Glastonbury - Worthy Farm, Pilton - 27-29/6/03
1/5
By: Toby L
xclusiv glasto interviews:
Festival Curator, Michael Eavis / The Libertines / Grandaddy
On a global scale, there are few rejoicing, unifying, truly inspirational events as such. Most deemed such a title are typically haunted with political or religious nuances - i.e. potentially segregating gatherings, exclusive to those choosing to follow a beaten pathway or sewn-up agenda.
Glastonbury, in spite of its ultra-swift knack of selling out so damn quickly (and thus infuriating the fence-jumpers that can no longer perform their 'entrance technique', or those not in reach of a credit-card to make a purchase in time before its ticket-allocation has been eaten up) is quite possibly the world's last mass-scale, euphoric congregation. And, because of this, is a ceremonial weekend and antidote to the world's ills, enclosed in a lush, rural setting that treats the city-dwellers their annual slice of healthy breathing (only interrupted via the occasional walk past the steaming rows of chemical-toilets).
Musically, the past 24 months have been a blessing. And it's a festival's job to reflect that - to hammer home the significance of our aural-age. With Glasto '03 fittingly providing the backdrop to both ancient and biting-at-the-bit, newbie talent, this year's show marks one of the finest, landmark, staged outdoor events of recent history... But, enough of the opening formalities.
It's Friday morning. And it's belting it down - already rain-sodden tents swaying violently against pelting rushes of unadulterated, ice-cool drips of water. It'd be hell, if it weren't for The Darkness serenading us with Radiohead's 'Street Spirit (Fade Out)', complete with sneakily injected metal solos that, strangely, never made the original edit. De La Soul bring with them the sun, fortunately - bombarding us with a greatest-hits set that encompasses the glaring rays of genius that embedded their classic '3 Feet High & Rising' all those years back (a shimmering 'Me, Myself and I' may sound wilfully 80's, but is greeted like a pelvic-thrust to the crotch from the girl or bloke you've fancied for an age). The albatross-like slump and sometime-reared grandeur of Mogwai following, also in the main arena, just seems too heavy in comparison, thousands of families unable to grasp the brooding noodling of such ageless ditties as 'Hunted Like A Freak'... Shame; simply the wrong context.
A waltz to The Other Stage ensues more than we bargained for; off-loaded into a deck-chair and enveloped within a flurry of Japanese noodles, greenery and ready-salted crisps is a poor, glasses-adorning man that his 'mates' have decided to 'trash' amidst his hours of sleeping calm. His associates then ask us to 'piss on him'. We contemplate for a second, but hear the almighty blast of The Cooper Temple Clause sockin' it to 'em a field away, and head on our journey. And, rewardingly, TCTC are simply getting more and more phenomenal at this sort of thing - cascading riffs with snarly vox and sneering synths to devilish expertise on a gruelling 'Promises, Promises', whilst following up with a sleazy 'Who Needs Enemies', and a bizarre seal of approval denoted to all the crowd's 'ice lolly and Calippo' consumers (presumably, due to the now-intense scale of heat frying us from above).
So Zwan cancelled on us, but there are few qualms to be had when they're replaced by an act of this such merit - The Music are massive today, singer Rob Harvey helplessly emitting the considerate cool and long-haired messier dream that enabled Ian Brown such iconic status last century. But this is now - and bouts of freak-out funk-rock provoke catastrophic festival-anthems 'Too High' and 'Take The Long Road & Walk It' to sky-rocket into the stratosphere and shake down a thunderous, grassy dance-floor. For these four Leeds scallies, and to quote the irrevocable Shed Seven, it's gettin' better all the time.
Yet, wait a second - what's all the commotion? A skip through the hospitality sector, and a small crowd is forming. A security-guard discards the secret. 'You see that Spiderman,' she trembles excitedly, pointing towards a costume-clad, drearily tall and pointlessly thin reveller. 'Well,' she goes on, 'that's Fatboy Slim!' We seize the opportunity and grab the fella for a snap, addressing him by stage-name; he's rumbled, and doesn't like this. 'Oh,' he camply responds, 'it was supposed to be a secret...' The image is taken. Exclusive.
