Thoughts on Glastonbury Part 3 - Livid in the Long Drops

The concluding part of my Glastonbury chronicles - see also Part 1 and Part 2.

On Saturday, being wet, grumpy and adrift in clarts, we figured that The Healing Field could provide blessed relief and joined an 'Introduction to Meditation' class. This seemed quite in keeping with the hippy vibe of Glastonbury, and the instructions to focus on the breath and prevent your mind yearning for sun, dryness and virginal toilets helped restore a certain sense of calm. This turned to mild wonder as we spotted Thom Yorke outside afterwards - diminutive, top-hatted and strutting foppishly like an amiable eccentric.

Suitably transcendent, we floated to the Cabaret Tent and caught both the impassioned politics of Jeremy Hardy, who lambasted 30-somethings such as myself who retreat into political apathy, and the surreal silliness of Kevin Eldon, a comedic actor whose CV is impeccable (I'm Alan Partridge, Brass Eye and Big Train among others) yet wider fame eludes him, assuming he even wants it in the first place.

I had intended to see Pulp, the weekend's other secret special guests, that evening but as I approached the stage towards where they were due to perform, my inner misanthrope decided that the baying crowds and current status of the mud (welly-devouring quicksand, sediment fans) were too much. Every fibre of my being insisted that I flee to the sanctity of the Acoustic Tent to see Pentangle, so I did precisely that.

This was not a decision I regretted, as it gave me an opportunity to see two of the best acoustic guitarists around in Bert Jansch and John Renbourn, plus the inimitable Danny Thompson, a man who has provided supreme double bass to Nick Drake and John Martyn amongst many others. Jackie McShee provided haunting vocals atop the lissom pastoral folkiness that eased gently into the night air, as I took sips of fine single malt from my girlfriend's Little Miss Sunshine bottle (a hipflask may be useful in future and less incongruous among fans of classic folk music.) Hindsight both reinforced my decision and added a sense of melancholy, as this was one of Bert Jansch's final performances prior to his sad passing in October this year.

I continued my rehabilitation with some fine local ales and exquisite carrot cake, as the avuncular strains of Elbow drifted over from a nearby field. I even found some toilets that were queue-free and serviceable – known as 'long drops', they are much cleaner than portaloos as all effluence is dropped into an unspeakable (and partially visible) pit several metres below. This may not sound great, but distance between yourself and raw sewage is a good thing and prevents the far greater hazard of overflow.

As the evening wore on, I gritted my teeth and returned to the Park to watch Wild Beasts, which was the musical highlight of the festival for me. Unfortunately, some members of the audience threw empty bottles and cans into the crowd, which beggared belief – how can you like this beautiful, intelligent music and yet be a callous blaggard who hurts people? A plague upon their tender portions.

Wild Beasts themselves were superb and rapturously received, to the extent that the audience loudly declared their love at regular intervals. The band seemed genuinely moved and slightly taken aback with the crowd's gushing approval. Musically, they were brilliantly tight and played note-perfect renditions of songs mostly taken from their last two albums, with only Devil's Crayon appearing from their 2008 debut, Limbo, Panto. They are something very special indeed, the best modern band around and quite capable of taking their place in the canon of great British groups.

Next was my attempt at what the youth call 'clubbing' – I was relieved to discover we wouldn't actually be bludgeoning small mammals, but rather dancing to repetitive music in makeshift discotheques. The Arcadia area was undeniably spectacular, despite queues that rivalled our Glasto arrival – enormous metal structures reformed from military scrap pierce the skyline, including a giant spider which belches fire and sears the night sky with lasers and channelled lightning. It's a visual and engineering masterpiece, but the accompanying music was trancey tat so we headed off to a roofless nightclub for DJ Yoda's set instead.

Elsewhere, the radical Block 9 area had some amazing sights, including a section of decaying tower-block with a lifesize tube train protruding from it. This was a 50ft structure and a functional nightclub to boot, so was a tad more impressive than simply dancing in a big tent. However, fatigue was defeating us so we were forced to camp, after a brief interlude of playing Head, Shoulders Knees & Toes with some flamboyant Germans. If you're reading Dad, don't worry - I am writing literally and not metaphorically.

