724th-26th June 2005.
FRIDAY
Sometimes context is everything. Sometimes it can be ignored, but not this time. If Glastonbury festival hadn't suffered flash floods from six in the morning of the first day, and it had been a beautiful weekend, this review would be completely different. But it wasn't. Oh dear God it wasn't. As no doubt everyone knows, this was the muddiest Glasto since 97, and that changed everything. I challenge anyone to get in to a band when your feet are soaking wet, you haven't sat down for hours, and your legs are threatening to go on strike at any moment. And I was one of the lucky ones, who didn't see their tent float away with all of their possessions in it.
Michael Eavis commented that "It's only a bit of rain and mud, get over it" or words to those effect. But if you've seen any photo's of the undoubtedly great man over the weekend, he was as clean as a freshly washed whistle. I've studied the pictures, there's not even a hint of a spot of mud on him anywhere. And he didn't have to spend literally hours walking zombie like round the site via the metal tracks, following thousands of others, whilst missing out on a whole load of bands / acts that you really wanted to catch. At night Michael presumably sat down in a comfy armchair in front of a roaring fire, instead of trudging through the fields, vaguely hoping that you might see your tent one day again. So perhaps Mr Eavis should treat his one hundred and twenty five pound per ticket paying audience with a little more respect? You'd like to think so, wouldn't you.
But before this becomes far too moany, despite everything it was still one of the best weekends. Just, as you might have gathered, not what it could have been. Arriving at 11am on the Friday, new festival compatriot Richard and I were camped up and on the move by 12.30pm. After catching a couple of songs by The Infadels on the John Peel Stage (fine, indie punk pop, but instantly forgettable), and standing in a mini-river for one Tom Vek song on The Other Stage (dull and punky, and not what we're in the mood for), it was back to the Peel Stage for the first highlight of the festival. Nine Black Alps have been described as 'seattle-grunge' but there's much more to them than this, they can pull off old fashioned indie rock with panache, as well as explore a more darker sound. They play to the crowd so effectively, and everyone leaves with a big old stupid grin on their faces. You can't ask for much more than that.
The sun arrived around three pm, kindly deciding to stick around for a few hours just as The Thrills took to the stage. Their second album was disappointing, but the laid back Californian chilled sound of the first fits the afternoon perfectly. They're not a band whose lyrics stand up to scrutiny, and oh how they love repeating them over and over again in every song, but they raise a smile. Now if it had been pissing down, I'd probably not have bothered with them at all. But they were the perfect antidote to a wet and weary festival crowd just beginning to dry out. See what I mean about context? It also applies with Hot Hot Heat. They're a band I've longed to see for a fair old while, but they leave me cold today. Perhaps it's a weather thing, perhaps they're a band who need to be seen up close and personally, perhaps they're just not on form. On record I love them, so it's got to be one of the above.
Almost four years on and it seems many comedians have got together and decided that it's now okay to tell jokes about September 11th. Maybe it's been decided that that's the official length of time thought decent before it's bno longer offensive to joke about a major tragedy. Over the weekend almost every comedian has at least one in his comedy arsenal. Luckily Stewart Lee's intelligent material handles it carefully, it's not just cheap gags at the expense of the dead, but carefully woven humour in to an extremely funny routine about the healing effects of farting. Towards the end he even manages to get the audience to laugh at nothing. It really is a tragedy that post Fist of Fun and This Morning With Richard Not Judy he's been screwed around by tv bosses, for Lee proves with this set that he really deserves to be onscreen far more than 99% of the comedians who currently are.
Pete Doherty failed to turn up last year. He should've done the same this time around. Arriving twenty minutes late, every word Pete Doherty says or sings is greeted by cheers. God knows why. The Libertines were a fucking exciting band, at least for one album. Babyshambles is the sound of a man who's lost his way, droning his way through a selection of songs so tedious that half the crowd wanders off shaking their collective heads by half way through the set. Maybe one day Doherty will deliver on the promise once shown. He sure as hell isn't right now.