And then it's more party shenanigans with Detroit's busted-up five-piece, Electric Six, a band so amidst their element it's almost defying that three of their founder members had walked out just weeks prior. Though this is no time for introspection - before the off, all are chanting, 'GAY BAR, GAY BAR,' with pumping venom, and it's only when such an indie crossover gem is discarded - following a diamond, mosh-pit exploding 'Danger! High Voltage' and laughable 'Electric Demons In Love' - that the masses gathered are finally content, topped up with a ravishing 'Radio Ga Ga' for good measure. Rock 'n' roll was never this fun, surely.
Suede are comparatively more desperate. In spite of a back-catalogue that any Dick Valentine would bite their own moustache off for, the elements are testing them - the bass cuts out, Brett is simply too animated, and the mid-evening slumber and pre-headliner anticipation has set in. But it doesn't taint too drastically - an enraptured, spellbinding rendition of a searing 'Animal Nitrate', followed keenly by the angelic 'The Wild Ones', are classic, whilst Anderson's calls of 'Let's do this,' prior to a golden 'So Young' prevent criticisms of the most fearful of ageing band traits - 'passion-lack'. Even the modern matter has an occasional gleam and sparkle of glam-righteousness - the harmonica-driven and 'Hand In Glove'-evoking stomp of 'Obsessions', for one, or a grisly new electronica tune that alienates the mould once presumed they consistently reside in. From sounds and sights of things, Suede can still do it - but, seemingly, just when the situation allows them to.
Almost amusingly, there's then a choice between the dulcet, blissful chimes of Beth Orton in the One World Stage, or the Scots/Smiths/Stipey/angst of Idlewild gallivanting The Other Stage. The former is true to form - treating the stealthy masses to ringing bouts of wonderment from all three previous albums - whilst the latter suffer from sound-problems and occasional distraction, yet still hone an enviable racket, encompassing all from day-one era ('Captain'), through to the pussier-edged 'The Remote Part'. All sumptuous. You feel especially celebratory during conviction-ridden slabs of 'Actually, It's Darkness' and a haphazard 'You Held The World In Your Arms'. Ever-improving.
All this as a warm-up to REM's hotly awaited second showing on the Pyramid Stage in just a few years is pretty humble, therefore. Michael Stipe's relentless firmness to enjoy his Glastonbury experience is what fuels the performance with striking fervour; he beams from ear to ear in between the hit-after-hit discarded set, whilst tearfully wiping his eyes during an emotional run-through of a track he dedicates to us as 'Your song...' (a terrifyingly vivid and beautiful 'Losing My Religion') and timeless, encore-initiating 'Everybody Hurts'.
If it weren't for the fact that grisly rockers 'What's The Frequency, Kenneth?', an opening 'Begin The Begin', eerie 'Walk Unafraid', and robust 'The One I Love' were included, then it could prove too soppy, though the intimacy of the performance is so starkly stand-out for a band so bold, huge and performing in front of a crowd this size (in the region, at least, of 80,000). Thus, the slowed-down, emotive 'Electrolyte', mid-pace 'Little America' ('Sadly, it's still appropriate,' Stipe comments of the track's subject-nature), glorious 'Daysleeper' and harmless indie-schmindie of 'Imitation Of Life' bounce past with romantic zeal and immediacy, with perennial moments set in stone via a racing, sing-a-long 'Man On The Moon' and a frantic 'It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)'. The band remove themselves from sight, but Michael Stipe remains, savouring the precious few seconds prior to departure. Funny, really. Following a performance like that, we were doing the exact same thing.
Saturday. We wake up in a tent, caked in mud and - bemusingly - Mr Kipling biscuit-wrappers, spilt beer slowly drying on the canvas, a can stolen from a prior night's evening spent partying at The Thrills' tour-bus (a 4am barbeque, anyone..?). If it weren't for the early-morn lure of today's ace New Tent line-up, then we'd never escape this in-between state of exhaustion and still-drunken dehydration.
