Showing posts with label glastonbury festival headliners. Show all posts
Showing posts with label glastonbury festival headliners. Show all posts
Monday, 16 June 2014
Sunday, 30 June 2013
Finally Worthy
Ah, the end. It comes too quickly.
I am trying not to get sad about it today, and to think of today as 'no more camping day', 'my own bed day' and 'hot shower day'.
I am looking forward to all those things immensely.
It is hard, when you are here, to remember that there is a real world going on outside this steel ring. That there are people who are going to supermarkets, and to work, and aren't bumping into groups of beery blokes in drag breaking into song spontaneously, or people in deeley-boppers doing the conga through a group of samurai with 6-foot tall hair.
I've called home a few times while I've been here, and it's sort of jarring. Like placing a phone call to another dimension.
I will, of course, be sad to leave - I always am. I love this festival (but not it's internet access. That was too much stress) and I know that when I trudge off site, I'll have tears in my eyes, despite the fact that my feet are killing me, my back aches and I've managed about three hours sleep the entire time I've been here.
This pop-up city of friendly chaos means the world to me, a bubble where for three days I can forget everything else, leave most of my worries behind (case in point: net access). It's a place where I don't worry about what I wear, or who I'm stood next to. When it's considered weird not to smile and hug people you've never met before, strike up conversations with strangers, paint your face, get a henna tattoo and dance like an idiot.
The fact that something so magical springs up on my doorstep every year is not lost on me. Most of the time Pilton is a beautiful but quiet village, the sort of place you tend to pass through, rather than go to.
The fact that some people will live their entire lives without experiencing this is something I can't comprehend. That they will never see Arcadia sending spirals of flame into the air, or sit at the Pyramid, or be busked at by a hopeful man with a hat at his feet as he cranks out some tunes on an inflatable guitar.
Glastonbury isn't just about the music. To call it a festival doesn't even begin to cover it. It's about being part of the friendliest army of on earth, it's about losing yourself in a crowd of people, and loving every moment of it. It's about getting lost and finding things you never even thought could exist, let alone considered how much fun it would be to do them.
I love this festival with all my heart. And I am sad that it is coming to a close.
It will be very, very nice to sleep in a bed, and not on a rapidly deflating lilo, though.
I'm off for a wander, and then to catch Mumford, before packing up my stuff and shuffling back into the real world for another year. Monday morning, I'll be bleary-eyed at my desk, so tired that I won't be able to talk, and my feet aching so much I won't be able to put them on the floor. But it is completely worth it.
I really missed this place last year.
It's been good to be home. I feel..Worthy.
Catch you on Twitter (@glastfestblog), if I can get a connection from the Pyramid, and a round-up blog in a couple of days.
This is Laura, signing off for now.
I am trying not to get sad about it today, and to think of today as 'no more camping day', 'my own bed day' and 'hot shower day'.
I am looking forward to all those things immensely.
It is hard, when you are here, to remember that there is a real world going on outside this steel ring. That there are people who are going to supermarkets, and to work, and aren't bumping into groups of beery blokes in drag breaking into song spontaneously, or people in deeley-boppers doing the conga through a group of samurai with 6-foot tall hair.
I've called home a few times while I've been here, and it's sort of jarring. Like placing a phone call to another dimension.
I will, of course, be sad to leave - I always am. I love this festival (but not it's internet access. That was too much stress) and I know that when I trudge off site, I'll have tears in my eyes, despite the fact that my feet are killing me, my back aches and I've managed about three hours sleep the entire time I've been here.
This pop-up city of friendly chaos means the world to me, a bubble where for three days I can forget everything else, leave most of my worries behind (case in point: net access). It's a place where I don't worry about what I wear, or who I'm stood next to. When it's considered weird not to smile and hug people you've never met before, strike up conversations with strangers, paint your face, get a henna tattoo and dance like an idiot.