Doves disappointed when I caught them at the Brixton Academy back in 2003. They played a 50/50 set, half great, half weak. At Glastonbury they move to a 80/20 percentage in their favour. New songs Black and White town take a majestic air, whilst Snowdon sounds astonishingly powerful. Jimi Goodwin's vocals are finally breaking free from their oh too one note sound, during Pounding they really soar, and sonically the band are more beautiful than ever. Many bands don't survive playing in the open air at festivals, but Doves seem to thrive on it, so maybe that's really the best place to catch them in the future.
Whilst Doves should be liked by all, Willy Mason should be adored by everyone. Right now we'll have to settle for a couple of thousand people loving him and his songs to pieces. Oxygen's the song everyone sings along too, and it gives me hope for the world. If only every artist and band had a song so lyrically powerful, that mixes cynicism and wide eyed optimism within three minutes. Few even attempt such a feat, so thank God that Willy's attracted media attention, and that his fans are so devoted to him. He's not just a one song wonder either, Where The Humans Eat, So Long, and countless other tracks from the debut album receive a rabid response, with a couple of new songs suggesting that the second album could be even better than the first. He's been called the new Bob Dylan by some, and is surely the first artist described as such to deserve the label.
The Tears claimed they wouldn't be Suede Mark 2. That they'd unleash a different sound on to the world that'd blow us all away. But as everyone knows, this is as big a lie as the time Peter Andre claimed he was talented. For they're Suede Mark 2 down to a tee, with every song featuring Bernard's trademark guitars and Anderson's almost whiney but not quite vocals as if it came from Dog Man Star. Sod it though, it sounds wonderful, there's new life in the duo, both look they've never craved success more than they do now. If there's a weak point it's lyrically, sometimes the imagery's too political, there's too many references to refugees, illegal immigrants, in romantic songs. But I shan't complain too much, not when it's carried off with such panache. And just to show that they really want to please the fans, in the encore we get an old Suede song. Ah, if only it'd been Trash or Animal Nitrate, then maybe I'd be booking tickets to see them again right now.
SATURDAY
Saturday begins with an hour trying to buy wellies, but they sell out ridiculously quickly. I make do with a new pair of boots, with carrier bags wrapped around my feet and legs. Dry feet, ah, what a difference such a simple thing makes. With a lackluster selection of bands on the bill for the first few hours of the day, we head off to the cabaret tent. Simon Munnery's a longtime hero and it's a tragedy that like Stewart Lee he was treated so badly by the BBC. Having recently overcome cancer, his new routines seem slightly less surreal. It's more stand up, less absurdism, but he's just as funny as always. And having said that, he still performs a sketch using a crappily drawn picture of two men on crucifixes post Jesus's death. A couple of cancer related jokes don't go down to well, presumably because much of the audience are unaware of his own battle with that bastard disease, but the majority of the set generates a lot of love from the audience. Aww.
Frank Oliver juggles. Yep. We generally have little time for jugglers too. They're a higher form of life than mimes, but only just. Trying to convince you that he was genuinely funny despite this is going to be a hard job, isn't it? You'll just have to trust us. Because he was. And his juggling upside down routine has to be considered one of the highlights of the day, if only because it almost goes horribly wrong a fair few times. He knows not to go for too long as well, with his set being one of the shortest witnessed at the festival. Next on is Robin Ince, whose probably best known as the victim of many a prank by Ricky Gervais, or as a talking head on those "I love 4.32pm on July 4th 1972" type programmes. Three or four of you might have even seen him on The Pilot Show, if it achieved figures as high as that. Either way, he's a massively underrated talent, with his own material far stronger than a lot of the more established comedians currently around. He gets away with a couple of September 11th jokes, but also manages to make the whole tent laugh by reading extracts from Sid Little's autobiography, something no one who saw it will ever forget, and how many comedians have an element like that in their set?
Passing by the Jazz world stage, I'm assaulted by two songs by The Levellers. I've a held a grudge against them since the Brighton Essential Festival back in 97, but they prove the rule that every band has at least one bearable song (bar Shed Seven of course) by playing One Way Of Life. The other song proves that I've been right to hold that grudge for the last eight years.
