new band at Glasto moments they're off and we go down to see
Mogwai who deliver the Ramsay promised big soundscape and I can understand why they are popular when they crank up the guitars but for my taste a little too ambient.
This is where it gets messy starting with Pete losing his phone. We pop up the hill to the Crows Nest to listen to a set by SFA's
Gruff Rhys which isn't overly inspiring but maybe cos it's too crowded to get in the tent. Instead we indulge in our favourite Glasto pastime of gazing at the madness below whilst chatting to each other and random others including the guys from New Build which is when I realise that the main man is from Hot Chip and chat to the girl about east London bands. Ramsay is trying to persuade us to stay up til 3.30 to see Fat White Family at Shangri La and I'm very unconvinced but a combination of some food, a random band in a small tent adjoining the food place, Jo deciding she's tired and will go back with Debbie, and, the clincher, Ramsay saying that it was just something he had to do I agree to stay with him for the night. We part with the girls and traipse round the crazy route to get to Shangri La in the first of the obstacles. We sneak round a hedge away from security guards on the entrance but then find that we've only really cut off part of the route and still have to go through another even madder queueing system but in no time at all we're into the phenomenon that is Shangri La complete with the well named Shangri Hell which is as dark as a Pixies lyric. We wander through the streets of clubs and eventually locate our quarry that is the Snake Pit club. Turns out it's the place you need a tattoo to enter and as the queue for fake tats is long and the queue with those with tats is non existent we grab Ramsay's biro and scrawl on our arms an unconvincing bleeding heart for me and skull and cross bones for Ramsay. By this time it's about 3.15 and there is a queue for those with tattoos which we get stuck in. The place is about as big as my living room and we're talking London terrace here and with the 1 out 1 in policy Ramsay is well worried we won't get in but I know that being with him and his luck we'll be fine. We cut it fine though only getting in with a lot of pushing and shoving just after the band take the stage but then we're in to the seething mass of kids lurching about football terrace style jumping up and down punk gig style and crowd surfing. I just can't believe that Ramsay's sailors hat stays on my head all through the gig. So to the band. If
Fat White Family played stripped back rock and roll garage style earlier in the festival tonights performance is like watching early Doors. Not that I did but I can imagine it. The lead singer looks like he's been in Shangri La for a week and the others about the same time. The singer spends most of the set hanging topless from the lighting rig looking either completely and utterly out of it or he's putting on an Oscar deserving moody look. The songs are the same but have a really psychedelic rock feel to them tonight with the band playing slightly wonky but in a good way. With the crowd behind them in a seethingly sweaty hole that lives up to it's Snake Pit name we are treated to a classic gig. After they finish the promoter encourages us to shout for them to come back saying it's as epic as the Pistols at the 100 Club. Not sure about that but maybe a comparison to the Doors at some LA dive club without Jim Morrison's legendary crowd haranguing. The band do come on for the encore seemingly reluctantly but maybe it's just that they have peaked on whatever they may be on as one of the guitarists seems to sit at the drums before the drummer appears. It's all very anarchic and beautifully so. As it ends we go for a gasp of air outside and chat to a similarly impressed punter and talk of Pulled Apart By Horses and Rock and Roll Accountancy. I think. Eventually Ramsay and I stagger out of the Pit and find our way out of Shangri La and start on our route back along the old railway track whilst the sky brightens as the sun rises. We arrive home an hour before I usually get up and bidding each other good night and smirking like kids who have nicked milk off a milk float to wash down a bout of scrumping we sneak into our respective tents trying not to wake our tent mates. I fall asleep musing that although music moves ever forward it's often the throwbacks that grab you by the short and curlies exciting the hell outta you. Some bands are "sons of" others but the best are an unholy combination of different genres mashed together and then stripped back to a basic raw energy creating an electricity that is difficult to let hold off once you've grabbed it. What we saw tonight was not your boy meets girl have kids live happily ever after. More a rich dark serving of angst by those mischievous Pixies and then the youthful ebullience of raw childlike me me me of the FWF sprung from an incestuous union of blues rock and psychedelia in their ongoing feedback loop. And with those dreamy thoughts I drift into the land of never never, ever ever.
Ahhh. Wonderful how a good 5 hour sleep refreshes you. Up and at em. I trundle off to the John Peel stage toilets as our local queue is about 2 hours long and pass hordes of punters streaming into the main site in anticipation of the last day. After a decent home made breakfast of rye bread, marmite and 9 bars we make up our drinks pack our beers discuss what clothes to wear and off we set out to our local at Williams Green where we see a fairly decent set by
Superfood that nourishes us in that Glastonbury early Sunday afternoon laid back getting into the vibe way. It's then a short wander round to West Holts where we meet up with Mark and Claire who are on the Brothers and I snooze in the hot sun whilst listening to the jazziness of
Troker. Debbie and I then go for a Sunday afternoon stroll up around the Green fields taking in the stone circle which is infested with loud and brash balloon inhalers littering the meadow with nitrous oxide gas phials which get chewed up by Farmer Eavis' cows. Bastards. As I think I wittily wrote last year - glue sniffing for the middle classes. I'll add wankers onto the end of that sentence. Yeah I've tried it and giggled a bit but who hasn't taken a big sniff whilst glueing Airfix models it don't mean you have to do it at festivals and at the age of 45. Twats. Anyway, as I was saying, Debs and I are having a lovely relaxing afternoon stroll through the Green Fields and we park ourselves just above one of the teepee fields to kick back and look over the festival. Oddly we see a few women stop in the middle of 3 teepees and one drops her trousers and has a pee. This is not a bad pun joke so bear with me. Debs sees this and tells me and I can't quite believe it asking are you sure. Then some bloke pops up and starts haranguing the woman about pissing next to his home then shouting stuff about her keeping some other blokes texts on her phone. So it's a domestic we're witnessing. He carries on shouting whilst she wanders off looking sheepish. To be fair it's probably a good way to end a relationship. Go over to soontobeexlovershouse and urinate in the porch. A fairly definite statement and lets the neighbours know so no embarrassing conversations with them when you next bump into them about the fact you've separated. Saves a lot of shouting too although the guy obviously wasn't on her wavelength. As we're watching this example of Glastonbury bliss we notice that there's a sauna nearby so go down to see if our mate Carl is working there. The guy on the entrance says he's probably the naked one dancing. Sure enough Carl is in there but not dancing and has shorts on. A few others are lounging around nude but not everyone. After catching up and chewing the cud I tell Carl we're very disappointed that we didn't get a nude hug and before you can say Tiny Tim he's dropped his kegs and is hugging Debbie then it's my turn. Sorry Carl, couldn't resist the playful disparagement of your size. Hee hee. To be honest I daren't look down too closely so unsure as to whether it's Tiny Tim or the Jolly Green Giant. Hmm, that sounds even worse. Soon we escape the naturists and wander back down to the Other Stage to meet Ramsay and Jo.