South are the first to convince the attendees of their worth (not that it were needed: past single 'Paint The Silence' goes down a storm upon immediate delivery), merging dramatic time-signatures with yelling vocals and a dance-like groove that fires a smattering of particularly noteworthy new material. And then there's a whole run of 'hotly-tipped's' - a who's-who of the Scouse and US alterna-scenes: The Basement running off sciffly-blues rock in as unassuming a rasp as possible; The Stands charming all with their N. Gallagher-approved, 60s-inspired jangle-indie; The Bandits with their inventive folk-pop-schlock-horror rumble; and then Radio 4 creating the first, scintillating party-havoc of the day, rearing political/social commentary side-by-side with love-funk trinkets your local disco would do well to slip on (the NYC Clash anyone...?). LA's The Warlocks are far less approaching, but maintain stamina during a 40-minute wig-out of psychedelia rock-fetishes, but seem belittled in contrast from the rave reports that amount from Kings Of Leon's packed-tent showing - their southern-US hillbilly-rock the (non-)surprise, low-key hit of the festival. And, astonishingly, only after two singles, too.
Jimmy Cliff proves this year's token, everyone-gotta-check-out 'legendary-crooner' on the Pyramid Stage, bringing out the oldies and curious young-uns in force for a nostalgia-trip that takes in sunshine-coated, early afternoon-served rambles of bliss, inclusive of 'I Can See Clearly Now' to expectedly rapturous interest-arousal. Tim DeLaughter's The Polyphonic Spree maintain the full flow of joyous elation, for the first time ever now donning red robes as opposed to their trademark white (presumably to make any stains and hot-rock burns less noticeable), and showcasing really rather strong new material alongside now classic airings from debut-LP, 'The Beginning Stages Of...'. Picks of the batch - the shimmering, feel-good '2000 Places', a mesmerising 'It's The Sun' and a finale that sees all 24 onstage members let hell break loose (well, in as inoffensive a fashion as possible) to the soundtrack of the catchiest piano refrain of the weekend. Unsurprisingly, a reliably elevating set.
There's a quadruple-whammy of almost-there's on The Other Stage, meanwhile - kick-starting with the most accessible, endearing performance of the weekend from Dublin's prior-mentioned The Thrills, a band nearing live-genius more and more-so on every outing, invigorating us with innocent, warming gems such as 'Don't Steal Our Sun' and 'Whatever Happened To Corey Haim?', whilst knocking out the likes of 'One Horse Town', 'Big Sur' and a triumphant closing 'Santa Cruz (You're Not That Far)' as if they are seasoned pros. The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster are considerably more attention-seeking - there's an 80's MB-LD themed car parked backstage, for crying out loud - and shudder through a noisy half-hour of hellish goth-pop, as pastiche as it is terrifying.
Interpol, meanwhile, continue their non-distinct endeavour to blow minds in as simple (and cool) a countenance possible, dreamily sifting through 'Turn On The Bright Lights' to a fittingly hazy summer's reception, 'NYC' - as ever - the quietly overwhelming highlight. Post-performance, rockfeedback catches up with a buzzy, pristine-groomed Carlos D., bassist of the band, who joins us in our endeavours to revive the 'high-five' as a celebratory means to an exciting part of a conversation. His enthusiasm in the project was noted highly, as captured dutifully in the image (cheers, CD).
But whereas their proceeding cast are plain sailing all the way, you can't help but speculate over the prospects of The Libertines and their potential set; co-singer/songwriter/guitarist Peter Doherty out of the frame temporarily due to present illness, and Carl Barat takes full duties on as sole frontman, backed by bassist John Hassall on additional vocals, and their guitar-tech, Nick. It's, at first, a scary thought, but as soon as the cut-throat explosion of 'Horrorshow' ricochets from the PA, the mighty attendance is in full swing - a mosh breaks out, and arms are thrown in the air.
Notably, we've never heard the band this tight before in our lives - and Barat's once cool, side-stage demeanour is thrown aside in preference of a yelling, distorted rabble of unrestrained franticness. So, every track from 'Up The Bracket' is unleashed heroically, in addition to rabid, hot new stuff 'Don't Look Back In The Sun' (possibly, their first, true classic single) and giddy 'The Ha Ha Wall' - and what proves most striking is that, in spite of (hopefully...) temporary personnel-shifts, the songs themselves are the saving grace: tracks we've embraced and made our own. That's The Libertines' gift. Hopefully, Doherty will return to the fold and help recreate the magic; they're just on the edge of a breakthrough.