I suspect my constant bemoaning of the weather will go hard with you, but honestly, Sunday was brutally hot. Our tents were as microwaves and shade elusive as water in a desert. I had hoped to see Laura Marling and others but it was too hot to move – we just grabbed a couple of hours sleep under a large public gazebo, securing just enough space to lay down and oblivious to the clatter and chatter around us. Eventually, we crawled to a sheltered area to hear The Bees' set without exposing ourselves to any harmful rays. When the heat became less oppressive, we headed up the hill next to The Park area for a 360 degree panorama of the entire festival.

We remained here for the duration and watched the sun set over Glastonbury. The valley below us illuminated as dusk fell and pulsed with revellers squeezing the last drops from this year's festival. In all, my first Glastonbury was a positive one and I'm very glad I finally attended. If you can't bear mud, rain, crowds, queues and feculent toilets then you may struggle, though to counteract this you will be armed with life-affirming music, great food and drink, amazingly ambitious spectacles to immerse yourself in and a good helping of hippy camaraderie. Worth a go I reckon.

Thoughts on Glastonbury Part 2 – Mud, Filth & Shangri-La

Part 2 of my barely-coherent Glastonbury ramblings – see Part 1 here.

My first taste of Glastonbury proper was to follow, as we left the campsite and made our way to The Park area for some vital sustenance. Not for Glasto the crap burger vans, hot dog stands and boiled farts of lesser festivals - my first meal was a huge Lebanese mezze incorporating falafels, splats of hummus and cheesy-herby things in pastry. In keeping with the original hippie vibe, much of the food at Glastonbury is veggie, though those desperately in need of something's flesh are catered for too. It is possible to eat badly at Glastonbury, but it's difficult as most of the food is ace and covers pretty much every cuisine.

The two days prior to the music mostly involved wandering around and familiarising ourselves with the festival format and localities. There's an area called Shangri-La which is essentially “a futuristic and dystopian wonderland created by over 1,500 crew and artists.” It felt like a film-set (specifically Bladerunner), and was conceived as a pre-apocalyptic world for the festival-goer to immerse themselves in.

So with the end of the world apparently approaching, I felt it was as good a time as any to try some curry and some splendid strong, warm cider that may or may not have led to my subsequent purchase of a straw panama hat. My hopes of appearing as a right-on member of the counterculture were dashed with the realisation of my Geoffrey Boycott resemblance, but I stuck doggedly to my brimmed headgear until it was rained off in true cricketing fashion.

However, as Friday progressed and the drizzle saw no signs of abating, I began to consider that I was actually done with festivals, having been to too many wet, muddy, miserable affairs. It does tend to dampen the spirits as well as the skin when walking for miles through quagmires and queuing for the pleasure of using toilets that would be deemed unfit for animals in most circumstances. The sheer volume of people didn't help either – every inch of available camping land was seemingly taken up and the weight of numbers was ridiculous at times. It seemed rather avaricious of the organisers to cram Glastonbury farm with what felt like the absolute maximum legal amount of festival-goers, thrown together in the mud and filth to create crowds everywhere and render every journey a mission to be endured.

The turning point, of course, was seeing my first band, namely that of BB King. I was alone in the crowd, as my friends had gone to see some shouty blokes called the Wu Tang Clan. The rain continued, but my first experience of good music (on the main Pyramid stage too) transcended the elements. BB himself didn't come onstage for a good 15 minutes, leaving it to his band to showboat, taking individual turns in the spotlight to showcase their blues/jazz skills – as a chin-stroking jazz fan who now had an annoying hat to match, this was actually far better than it sounds.

Eventually the man himself arrived to rapturous applause. He's now 85 years old, so without being morbid I didn't know if I'd get chance to see him play again. Throughout I was thinking that this would be one to tell the grandchildren about, but sometimes it's best to enjoy the moment without thinking “this is history” and recording the event on your mobile phone so keenly that you miss the actual instance of the performance. Again, there were large instrumental passages to begin with and it occurred to me that perhaps his voice had gone and he's now content to make Lucille, his Gibson ES-355 guitar, sing. This fear was unfounded, as he provided stirring vocals throughout the set from then on.

Temporarily lifted, I gradually returned to terra firma as the rain persisted down and I turned to Radiohead, renowned purveyors of “hello-trees, hello-sky” good vibes, to provide comfort. They were announced on the day as surprise special guests but their scheduling was unfortunate, as they were playing at the same time as Morrissey. This of course presented a dilemma for fans of angsty introspection, and siphoned away those who would otherwise have enjoyed both acts into an either/or quandary. Personally, I was buoyed by footage of Radiohead's triumphant 1997 performance replayed on TV in the weeks before the festival, so swayed towards the Oxford band instead of the unsigned former Smith who I figured would be promoting new material to secure a record deal.