The fact that something so magical springs up on my doorstep every year is not lost on me. Most of the time Pilton is a beautiful but quiet village, the sort of place you tend to pass through, rather than go to.
The fact that some people will live their entire lives without experiencing this is something I can't comprehend. That they will never see Arcadia sending spirals of flame into the air, or sit at the Pyramid, or be busked at by a hopeful man with a hat at his feet as he cranks out some tunes on an inflatable guitar.
Glastonbury isn't just about the music. To call it a festival doesn't even begin to cover it. It's about being part of the friendliest army of on earth, it's about losing yourself in a crowd of people, and loving every moment of it. It's about getting lost and finding things you never even thought could exist, let alone considered how much fun it would be to do them.
I love this festival with all my heart. And I am sad that it is coming to a close.
It will be very, very nice to sleep in a bed, and not on a rapidly deflating lilo, though.
I'm off for a wander, and then to catch Mumford, before packing up my stuff and shuffling back into the real world for another year. Monday morning, I'll be bleary-eyed at my desk, so tired that I won't be able to talk, and my feet aching so much I won't be able to put them on the floor. But it is completely worth it.
I really missed this place last year.
It's been good to be home. I feel..Worthy.
Catch you on Twitter (@glastfestblog), if I can get a connection from the Pyramid, and a round-up blog in a couple of days.
This is Laura, signing off for now.
In Eavis we trust
You have to hand it to the residents of Shangri-La, they've picked a good deity.
They've always had a bit of a theme up there, that they worship the short-wearing one - and it's plain to see that he's held in rather high regard by the revellers (although, not enough to adhere to his requests to 'love the farm, leave no trace' or not to bring gazebos along, but still.)
This year the recycling crews have been kitted out in 'Recycle for Michael' t-shirts, urging people to separate their waste and all that jazz.
I've spotted some rather cool flags, including one with a robed Michael Eavis painted in stained-glass style, the sun shining above him, the Tor to his back, his face serene and peaceful and his arms spread out to welcome us all to the green (..er..ish..) fields of Glastonbury Festival.
Written above him? 'Heaven on Earth', obviously.
It's hard to work out what Michael - a Methodist - makes of all this.
But you've got to admire some of the artwork.
They've always had a bit of a theme up there, that they worship the short-wearing one - and it's plain to see that he's held in rather high regard by the revellers (although, not enough to adhere to his requests to 'love the farm, leave no trace' or not to bring gazebos along, but still.)
I've spotted some rather cool flags, including one with a robed Michael Eavis painted in stained-glass style, the sun shining above him, the Tor to his back, his face serene and peaceful and his arms spread out to welcome us all to the green (..er..ish..) fields of Glastonbury Festival.
Written above him? 'Heaven on Earth', obviously.
It's hard to work out what Michael - a Methodist - makes of all this.
But you've got to admire some of the artwork.
OK, OK..
I'm sorry I called the phoenix a duck.
You can just about make out the bird on the ledge of the Pyramid, before it awoke. Also, a massive thank you to whoever bought the massive pair of lips again. Totally didn't obscure the view of the stage or anything.
This was probably the closest approximation of my view. At least I wasn't behind someone tall.
I love the phoenix. Really. Every time I'd wandered past the Pyramid over the last few days I've seen it resting on the little balcony thing on the stage and wondering what it was going to do and when.
And it was amazing.
The whole stage dimmed to red, ominous lighting, highlighting the phoenix, beneath it, the lights were red and looked like flames. Smoke poured out, the first few maraca shakes of Sympathy for the Devil hissed out, and slowly but surely, the bird lifted it's head, and the crowd went wild.
While we dutifully provided the 'woo-wooos', the bird eased itself into a standing position and stretched it's wings, and seemed to be regarding us balefully.
Then it regally belched streams of flame into the air and we all dutifully went 'ooooh!' like a bunch of fireworks had gone off, or we'd never seen fire before, and screamed our approval.