Turin Brakes and Supergrass provide the bulky safeness of the Pyramid Stage's upper-reaches billing, both firing off singles as passionately as if they're the last performances, the 'Grass typically embracing all with an ardent exhibition that sees it no wonder their continual invitation year after year to slog the festival-circuit. And, somehow, it's a perfect warm-up for Wayne Coyne's Flaming Lips, a band whose tireless influence in the past three years has been justified with a Saturday night, nigh-on headline-slot. It's an indie-dream - opening with 'The Soft Bulletin' top-40 opus, 'Race For The Prize' and cleanly sweeping through a wistful blend of mostly new, inclusive of a sparkling 'Yoshimi Vs The Pink Robots' and a notably glamorous 'Do You Realize?', both only bettered by a majestic, if oddball, Pink Floyd cover as a close. Oh yeah - and fluffy animals were abound throughout.
2 Many DJ's heat and pack the Dance Tent to diligent standards; a sound that has defined rock-crossover-dance of late - the assault of the dual-edged bootleg (that is to say, splicing an embarrassing pop-song with that of a contemporary, or classic, alternative record), and it still works impeccably (though a new Soulwax album wouldn't go amiss). The Coral, elsewhere in some location, are affirmatively unstoppable. Their status-ascendance from buzz-band to the UK's next monument of enduring influence seems only so justifiable, the fact that last year's classic, eponymous debut has been complemented with an almost immediately-to-be-released, second record (inclusive of tonight's folky heart-stopper, 'Pass It On'), and performances such as this. The dusk hits finally during their crθme la crθme of a live-set - a mammoth close on the ecstatic 'Goodbye', a stoned hysteria resonating amidst the thousands present as if a grand revelation has just been encountered. Maybe it has.
Oh, and then there's some lot called Radiohead headlining on the Pyramid Stage. They're pretty good, actually.
Ah, who are we kidding; of course they steal the f**king show - how can you write a song as gracefully beautiful as a lilting 'No Surprises' and then follow it with the epic weariness of 'Fake Plastic Trees' mid-set and not provide 100,000 people with instant, gushing adoration? And that's after kick-starting the show with two of the best songs of their latter-stage career - the drumming throb of 'There There' and manic mastery of '2+2=5', whilst a tense 'Climbing Up The Walls', chilling 'Talk Show Host' and searing 'Paranoid Android' are indisputably magic.
The vibrant part of their 'Kid A' phase covered (a violent 'Idioteque', and characteristically engaging 'Everything In Its Right Place'), and the band encore to please - a compelling, full-on, head-rushing 'Just', and a killer 'Karma Police'. Thom Yorke finishes the song, and languorously looks out to the audience, unable to restrain himself, solely vocals, no backing.
'Phew, for a minute there... I lost myself... I lost myself... Phew, for a minute there... I lost myself... I lost myself...'
It's the understatement of the year. Made even more momentous by a final, crushing 'Street Spirit'. We must all be collectively dreaming to experience a spectacle such as this. And - if we are - please: let's never wake up.
Tragically, we do wake up, and it's Sunday. The final day. Early on and rumours are circulating that screechy, distortion rock-duo The Raveonettes are having to cancel an appearance due to their equipment not being on-site (this eventually turns out to be true). But at least The Rain Band do the honours of opening The Other Stage at a laborious 10:20am with cosmic baggy-rock, the pulverising, racing 'The Runaways' nursing hangovers prior to the raging smash of 'Easy Rider' and a sultry 'Fist Of Fury'. Really too early for something this delectable. Same goes for the eventual showing of Dave Grohl's adored My Morning Jacket, the enviable cross between heavy alt.country and - somewhat more unconsciously - heart-on-sleeve emo, grimy-haired singer Jim James enjoying the final thrash so much that he lingers onstage, guitar still strapped on, whilst his band-mates escape.
Backstage, and a familiar, bearded noggin is dodging pushy journos and tireless snappers - curator Michael Eavis, proudly declaring this year's event the 'best yet' and that it seems as if they've 'finally cracked it', in respect of the ultimate weekend's entertainment, during a press-conference. Declaring his act of the weekend as Radiohead, he enthuses throughout, but - commendably - seldom gloats.
The Zutons are their usual, pleasing selves, bolstering the New Tent with youthful urgency, fiery sax and Dave McCabe's arsenal of winsome, loveable odes, 'Creepin' An' A Crawlin' niftily sitting alongside build-up instrumentals and quirky alt-pop-bluesgrass. This stuff could be huge, just like the direction Damien Rice is heading in - a man who shuffles tracks from startling debut 'O' (a, refreshingly, mixed-received effort) with newer, even more embracing, larger-scale material - and an avenue once experienced by former Catatonia-growler, Cerys Matthews, whose Acoustic Stage appearance may seem, in theory, a far too stripped-back platform, but, in reality, showcases her charming 'Cockahoop' LP to vivacious, informal effect.