I don't like the Kaiser Chiefs. Yet I do. Confusing, huh? On record they seem stolid, predictable, and I can't help but feel that "Oh My God" was only written with the intention of it becoming a first year student anthem. But live they make the crowd jump up and down, the short songs never overstay their welcome, and they bring a smile to everyone's faces. The lead singer once mentioned in an interview how much he liked Menswear. Yet "The New Menswear" tag never stuck. Maybe it deserves too, because like t'swear, they're a throwaway, instantly forgettable band. But whilst they perform, you can't help but find them endearing.
The Circus tent is avoided for most of the weekend. But we feel we should pop in and witness something from it. What we see is a man on a rope, juggling. He doesn't say a word. He's not the new Charlie Chaplin, though perhaps that's the intention. He's fairly amusing for five minutes. His set lasts for fifteen. We leave the Circus tent. We don't return.
Now as mentioned, dry feet made a difference. But not as much as a chair does. Sure this invites mockery, but fuck it, the chance to sit down for a couple of hours and recharge those exhausted batteries makes such an enormous difference. Suddenly it feels like the festival's doable. Survivable. I know, I know, I'm depressingly becoming middle aged. If I ever turn up to a festival with a hamper and chilled wine, you've my permission to shoot me. But I'm not there yet. And hey, that bastard mud really does tire you out. Okay. Enough excuses. Unfortunately, the first band seen whilst finally in comfort are Echo and The Bunnymen. They're the funniest band on stage all day long, unintentionally alas. Bar Killing Time and Nothing Lasts Forever, they've nothing to offer than a seemingly never ending stream of dirgey nonsense. At one point we can't believe how bad they are, and then they get worse. Cue hysteria. It seems that we can't remember a time when they weren't playing, and there's fear in people's eyes that they might never end. Thankfully they eventually do.
Interpol are the new Joy Division. According to some. Personally I think they're not quite there yet, but they show a lot of potential, and could be one day. Or maybe even something more special than that. An ex-girlfriend saw them back at Reading 2002 and declared them the best band of the day. Today they're the second best band, and if it wasn't for Coldplay they'd have taken the top spot with ease. Then again, it's not the best line up I've ever known. Anyhow, hopefully the next album will compound the promise currently shown. If so, they could become essential. But as mentioned, they're not quite there yet.
Kasabian sound almost identical to how they do on record. Which I'm not sure whether or not if that's a good thing. Bizarrely one song reminds me of an old Space b-side, though surely this has to be a coincidence, as whoever listened to old Space b-sides? Apart from Space themselves. And we can't be sure of even that. A more obvious influence is the Stone Roses, but they've more fire in them than the Roses, more of a lust for success. Like Interpol, I get the feeling that the best is yet to come. Let's hope so. If not, they'll be pleasantly remembered. But never adored.
I always feel like I need to apologize for liking Coldplay, it's certainly not fashionable to like them. But who ever cared about what's in fashion? Actually, too many people, but if you're one of them you really need to get out more. What matters is that they make the festival worthwhile. More than that, they made it essential. If you had tickets, but left after a few hours of rain and mud related misery, you made one of the worst decisions of your life. Astonishingly beautiful at times, Chris Martin's emotive, sometimes fragile, sometimes simply heartbreakingly affecting voice brings the crowd to it's feet, yes, even those seemingly rooted to their chairs for the whole weekend stand up.
We're treated to a mostly greatest hits set, even after just three albums, but it's what the crowd wants, and even when they sneak in a new song or two, no one cares as they're just as strong as anything from Parachutes and A Rush Of Blood To The Head. So many songs they play tonight are one of those close your eyes and let the music sweep over you moments, and the set is more achingly beautiful than anything else heard over the weekend, or at any other gig I've been to this year for that matter. The encore of Can't Get Your Out Of My Head, as a tribute to Kylie, works shockingly well, as does In My Place. At first it never seemed likely to become one of the band's most famous anthems, but it's so endearingly honest that it can't fail to raise a wry smile. Then we're left with one final song. Michael Eavis predicted that Fix You would be the highlight of the festival, and he wasn't wrong. It sums up the power of Martin's songwriting abilities. It's simplistic, perhaps, but strikingly direct, and simply beautiful. If anyone ever does question you're taste in music after they hear that you like Coldplay, play them Fix You. And if they still don't agree, ignore them, for they're the ones with troubled taste.