And it was dramatic, and amazing and awe-inspiring and amazing and also amazing, and everything that a mechanical phoenix coming into life while legends sang about the devil while on the world's most iconic stage should be.
The bird bobbed it's head, flapped it's wings and breathed fire for the duration of Sympathy before folding itself back up again and going back into retirement.
It was by far the most interesting thing I have ever seen the Pyramid do. More, plz.
You can just about make out the bird on the ledge of the Pyramid, before it awoke. Also, a massive thank you to whoever bought the massive pair of lips again. Totally didn't obscure the view of the stage or anything.
This was probably the closest approximation of my view. At least I wasn't behind someone tall.
And it was amazing.
The whole stage dimmed to red, ominous lighting, highlighting the phoenix, beneath it, the lights were red and looked like flames. Smoke poured out, the first few maraca shakes of Sympathy for the Devil hissed out, and slowly but surely, the bird lifted it's head, and the crowd went wild.
While we dutifully provided the 'woo-wooos', the bird eased itself into a standing position and stretched it's wings, and seemed to be regarding us balefully.
Then it regally belched streams of flame into the air and we all dutifully went 'ooooh!' like a bunch of fireworks had gone off, or we'd never seen fire before, and screamed our approval.
And it was dramatic, and amazing and awe-inspiring and amazing and also amazing, and everything that a mechanical phoenix coming into life while legends sang about the devil while on the world's most iconic stage should be.
The bird bobbed it's head, flapped it's wings and breathed fire for the duration of Sympathy before folding itself back up again and going back into retirement.
It was by far the most interesting thing I have ever seen the Pyramid do. More, plz.
The duck rises
I got tangled up in a bottle neck yesterday, somewhere between the John Peel stage, the Other Recharge Tent (biggest queues of the festival are at the phone charging points) and my campsite.
Even the queues here are fun. As a sea of people heading in one direction found themselves confronted by a sea of people heading in the other direction, separated by a line of people who'd been waiting in line for six hours to charge their phones, it became reasonably obvious that we'd have to resort ourselves to shuffling around a few steps at a time and that no-one was going anywhere fast.
Instead of tutting, an impromptu sing-a-long broke out, and we had a few bursts of Deliah, I will Survive and You're just too good to be true, before sorting ourselves out and making our way along.
The reason for the trip to the tent was to get the rum for our annual cocktail evening. It was supposed to be White Russians this year, but somehow we ended up with Mojitos. Not that I was complaining.
Then, nicely toasted, we headed off to watch Primal Scream (pretty good, but I spent at least half their set wandering back and forth to the loo) and to wait for the Stones.
Growing up in my parents house, I think I sort of absorbed a knowledge of the Stones and their music from Dad taking over the record player every Sunday when I was growing up. Consequently, it turned out that me and my sister knew more Rolling Stones songs than we thought we did, and were able to hold our own in a crowd of people in their t-shirts, or the current festival favourite - 'who the f*** is Mick Jagger?'
Press tent rumour has it that the outside world didn't approve of their performance, but like everything else in the real world, it doesn't really relate to what was happening inside the steel fence at Worthy.
For me, it was my 'I was there' moment. I sang and boogied my way through Honky Tonk Woman, Brown Sugar, went into raptures when they broke out my favourite Stones song, Wild Horses and watched awestruck as the duck on top of the Pyramid Stage awoke for the first time (too much to drink on Thursday undoubtedly) to join in for Sympathy for the Devil, and started flapping it's wings and belching fire while the crowds roared their approval.
It was nice of Mick to dress up for us - lovely jacket, and a spangly jacket for the last few numbers. It was hard to believe that the rubber-lipped, snake-hipped man strutting around in front of me is older than my dad.
Not bad at all.
Even the queues here are fun. As a sea of people heading in one direction found themselves confronted by a sea of people heading in the other direction, separated by a line of people who'd been waiting in line for six hours to charge their phones, it became reasonably obvious that we'd have to resort ourselves to shuffling around a few steps at a time and that no-one was going anywhere fast.
