It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. James Berry withstands wind, hail and rain in his pursuit of the perfect Glasto experience. Still believe in love?
11/07/2004
Stalking Guy Garvey
This is a big day in Elbow’s life, maybe the biggest. We know that because Guy Garvey told us, looking as emotional and spirited as a hulking brickhouse of Northern man can, at an early acoustic set in the Guardian Lounge (a partially-furnished area for the purpose of sprawling, consuming coffee, croissant and Camberwell-Carrot and browsing news). The sound is proud and delicate, 3 intimate moments unfurl and the tent becomes oversubscribed with rapt, gracious ears. There’s no time for lounging though, next stop the Other Stage where I Am Kloot are piling brilliantly through their dense acousto-beat-pop. Guy pegged it, as much as a hulking brickhouse of Northern man can, over for a beautiful, harmonising, set closing ‘To You’. A short while later though is when his and their true hour arrives. A similar set to previous ‘Cast Of Thousands’ gigs, what marks this apart is how lost in his moment Mr Garvey is, how their infusing soundboard smoothes the edges of the experience further (we’re already basking under baking sun and cooling breezes), and how their masterful bass continually takes the wind right out of you. They cap it off with a champion ‘Grace Under Pressure’ (recorded live to be released a fortnight later for landmine charity MAG), the stage heavily staffed by assistants for its rousing climax, melodies, beats and emotions tumbling fearlessly in all directions. Lots could be said, but the final line uttered of course says it all: “We still believe in love, so fuck you”.
Meeting Thy Maker
The trad double of Oasis ‘n’ McCartney on consecutive nights was never going to surpass last year’s dribblesome REM/Radiohead top-to-tail, but if nothing else it showed Eavis’s wicked sense of humour – rumour had it the Worthy bearded one even wanted the wind-up Britpoppers on just before the ex-Beatle, but Noel considered that a little, ahem, inadvisable. You have to credit his astuteness – it would have been. Oasis still do Oasis pretty well. Oasis fans are on hand on cue and in droves to watch Oasis do Oasis well, and behave accordingly. ‘Rock ‘N’ Roll Star’, ‘Morning Glory’ and ‘Columbia’ for starters? Great! It’s a flat-pack gig though, and nobody thought to bring a screwdriver. McCartney and his people however have a full toolkit, probably a small pro-carpentry team and, if hearsay is to be believed, rain-busting cloud-jets. Oh well, technology can’t be trusted, eh – reboot the cloud-jets! Despite getting bogged down in session-musician slurry, especially the excruciating solo-hell of the finale, it’s all just about getting to the heart of the matter – songs that soundtrack a million lives – uniting most bodies crammed into this vast field, making an event. And ‘Hey Jude’ becoming 2004’s campsite battle cry was sure a fucking improvement on last year’s ‘Gay Bar’. Not sure how he’d fare with a return set in 10 years, mind.
Somerset Sirens
Calling all statisticians and nymphs. Yes, you! You may be interested to learn that the gender split this year was around 58/42 percent in favour of the fairer sex. You heard about the she-pees? That was the one comedy concession. Crud isn’t so hot at the maths, we probably carried a decimal point or two over in error, but our survey revealed people on stages to be roughly 97.823% sweaty, grunting man. Which is plainly lop-sided (the fact of the matter, not our sums). But what lacked elsewhere was countered by the striking work of a few, and thus we pay tribute to the leading ladies on Eavis’s land this weekend. Her name in the programme was enough alone to lend the whole event a classy rush of blood to the head – Queen Polly Jean Harvey, playing a bracing career-spanning teatime set on the Pyramid, in a ‘vintage’ torn Spice Girls dress, looks like the coolest motherfucker on the planet and sounds like a Masai punk warrior in the final throaty throes of ritual battle, without creasing her outfit. Carina Round may have a climb ahead of her to the peak of that particular pedestal, but with a sharp black dress/white guitar combo, a voice from the most tempestuous heavens and some schizophrenic blues, she’s next in line. Leila Moss is the unseeded revelation though, leading The Duke Spirit through another “heavy shower” of the apocalypse on Saturday AM. Like the sweetest dominatrix you ever did see, cracking her whip through a burst bag of thrashy emo-wave ‘n’ feedback, she owns that field. Let them back next year so she can take it completely. So how is it you work those funnels again..?
‘O’ Come All Ye Faithful
His infamous, extended mid-afternoon set (courtesy of The Raveonettes’ ill respect for punctuality) became one of last year’s enormously special moments. It was etched quietly into festival folklore and sales of his album ‘O’ rose 1000%. Which gave us two certainties; there’d be turkey on the table in the Rice household that Christmas, followed inevitably by a return to the scene of the sublime victory. But in such a privileged position? All but the faithful questioned, and quite reasonably so, whether Damien Rice could handle co-headlining the Other Stage, and right before the neon funk explosion of Basement Jaxx. He answered simply in falsetto and husky tones, with slight of hand and blistering distortion, delicacy and bolting abandon. The endless surprises of last year were unavoidably absent (the ‘Jaxx have turned up you say? Well darn it!), but he tends to bring such a fresh approach to every performance we’ve seen, this one certainly included, that it’d be erroneous not to label this A Moment. It positively feels like one. Where he could have seized-up and bluntly rejected the baying audience’s visible fervour, as is his want on occasions, he was unrestrained, intense and untouchable, just like he was supposed to be. It feels like he’s making a difference, even if that’s only as far as the eye can see for the time being. Each time the experience is deeper than you imagined it could be and contrary to what most ill-informed reports lead you to believe, he is practically without peer right now.
Let It Come Down
Much as we could harp on till our teeth fell out about how life-changing this mammoth social Mecca is (and yes, Mecca, not Macca, nor Mozza for that matter), it’d be dishonest to insist the weekend was free of dips ‘n’ disappointments. But how would you define the experience if your Serotonin levels were peaking for 120 hours solid? Though we did our best to schedule our way around them, being as geographically distant from Starsailor as possible for instance, some crept up. Wilco, for one, despite releasing a divinely ambitious album 5 days previous, appeared wooden, stiff and dwarfed. We were disappointed when 80s Matchbox didn’t click for us this year, despite unleashing their most impenetrable wall of screech yet and summoning a storm to wash the lightweights away – bet it looked good on telly. The biggest let down was hauling our asses from a toasty campfire up to the cinema field at 2.30am to see modern cult-classic Shaun Of The Dead, only to find screen and projector sitting half finished, and a handful of confused casualties slumped agog on the damp grass anyhow. The law would have it that you can’t talk frustration without mentioning the football. Despite being as interested in the game (Euro 2004 quarter-final, England vs. Portugal, if you’re not keeping up) as Morrissey in a kangaroo burger, we soaked up the glistening atmosphere by the Pyramid for 30 minutes, then ambled back through the markets observing desperate attempts to track down a TV. Back at the tent listening to 5 Live, the huge sighs echo like delayed dominoes around the site, it was quite magical for us.
Relevant sites:
http://www.glastonburyfestivals.co.uk