Submitting to the sprawl of Glastonbury
Oskar Jeff went to Glastonbury for the first time to lose his festival pessimism in the vastness of the place
As the summer months rapidly approached and started to overtake me, I’d been wondering if I’d be going to any festivals at all this year. Seemingly content in my garden with a book and coffee, the calm life seemed to be what I yearned for most. Over the years, festivals have worn me down. Something about being caged in, options limited, with music constantly playing, yet often a mere afterthought. Something about the chase – a sea of people trying to cram as much of a good time into a weekend as humanly possible, like some kind of reverse clown car. Something about the rampant consumption, the lack of autonomy. By day 3, my inner pessimist would be climbing out and taking over.
The festivals that have scratched the itch the past few years have been tiny, full of friends, and relatively lawless. A perfect counter to the London day festivals I’d found myself at as they dole out the £5 tickets in desperation of making the money back on the bar.
Then there’s Glastonbury. The original. The institution. The hippy mecca. The TV spectacle. The final boss. I’d always thought I’d go one day, though that idea became more abstract as the years went by. This year, three weeks before the festival, my opportunity arose and I grabbed it with both hands.
I assess the line-up properly for the first time. It looks weird. Maybe it always looks weird? People who won’t be attending say it looks awful. People that always attend say it doesn’t matter and can’t wait to show me the ropes.
I decide it doesn’t matter too, and all that I need to know is how I’m getting there.
The thing people always talk about is the size, often with an air of annoyance. But from arriving on site, the sheer sprawl of Glastonbury was the most tantalising thing. An opportunity to get lost, the fence an unknown entity. In search for some early shade, we sit in under some trees. Suddenly a horde of girlies descend on a small stage and I find myself in the middle of an Olivia Dean (?) secret set. The girlies singalong to every word. I slip out quietly after 3 songs to make space for someone more deserving to enjoy.
Following a successful day time slot, Pa Salieu appears under cover of darkness, hosting Shangri-La. The daytime set was perfect festival fodder, a small band that sounded perfectly in place, a set up so often done wrong by other MCs looking to expand their performance for the general public. At night he laps up the energy of the more inebriated crowd.
I stumble upon Snapped Ankles en route to seeing Nile Rogers and Chic for what feels like the millionth time at a festival, but the gnarled, masked electropunk of Ankles boils over in the summer heat – I never made it to Chic.
When in doubt, just walk in a direction. The crowds change gradually as you navigate the space, but the mood across the festival remains joyous and friendly throughout, even as serotonin levels must be reaching dangerous new lows in the early hours of Sunday night. The worst you’ll see is extreme confusion; anger seems to have been left at the door.
The highlights perfectly encapsulate the geographic and musical scale. Neil Young and his Chrome Hearts come up against imperial phase Charli and festival favourites Scissor Sisters. He comes with a searing sets of classics, buoyed by the occasional (and very welcome to these ears) jam freakout. ‘Fuckin’ Up’ and ‘Hey Hey, My My’ make you want to scream and ‘Needle and the Damage Done’ and ‘Harvest Moon’ make you want to cry. When a small organ is craned down from the ceiling, it feels like a school-recital of Phantom of the Opera and it’s perfect. A set I will never forget.
Skepta steps in for Deftones and displays why he is one of the finest MCs the UK has ever produced. It is always a joy to see him on a huge stage after being such a monumental figure in grime.
Techno legend Juan Atkins resurrects his Cybotron project on the imposing IICON stage, delivering one of the finest sets of the weekend. Cybotron were one of the early architects of the electro sound in the 1980s, and it’s arguable that most of the dance music being played around the festival wouldn’t exist without it. But the reverence was somewhat lost in translation, as the band stood in line, Kraftwerk-style, performing track-by-track. I wish they had been afforded the respect they deserve, but again, with a crowd so varied it’s understandable that most of the crowd may be unaware. I just hope that some new fans were made.