We're here to see
The Horrors shunning Dolly who most of the festival seems to be at and I find out later did the Bennie Hill Theme on a rhinestone encrusted sax. Impressive but not as impressive as The Horrors in full flight. I love them live and although Ramsay rightly points out that they are a little less tight than usual they still impress with a great range of songs from punk to psychedelic goth. Debbie and I then go back home for tea and to make up the night's drinks and find 8 cans of lager left by neighbours. Yum. Just what we needed. During our stay there's a mass flocking of seagulls swooping down on the piles of rubbish already left giving a distinctly Hitchcockian air to the afternoon. The Horrors indeed. Donning our furry coats we take the High Road to the Park to meet back up with our Otley couple in time to see the as ever highly impressive
James Blake who rattles out the three best known (remembered) tunes straight off and delivers a dubby dreamy soaring set with immaculate musicianship and on the fly sampling and mixing. The last song he asks us to keep quiet so that he's no noise in his sampling and leaves us breathless before we all cheer for more. As Ramsay's said he's not touching another lager and I'm on the wine I thrust a can each to three youngsters who were the best dancers at the Park. They are over the moon and dub me hashtag freebeer or something newfangled like that. Not sure I want to be a #. Then another guy comes over cadging rizlas and he gets a beer too and complements my furry coat offering to buy it for 2 quid. Cheeky git it cost me a fiver. We were going to go see Massive Attack at the Other but it's so stickily muddy down there we all vote to stay Park Side. Rabbit Hole has a blast from the past. Not sure who it is and having just looked at the programme says it's FWF which it certainly ain't. They're a competent enough old type travellers anarchic band playing ska / reggae / punk / celtic but I've heard it all before and maybe after James Blake it's not sophisticated enough for my refined tastes. Debbie and me leave Rams and Jo with friends and go up to the Crows Nest to hang out and catch a very decent rap band with multi vocals very reminiscent of the Beastie Boys in full rapping flight. The stage listing says it's
Kate Tempest and it's an appropriate name as she is certainly stormy and all the better for it. There's a bit of activist chat but not Bragg standard by quantity but a lot more personal rather than obviously left wing. And at the end we're treated to a poem that unfortunately cuts out halfway through but us outside do catch the end of it. Lovely. The sign says that Jagwar Ma are DJing next but I don't think it is them although they did come up the hill. There is some fast african latino beats and a guy starts dancing madly but very well in the middle of the tent to rapturous applause. Turns out to be the guy I gave a beer to for dancing so well to Blakey. Mark and Claire arrive and we manage to finish off all booze having now restarted on the lagers and also drain the last of the summer wine that at the start of the day I really didn't think we'd drink at all. Rather tasty to be honest. Having given our all we wander down to the muddy Park to get some nosh then the final trek to Gate D. Parting from Mark and Claire with the usual see you next year the four of us take advantage of the queueless long drops and then home to bed.
The next day we pack early and with record breaking 20 minutes from starting the car to being on the open road we are homeward bound. Highlights? Well, not on the main stage (Pyramid to you newbies). I realised on Saturday afternoon that my Clashfinder printout didn't even have the Pyramid lineup as I set it to only print stages with bands I'd highlighted. Only 1 band on Pyramid and that in passing so doesn't count (Jack White who I thought was Dolly on early); 1 at John Peel and they were crap; and only 2 at the Other that we deliberately saw and stayed for. So highlights. Two hours that was Fat White Family stripped back rock and roll followed by East India Youth full on soundscape and techno dance dreams all in a little tent called Williams Green. And sunny outside. Or so I remember. Seeing our mate's son at Glastonbury. You are one cool dude Daniel. Sorry we waved at you but yer mum told us to so blame Beckie. Moshing with Ramsay at Parquet Courts and after hours Fat White Family. You sweaty bugger you. Jagwar Ma in the rain and Pixies in the dry. New Build cos they were completely new to me and very danceable. Horrors and James Blake for serving up as expected and only what we deserved on a Sunday. Chilling in the tent with Debbie away from the madness and eating lentils. Chilling up at the Crows Nest with the gang and drinking strong spirits. A fantastic year and can't wait to get my dirties on tickets in the autumn. As I don't take a camera here's a little arty collage that sort of fell together. Yes, that is bunting and mud. As the Guardian Guide says - Truly Epic. And the Gruaniad don't never lie unlike the red tops. Thanks Michael and Emily. Keep em coming. Thanks those who met up with me. Keep on coming.
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| Even Glastonbury mugshots make you look like a lifer |
