Thursday, June 28, 2007

Glastonbury 07: Rainy Friday Afternoon


And if there is no guitar in a house,
You know its owner, he cannot be trusted.
And if there is no drumset in the office,
Don't be surprised when the business get busted.


It’s amazing how good music, or just a good show can distract you from a great British downpour. Gogol Bordello exhibit ceaseless energy and enthusiasm and within about ten minutes (and admittedly, for about ten minutes) I am an evangelical gypsy punk. Phil Jupitus describes them as "a bit like The Clash having a fight with The Pogues in Eastern Europe.” I can’t really better that, except to ask you to imagine what that might look like live. New album Super Taranta is pretty infectious, although if you want a perfect piece of gypsy punk my money’s on Punk Rock Parranda from Multi Kontri Culti. Plus I fear I’m rapidly developing a bit of a crush on Eugene Hutz (v. cute accent).

It’s a shame that Amy Winehouse can’t provide enough of a distraction during the prehistoric rainfall. Her performance is so dull and lacklustre, peppered only with some laconic beehive flicking and manic eye-rolling that my fellow campers desert me and I am left to watch the end of her set alone. The band was good though; lots of Temptations-esque synchronised dancing, and I do sort of like her cover of Monkey Man. I just wish she’d eat something; it might give her a bit more energy. Because despite her apparent indifference to the audience, watching Amy Winehouse sing made me realise how utterly natural her vocal talent is. She could be eye-poppingly good. But she wasn’t.

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Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Glastonbury 07: Friday AM


good morning Glastonbury

We wake up on Friday to the all-too-familiar patter of rain on canvas. A cup of tea, cereal bar and cigarette over a sedate read of the Glastonbury newspaper later and we’re standing in front of the Jazz World stage, trying to work out who that bloke is singing with Guilty Pleasures, a covers band who drag out celebrities to sing brilliantly awful pop records. Ah, it’s that bloke from Doves singing If you leave me now. Having missed guest appearances from Ed Harcourt and Angela from the Magic Numbers, we are lucky to catch a rather elderly looking Tim Burgess warble his way through MOR pop and bullied into boogeying to a half-cut Suggs (it’s only 11am) performing Love is in the Air. A rousing start to the day.

A trip to the loo means we end up dancing in front of a little group called The Duke Box (or something like that) performing a skiffley version of Hot Chip’s Over and Over. They are indeed a live juke-box, who can apparently play anything. When I next use those very same loos they have pulled quite a crowd with their shuffley version of Black Box’s Ride on Time. Marvellous.

Watching my sister and her boyfriend gawp at trapeze artists, blindfolded buff body balancers, some french juggling of cigars and bowler hats, and men in thongs on trapezes (imagine it), proves more entertaining than it should be in the Circus tent. But when they go off to see Modest Mouse the heavens suddenly open and minifig and I hurry into the Cabaret tent for some pretty unfunny comedy to get out of the rain. Desperate for shelter and a good show we run back to the Cabaret tent to watch an Italian man attempt to juggle while riding a unicycle as the rain pours into the tent, splashing lethal puddles all over the stage. Amazingly, despite the fact the stage has become a swimming pool, he succeeds, charming the audience into the bargain.

Luckily, the rain calms down in time for Soweto Kinch on the Jazz World stage, who has unfortunately suffered a power-cut due to the torrential downpour. However, after a late start, the Birmingham saxophonist and his band deliver a literally breathtaking performance, and suddenly I get why people are into live jazz. The thing that most struck me about Soweto Kinch and his band was the face-breaking smiles they all wore throughout their set. You could just see the drummer, arms working with a surgeon’s precision and the power of a jackhammer, thinking damn, I’m effing brilliant at my job. A class act.

And that takes us up to Friday morning. I’ll come back later with more but I’ve got work to do and the seemingly endless Glastonbury laundry to get through, plus I’m really annoyed with writing in the present tense – don’t know why I did it. x

Glastonbury 07: Thursday


man dressed as a Viking holds fireworks on top of Banksy's portaloo Stonehenge - business as usual in the Stone Circle on Thursday

*Sigh* So, Glastonbury’s over for another year and that familiar festival comedown is aching gently in my muddy little heart.

I still find it strange that I love festivals, let alone Glastonbury. I am not a happy camper: I like cleanliness, hair straighteners, armchairs, plumbing. But there’s something about the place; its silliness, randomness, camaderie; the lack of vanity, the filth, the friendliness and above all, the quality and variety of live music and entertainment that makes Glastonbury addictive.

In the same way that some couples may favour a little Parisian hotel or a gorgeous Tuscany view, minifig and I have built our relationship on seven Glastonburys to date, pushing our boundaries of patience and intimacy, as well as sharing some cheesily beautiful experiences together. As well as being a dirty fantasy playground, Glastonbury can also be one of the most romantic temporary cites on earth.

It’s a wonderful place to exploit the late sunset and early sunrise and stay up all night raving with friends and strangers. There are few pleasures simpler than taking your friends to meet the dragon on their first Glastonbury, or just sitting with a plastic bottle filled with cheap red wine in the Stone Circle as the sun sets on the Thursday night, giddy with anticipation.

Okay, it’s a bitch waking up desperate for a pee in the middle of the night and having to tug on wellies and face a campsite full of wasted teenagers to use a stinky long-drop. Standing up for six hours straight and ploughing through calf-high mud also gets old rather fast too. Coping with poor sound systems, indifferent crowds, aching joints, dirt, tummy upset and sleep deprivation is not something I’d generally pay for. But despite the icky discomfort and exhaustion, there’s nothing quite like the buzz you get, waking up to hear the Glastonbury dawn chorus of tents being unzipped and lighters clicking in the early-morning drizzle on that first beautiful Friday.

It’s glorious.


Monday, June 11, 2007

the money shot


how to make darling vicarage cry

Hurt - Johnny Cash cover
A Coral Room - Kate Bush
This Woman's Work - Kate Bush
Atmosphere - Joy Division
God Only Knows - The Beach Boys
Blackbird - The Beatles
Nothing Compares to You - Sinead O'Connor
Gabriel - Lamb
Landslide - Fleetwood Mac
Delilah - Dresden Dolls