Instead of tutting, an impromptu sing-a-long broke out, and we had a few bursts of Deliah, I will Survive and You're just too good to be true, before sorting ourselves out and making our way along.
The reason for the trip to the tent was to get the rum for our annual cocktail evening. It was supposed to be White Russians this year, but somehow we ended up with Mojitos. Not that I was complaining.
Then, nicely toasted, we headed off to watch Primal Scream (pretty good, but I spent at least half their set wandering back and forth to the loo) and to wait for the Stones.
Growing up in my parents house, I think I sort of absorbed a knowledge of the Stones and their music from Dad taking over the record player every Sunday when I was growing up. Consequently, it turned out that me and my sister knew more Rolling Stones songs than we thought we did, and were able to hold our own in a crowd of people in their t-shirts, or the current festival favourite - 'who the f*** is Mick Jagger?'
Press tent rumour has it that the outside world didn't approve of their performance, but like everything else in the real world, it doesn't really relate to what was happening inside the steel fence at Worthy.
For me, it was my 'I was there' moment. I sang and boogied my way through Honky Tonk Woman, Brown Sugar, went into raptures when they broke out my favourite Stones song, Wild Horses and watched awestruck as the duck on top of the Pyramid Stage awoke for the first time (too much to drink on Thursday undoubtedly) to join in for Sympathy for the Devil, and started flapping it's wings and belching fire while the crowds roared their approval.
 |
| To be fair, the phoenix was awesome. I took about 900 photos of it. |
Not bad at all.
Saturday, 29 June 2013
A few sights around the..er..site..
This BBC cameraman, whose work will inevitably be obscured by 19,000 flags, yet works diligently anyway. We salute you, high-flying BBC cameraman.
This group playing to an appreciative audience at the bandstand.
This group playing to an appreciative audience at the bandstand.
This bit of the site, which somehow manages to combine a shanty town with a nightclub and a mahoosive statue.
Flags, gazebos and bottles
The flags are in abundance this year. It's like with the other festivals trying their best to ban them, they all go crazy here.
I love a good flag, me.
You have to feel slightly sorry for the guy who didn't get a ticket, though.
His friends have lovingly made a flag with his name and number on, urging revellers to get in touch with him and tell how sorry they are he isn't there, and letting him know what he's missing out on.
What lovely friends.
Banning things doesn't tend to work too well, though. I've got no doubt that with all the people streaming in there's just no way that everyone can be checked, but there's still a bunch of gazebos lying around and the 'love the farm, leave no trace' motto seems to be being almost entirely ignored. The ground is littered with..er..litter. Mostly beer cans and plastic bottles, but to the extent that when you walk around all the main stages, you can't hear anything apart from drunk people screaming and singing, and the gentle crunch of tins and litter being flattened.
You see the clean-up crews going around, gamely trying to pick up after people, but they might as well be trying to push water uphill.
Sad, really. All those lovingly hand-painted bins and all that rubbish.
I love a good flag, me.
You have to feel slightly sorry for the guy who didn't get a ticket, though.
His friends have lovingly made a flag with his name and number on, urging revellers to get in touch with him and tell how sorry they are he isn't there, and letting him know what he's missing out on.
What lovely friends.
Banning things doesn't tend to work too well, though. I've got no doubt that with all the people streaming in there's just no way that everyone can be checked, but there's still a bunch of gazebos lying around and the 'love the farm, leave no trace' motto seems to be being almost entirely ignored. The ground is littered with..er..litter. Mostly beer cans and plastic bottles, but to the extent that when you walk around all the main stages, you can't hear anything apart from drunk people screaming and singing, and the gentle crunch of tins and litter being flattened.
 |
| In my head, a passing Michael Eavis saw this gazebo and in a fury flipped it upside down while screaming 'I SAID NO GAZEBOS'. Clearly it didn't happen, but still. |
 |
| CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES! |
Sad, really. All those lovingly hand-painted bins and all that rubbish.