All too soon they're gone, an hour and a half set suddenly seems like ten minutes. It takes an hour to get back to the tent. But we don't care. It could have taken ten, and we still wouldn't have been complaining.
SUNDAY
By Sunday much of the ground could be walked on without the fear of slipping over, something I almost did one thousand and thirty two times over the previous two days. If you saw someone waving their arms around like an alarmed chicken for much of the festival, chances are it was me. The beautiful weather and finally dry ground changes everything, you can get to see so much more of the festival, and the atmosphere's completely different. Sunday was the only day where I saw a man in a suit walking around as if he had a dog trapped in his suitcase. And isn't that supposed to be part of what Glastonbury's all about? So it's just a shame that the line up was the weakest of the weekend.
Sucker are four men in their thirties creating a combination of ska and punk. It's so unoriginal it hurts. One song reminisces about their teenage times, watching Saturday Superstore and Saint and Greaves, before going to the pub. It's so pointless it's agonizing. Compare it to Teenage Kicks, lyrics from which adorn the side of the stage, and it's so absurdly bad it's almost indescribable. They hand out song sheets to get the crowd singing along with them. No one does. If you're feeling charitable, you could admire their spirit, their desire after all these years. But nothing else.
Martha Wainwright is hungover. She mentions it a couple of times. Or fourteen to be precise. There was no need though, she belts through her bittersweet alt.country songs as if her life, and the life of everyone at the festival, depended on it. It's one of those bizarre situations where you'll see innocent children wander around the festival site whilst someone on stage singing about fucking and whores. Maybe their parent's stuffed cotton wool in to their ears before arriving. Let's hope so, and not just for the swearing reasonage, no one that young should be subjected to Wainwright's bitter cynicism. We're not knocking her though, much of it is deliciously wry, and by the end of her set we're left confused as to why her brother Rufus is the more famous of the siblings.
A brief trip to the comedy tent sees Frank Oliver repeating yesterday's act, and then a female comedian centre a routine around pedophiles and George Forman grills. For legal reasons we should stress that the two aren't connected. She's great, and much better than poet singer Rory Motion who misses more than he hits. Worth seeing by accident, perhaps, but only just.
I've still yet to learn who replaced Cake on the Other Stage. The band briefly mention that Cake couldn't make it here today, but then forget to mention who they actually are. None of the songs are even vaguely recognizable, they follow a familiar guitar-y, alt. rock, indie-ish pattern, they're pleasing to the ear, but they'll never make anyone ecstatic.
Dresden Dolls end our weekend with a swearfest. Bless em. One song resembles an old fashioned sea shanty, another's a musical-esque ballad which lurches all over the place with aplomb. You can't help but love the diversity on display. They're easily one of the most theatrical bands who play over the weekend, and create an enormous noise despite only consisting of two members. I'm in love with them by the end of their all too short set. Which feels like the perfect way to end the festival.
And so we do. At five in the afternoon, with seven hours of the festival to go, we give up. With no one left on the festival bill who we want to see, and with my legs at the stage where I can stand up for thirty minutes only if I spend the preceding hour sitting down, and the dream of a post festival bath now so prominent I can think of nothing else, we decide to leave. Okay, it's weak, it's poor, Michael Eavis would probably have given me a clip round the ear and told me to get on with it, but sod it, sometimes enough is enough.
So maybe I'll always remember this year's Glastonbury Festival because of the mud. But because of Willy Mason, Coldplay, The Tears, Dresden Dolls, Doves, The Thrills, Martha Wainwright, Stewart Lee and Simon Munnery, it'll also be remembered as "that bastard muddy year where I witnessed some truly special performances". And like everyone else, I'll try to forget that Babyshambles were at the festival too.
Alex Finch.
Click here to talk about Glastonbury 2005 on the Garbled music forum. NB. Pictures will be added to this page soon.
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