As it happened, Radiohead played a somewhat esoteric set, eschewing their 90's work for more tricksy post-millenial material. Mozzer, on the other hand, ran through a greatest hits set with plenty of Smiths songs, though apparently he included the bloody awful Meat is Murder so my disappointment at having missed him was tempered slightly.

In fairness to Radiohead, this was a rare opportunity to play such a set, with their status of surprise special guests partially negating the sense of expectation synonymous with an actual headline act. Their show was hampered slightly by low sound levels, though the volume was passable enough from where I was standing. Weird Fishes/Arpeggi sounded great, as did Reckoner and the new material was impressive too. However, the crowd wanted, and needed, some well-loved OK Computer/Bends-era anthems to help them forget the mud and rain.

Indeed, even a smattering of 90's hits amid the newer material would have caused the damp crowd to gratefully erupt, but we had to wait until the encore for the sole pre-Kid A offering (Street Spirit/Fade Out.) Not a bad set by any means, but it felt like a missed opportunity for both band and audience. In a bizarre twist, Harry Enfield was watching only feet away from me, maturely ignoring a broadside of “Only Me's” from a battery of laddish cards.

Part 3 coming soon: Guru Smith goes a-meditating, enjoys some cabaret and skulks off to the Acoustic Tent in a strop.

Thoughts on Glastonbury – after the dust has settled (and mud has finally flaked off)

This summer saw my first trip to Glastonbury. I did plan to document the experience at the time, but circumstances, including that twin-headed demon procrastination and disorganisation, prevented this. However, it occurred to me that offering a different perspective by collecting my thoughts now, months later and detached from the summer festival maelstrom, may not be entirely without merit. Given the downpour today, it also seemed rather apposite.

We drove down on the Tuesday through the night, attempting rather unsuccessfully to sleep in the van. I don't know when you last tried to get a full night's sleep while sitting up, but it's a ruddy nightmare of creeping leg cramps and ears numbed against window frames. On top of this, our plucky driver was still in the front seat and trying in vain to get some kip, but his momentary lapses into unconsciousness resulted in slapstick headbutts of the horn.

After a night of cranium-induced klaxon tooting, we 'woke' to Wednesday's gentle rain and thought we'd best join the already-huge queue, swollen with the many dedicated revellers who'd congregated through the night. Our Tuesday night travels were an attempt to beat the queues, though it appears that thousands had the same idea and got there first. Apparently, it gets worse every year due to the increased numbers of people – someday soon, Glastofolk will have to start queuing while still at home, though at least they'll be able to put the kettle on.

Having eventually located the end of the queue, and standing there in the grey drizzle around 90 minutes before the gates were even due to open, one of our party pointed out that we'd paid nearly £200 for the experience of being refugees. Thankfully, the gates opened early and the queue started to move, though having arrived at the brow of a hill we saw the queue snake for miles through the adjacent fields. Fully laden with enough camping gear to dislodge vertebrae, our hearts sank at the prospect of several hours slow trudge through the Somerset countryside.

However, some enterprising souls had noticed that a quick trawl through a ditch enabled the prospect of jumping the vast majority of the queue. Dodging mud, branches and my throbbing conscience, I followed those of our party who'd already decided that this was the only feasible way forward and 'joined' the queue near the entrance. A slight wait developed into purgatory thanks to a mad-eyed Scouser who, perhaps due to having taken a few liveners, seemed unaware of the concept of festivals and was perplexed as to why we had bags, tents and wellies. I think he was unaware of the concept of tickets too, as we never saw him once the queue surged forward and we were through the barricades into Glasters' golden fields.

We arrived at our chosen camping spot as the first in the field and it began to rain, so we hurriedly constructed the gazebo and took shelter inside, all nine of us dripping and steaming with our bags and tents piled in the centre like a futile offering to the spiteful god of festival camping. The rain eased off long enough for us to construct the tents, and with the sun coming out it looked like all was well. A quick sleep in the heat of the tent followed and upon waking, I saw that the vast expanse of green field had been filled with tents of all hues, with merry revellers cracking open their tins of ale and unwisely stoking barbecues under gazebos that threatened to melt inwards and consume the very consumers. And thus it begins.

Part 2 coming soon: I'll stop moaning and actually mention some music, so sit tight gentle readers (all three of you...)