The Monkees
I spent most of last time rammed into the crowd at the front of the Pyramid for the Arctic Monkeys. I was reasonably disappointed to discover I only know one-and-an-eighth of any Arctic Monkey songs, and it turned out that one of them was actually a few lines of Yellow by Coldplay.
Still, it was good to join the masses, marching under a hundred silly flags to claim our own, tiny patches of flattened beer cans in the name of the proud nations of 'Where's Al?', Spongebob Squarepants, 'Spiffing Choons!' and 'It's my first Glasto, say hi.'
The crowd, bless them, were fun and friendly. I found myself rammed up against a man's arm pit, almost unable to move my arms and forced to pogo in a bid to free my arms. I will admit to being somewhat relieved when the guy shoved his way through the crowd a little, only to spend the next forty-minutes being doffed in the face by the girl-in-front-of-me's ponytail.
Another good night's sleep - despite awakening in a puddle of Pringles, spooning a bottle of cider and discovering my lilo had deflated during the night. I suspect a leak, but I can't be bothered to look. Damn thing.
Good news! Today the site is warm and currently sunny. I have celebrated with a sunglasses/skirt/trainers/t-shirt combination.
It's reasonably quiet at the moment - people still in their tents from the night before, the market traders just beginning to open up (those that bothered to close, at least) and the site full of those out on the hunt for an early breakfast, or staggering to bed for the day.
The dry weather and hundreds of thousands of wellies have tramped the land down to something smooth and glassy, with bits of beer cans sticking out of it, fused with the earth.
Plans for today include: The annual Midsomerset News and Media cocktails at 5pm, someone that my sister is forcing me to go and see, and then a trip to the alleged party tent for Primal Scream and The Stones, of course.
Celeb spots include: Christine Bleakley last night, and that Parker-Bowles guy from the cookery show. And the Arctic Monkeys, but since they were on stage at the time and being watched by a billion other people, I'm pretty sure they don't count.
 |
| Arctic Monkeys - well, sort of. |
Still, it was good to join the masses, marching under a hundred silly flags to claim our own, tiny patches of flattened beer cans in the name of the proud nations of 'Where's Al?', Spongebob Squarepants, 'Spiffing Choons!' and 'It's my first Glasto, say hi.'
The crowd, bless them, were fun and friendly. I found myself rammed up against a man's arm pit, almost unable to move my arms and forced to pogo in a bid to free my arms. I will admit to being somewhat relieved when the guy shoved his way through the crowd a little, only to spend the next forty-minutes being doffed in the face by the girl-in-front-of-me's ponytail.
 |
| My view for much of the festival thus far |
Another good night's sleep - despite awakening in a puddle of Pringles, spooning a bottle of cider and discovering my lilo had deflated during the night. I suspect a leak, but I can't be bothered to look. Damn thing.
Good news! Today the site is warm and currently sunny. I have celebrated with a sunglasses/skirt/trainers/t-shirt combination.
It's reasonably quiet at the moment - people still in their tents from the night before, the market traders just beginning to open up (those that bothered to close, at least) and the site full of those out on the hunt for an early breakfast, or staggering to bed for the day.
 |
| A campsite, yesterday. |
Plans for today include: The annual Midsomerset News and Media cocktails at 5pm, someone that my sister is forcing me to go and see, and then a trip to the alleged party tent for Primal Scream and The Stones, of course.
Celeb spots include: Christine Bleakley last night, and that Parker-Bowles guy from the cookery show. And the Arctic Monkeys, but since they were on stage at the time and being watched by a billion other people, I'm pretty sure they don't count.
Friday, 9 October 2009
Playing the odds.
Let's take a look at the bands the Bookies seem to think will be stomping around the Pyramid this year. Not scientifically, or logically, of course. That would be too sensible.