Then more New Yorkers, this time stage-clashing - and it's either the rasping punk-thrills of The Star Spangles (pictured: vocalist Ian Wilson, disappointed after the quality of the band's performance, in spite of audience encouragement), or The Rapture, who bellow through a set comprised of new LP 'Echoes'' rich array of fast-tempo, straight-ahead infectious trashy-party gems, which culminates in Bez from Happy Mondays (complete with maracas, how else?) rollicking across the stage like a limp leek, 'House Of Jealous Lovers' never sounding so vicious in its crisp boldness.
Grandaddy are well-endowed at this sort of thing, performing the final sun-tinged set of the day before it goes all murky on our asses, and rampantly launching into 'The Crystal Lake' barely a weak stone-throw into their set. It wins. And a generous helping of material from 'The Sophtware Slump' - plus a timely 'Summer Here Kids' - slams alongside the breeziest embers of new record 'Sumday' and we are in Californian heaven, frontman Jason Lytle never glowing so satisfactorily. Dave Gahan next up, by rights, shouldn't be viewed in the credibility stakes - but, damn it, hearing a romping 'Personal Jesus' is almost incendiary.
Hope Of The States get a healthy packing in the New Tent soon after, frontman Sam Herlihy both amiable and advantageous as neurotic leader of the packer, guiding us through each song-title and otherwise orchestrating his army of accomplices into a molten collage of whining strings and epic atmospherics that allow the piano-lavishings of 'Black Dollar Bills' and a particularly rabid 'The Last Picture Show' to mesmerise and compel the senses, even despite not containing one conventional chorus between them. Not that they needed one.
Then it's the turn of the Welsh - Feeder, performing what many will go on to define as a 'coming of age' show, their first evidence as indie-rock heavyweights as opposed to scene-counterparts, the likes of 'High' and 'Just The Way I'm Feeling' sky-hovering their way to the shadowy greyness over yonder, and the frolicsome intensity of 'Buck Rogers' going some distance to pack a punch. The Manic Street Preachers, however, are a bit more solid at this sort of thing - and tonight is an admirable, no-holds-barred fifteen songs in a taut, wired hour: the sound of a band returning, at long last, to form in the live-arena.
From a blistering 'Masses Against The Classes', onwards past a deluge of b-sides (to plug new compilation-LP, 'Lipstick Traces' - ker-chiiing), a peerlessly romantic 'Little Baby Nothing', massive 'Motorcycle Emptiness' and melancholic 'This Is Yesterday', there is venom in a slimmed-down James-Dean Bradfield, fire in the eyes of extravagant, cross-dressing bassist Nicky Wire, and, er, Sean Moore continuing to drum nicely. By the inevitable culmination of a blinding, simmering, outright emotional 'A Design For Life', this is the hunger proved of a band once loved and rediscovered again, a cry away from the (now) unjustified provocations tied against them. Welcome back.
Moby steals the honours of the final Pyramid Stage headline - dusting off more memorable, depresso-pop gems than once thought capable (capped off with a cover of the 'Head's 'Creep'). But, by all accounts, Sigur Ros with their serenity-stricken vastness and Jonti's wail are life-affirming, whilst Doves put in the show of their career, simple moments - e.g. 'Caught By The River' - becoming restlessly expansive in stature once set free, 'The Cedar Room' taken to death-defying, soaring heights, vocalist Jimi Goodwin both dapper and inscrutably talented as the avid bassist/singer combo. And then, Buena Vista Social Club get the last stab in the One World arena - Cuban salsa, playful horns and a hearty vocal-delivery from one of the originals, Omara Portuondo. We dance, sing and aren't worthy. It's now the end.
Monday morning. Back to reality. The tent is packed up, the coach embarked upon and the journey home seems to take years. Memories float in and out of head - provoking laughter to self, which is in turn broadcast to the bemusement of nearby travellers - and the anti-climax proves terminal.
Though Glastonbury may already seem so far away, at least there's consolation in the fact that for, once again this year, we've bottled some of it up inside and taken home the best part - its unbridled spirit.
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