Sometimes things are just a spectacle. Hip hop legend Busta Rhymes puts on a suitably ridiculous display; he and his sidekick Spliff cavort the stage in matching outfits, half-F1 suit and half-Sgt. Pepper uniform. “Shout-out GLASTONBERRY” they take turns hollering gleefully as A.I effigies of Mariah Carey and Janet Jackson appear on the backdrop, duetting alongside some of Busta’s imperial streak pop collaborations. The bizarro peak is when the proceedings are briefly interrupted by the sets official sponsor, Anonymous. Remember those guys? The roguish worldwide cabal of Guy Fawkes-mask-wearing hackers. Utterly bewildering. It was a set that was very enjoyable in the field but I imagine didn’t work well at all on TV. But Busta’s flow is still unmatched, and the sense of glee on his face is evident on pretty much every performer across the weekend. It’s the wry smile on Alex Kapranos’ face as he baits the crowd with talk of a “Capaldi” joining them on stage, to which we soon find Malcolm Tucker pacing the stage in shades as Franz Ferdinand play ‘Take Me Out’, or as Alanis Morissette resurrects her early 20s relationship woes to a crowd of thousands, or as Jarvis Cocker recounts his first time at the festival. It was all too much for him, he recalls. “You’ve got to submit to it!” he explains, and I couldn’t agree more. Everyone’s time will be different, you just need to trust that things will work out in some way, accept you will miss many things (Robert Smith duetting with Olivia Rodrigo?!) and enjoy the surprises along the way.
While the festival is geographically huge, and open to be explored by anyone with the legs for it, lots of hidden stages are only really accessible if you are privy to them being there, or know the right time to show up, or know who to speak to when you arrive at the wrong time. NYC Downlow is styled on an ’80s New York gay club, and it is probably one of the best clubs I’ve ever been in. Friday night was spent dancing solely there, with sets from DJs Prosumer and DiY Sound System legend Grace Sands. Raw, uncut house music played in the ideal environment. A definite highlight.
The cheat codes and hacks needed to navigate the deeper layers of the festival speaks to the fact that Glastonbury doesn’t spring up out of nowhere; it is hundreds of small scenes coming together and offering what they know best. So by all means arrive wide-eyed and you will be served a banquet that could satiate even the most gluttonous guest, but if you invest time in your local music scenes, making friends listening to the music you love, then there are whole new layers to the festival that will emerge. And despite being within 200,000 people, I somehow bumped into nearly everyone I knew across the weekend.
Standing in the coliseum-like Temple on the last night, watching the final set from rave icons Altern-8, sucking on another mans bag of wine and surrounded by worryingly close pyrotechnics, I spy a man next to be chaining nos balloons while casually taking a phone call. It is Monday. It is soon over, I ponder. The apocalypse has come. But really it’s a muted end to the festival, as strict noise regulations require it all to stop before it gets too feral. No matter – the many still awake congregate at the Stone Circle to continue. ‘Harvest Moon’ plays in my head as I get back to my tent, having traipsed through the empty Pyramid stage in a swarm of seagulls, and the fog obscures the horizon.
There will always be a streak of pessimism running through me. The rows of pun-loving food stalls selling bacon sandwiches for a tenner, or loveless, tone deaf burritos under the guise of a cartel (?). Then there’s the more naff hippy elements that mar any festival experience, though here it seems more genuine on the whole, baked deep into the DNA of Glastonbury, as you walk through the druids tents.
Here, the doubts were kept at bay, it all just washed over me. Actually, I rather enjoyed my hot dog in the rain on Thursday night. And I really needed that kefir and moment of peaceful shade in the Healing Fields on Sunday. Maybe I’m losing my edge.
But as we drive out the following day, we listen to Harvest, Harvest Moon and Brian Wilson’s SMILE (RIP), nod at Stonehedge, and all is well. My heart is full and my mind empty.
A very special place. Thank you to my mates, everyone I bumped into, and everyone involved in the set up.
Now I’m gonna have a really, really big sleep.
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