Rolling Stones 4/1:
Rolling Stones 4/1:
Yeah, I can see it. And apparently the Stones have already said they'd play the festival if they were asked, and got a bit huffy in 2007 when they weren't asked. It's been rumoured that Michael Eavis has wanted 'em to play for a little while. Although the Eavises said they wanted the festival bill to be made up of people who'd performed across the forty years the festival has been going, which...sadly, doesn't include the Stones, it seems a pretty good year for them to make their first appearance here. And let's face it, "Rolling Stones, Glastonbury Festival and 40th anniversary" all in the same sentence sounds pretty damn epic.
Coldplay: 8/1:
Eh, I can see it, but it's not doing anything for me. It feels like Coldplay show up every year. Michael and Emily are good friends the band, as well as huge fans, so it's probably a pretty safe bet they'll be on board for the 40th anniversary. Sadly, I can't find myself getting excited about this - Coldplay have always left me, uh, cold.
David Bowie 8/1:
Oooh. Now there's a thought. He played in 1971 and again in 2000 - making him a prime candidate for the anniversary festival, according to the Eaviseseses criteria of finding bands from across the festivals history to grace the stages.
Muse 10/1:
Muse are colossal, and they've already shown up at Glastonbury a couple of times - their operatic prog rock makes a perfect festival closer. I can see it happening, sure enough, but...honestly, I'd kinda like to see someone a bit more legendary closing. They can have a slot, though. I’m generous like that.
U2 12/1:
I.. can't see it, really. With their political and environmental leanings, you think they'd be a shoe-in, but somehow I can't imagine St Bono descending from on high to grace us with his presence, somehow. Just a feeling. I’m sure they’d be worth watching, even if I haven’t liked anything they released since The Joshua Tree.
Arctic Monkeys 12/1:
I'm sorry. What? No. A boring generic indie band who sing about booze, sex and being famous? Thanks, but no thanks.
Radiohead 14/1:
Oh dear. Hopefully, Mr Eavis won't let them back on his farm after they moaned about the festival not being green enough, or whatever it was. Please, no more Radiohead. Ever.
Prince 16/1:
*shudder* I really hope not.
Elton John 16/1:
Nnngh. You don't get much more kitsch or camp. I can see a Worthy-Farm-wide-singalong of Crocodile Rock taking place without stretching my imagination too much. I can see it, but I won't be weeping into my herbal tea if it doesn't happen.
Red Hot Chili Peppers 16/1:
Computer says no. Every year since I've been going to Glastonbury, this lot have been rumoured. Not that I wouldn't like to see 'em, but for some reason I can't see it happening. Would be very happy to eat my words, though. With ketchup.
Kings Of Leon 16/1:
I just don't get this band. I watched 'em at Glastonbury a couple of years back to see if I'd like them any better live. I didn't.
Green Day 20/1:
Can't see that happening. They should've played there a couple years back when American Idiot came out, but I think all the hype around 'em has died off a bit now, hasn't it?
Robbie Williams 20/1:
Possible. Everyone loves Robbie, don't they? Or do we hate him now? Either way, he's nice to look at.
Stone Roses 20/1:
Yawn.
Madness 25/1:
Madness are awesome live, and I had a blast in the crowd watching them this year. Don't really see them as 40th anniversary closers, though. Last but one, maybe? That'd work.
Spandau Ballet 25/1:
Wait? What? I'd rather scoop out my eardrums with a melon baller, thanks.
Manic Street Preachers 25/1:
Haven't really liked 'em since Richey went missing. They don't particularly offend me, but I doubt I'd make the trek from the stone circle to the Pyramid to see 'em.
Take That 33/1:
...I'd probably have to write an outraged letter to someone. I'd even sign it "Angry, from Glastonbury." There would be words like "shocked, appalled and outraged" in it.
Oasis 33/1:
Didn't they break up? Did anyone really care?
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