Glastonbury 2009
Wednesday 24th June to Monday 29th June
Wednesday / Thursday / Friday / Saturday / Sunday / Monday
Friday
Unfortunately, we woke on Friday morning (at 6 o'clock again for me) to the repetitive drumming of heavy raindrops on the tents, which necessitated sheltering indoors and nibbling on cereal bars while waiting patiently for the rain to stop (and hoping that the tents were watertight). Each vague easing of the rainfall and consequent temptation to visit the toilets was met with a mischievous increase in the volume of precipitation. For a long while, it did not seem that it would ever cease, but by mid-morning it did ease to a somewhat Mancunian-style drizzle. Whilst not perfect, it was light enough to prompt an exploratory wander. The rest of the group bought the obligatory hot drinks to accompany breakfast, looking fetching in their waterproofs (and wellies - not pictured).
Unfortunately, we were too early for Bjorn Again on the Pyramid Stage (on at 11am) as we passed by, but having got back to the tents it promptly rained on us again to delay our first proper watching of live music of the weekend.
The Whip, 12pm, Other Stage
Toilet visits slowed us further but we did manage to make it to the Other Stage during the first song. We were seeing them purely because a mate of a mate (Euan) is a member of the band (confirmed as the singer via text). Despite the low expectations that that might bring, they were impressive, employing funky house grooves (or something - I have no idea) to win us over. Here they are.
(You will notice a common theme, which is an attempt to photo each band playing live, with mixed results. When taken during daylight hours, with something also captured on the TV screens, it can give a reasonable image of the band. Some photos, however, achieve this rather less successfully.)
During night, or the early hours of the Friday morning (it's hard to tell), I had heard cry of Michael Jackson being dead. Naturally, I took it to be a rather bizarre joke, although something about it made me wonder whether it might actually be true. However, the tragic news was confirmed in the morning via a text from one of Kate's friends. It was increasingly evident that MJ's untimely death would prompt an outpouring of tributes and references, and we soon had one song played "for Michael Jackson".
The Whip's upbeat dancey tunes were a good way to kick start the early Friday afternoon, although in fact the briefly-amusingly named Mr Hudson And The Library were the first band up on the Other Stage (we missed them due to our rain-affected pit stop). After Glastonbury, I purchased the Whip's album, so they must have impressed me enough for that. Always good to get into new bands anyway.
We had set up camp with our directors' chairs and cans of beer (and mildly embarrassing facial expressions)...
...with a nearby ThunderCats flag providing helpful directional guidance if one of us got lost. (Altogether now: Thunder! Thunder! Thunder! ThunderCats Hoooo!)
Whilst we were largely protected from the elements by our waterproof and wellies combo, some festival goers chose rather less suitable attire for traversing the distinctly muddy conditions.
At roughly this point, Mark and Kate headed over to the John Peel Tent to catch The Rumble Strips. Meanwhile, Lynne and I stayed to watch...
The Rakes, 1.15pm, Other Stage
Serving up their catchy riff-laden punky arch pop, The Rakes gave us the second mention (out of, um, two bands) of Michael Jackson's death, although this time more unsavourily (he seemed to announce it, rather unsavourily, with a "hurrah"). Still, they were otherwise upbeat and they included the classics: 22 Grand Job ("in the City, it's alright") and the excellent The World Was A Mess But His Hair Was Perfect, before finishing with Strasbourg.
The lead singer (Alan Donohoe, it says here) seemed a little wired, tending to favour a fairly wavery voice between songs and generally sounding on the songs more like Brett Anderson than on the recorded albums. They probably played quite a few from both albums, but I didn't recognise all of them, not having had them on heavy rotation. They could conceivably have played some new songs as it seems from cursory post-festival research they have finished recording a third album now.
The Maccabees, 2.30pm, Other Stage
They were a bit like the Rakes but less arch. I don't know the songs (although I've since bought their latest album) but it seemed like a solid enough performance. Perhaps Mark can shed more light... (at some point: no rush).
With the overnight rain, the main thoroughfares had begun to cut up somewhat, rendering wellies essential footwear. Steady as you go.
We caught a glimpse of a rare sight indeed: an Oldham Athletic flag. Come on the Latics! (More of this later.)
It was all too much for Kate. It'd be a close call between her and Lynne in a sleeping contest, which wouldn't exactly be the best spectator sport ever. Regardless, Mark is pleasantly amused by the whole situation.
The View, 3.45pm, Other Stage
Still on the Other Stage and another indie band with another solid performance. They played their signature classic, Wasted Little DJs, which the crowd - and us to a lesser extent - were immensely happy about. I don't know them well enough to say much more - I haven't listened to their debut album enough. I turned to Mark for some input as he knows them better, who informed me that they also played other classics such as Same Jeans and Shock Shock Horror before adding "good but nothing to write home about" (we hadn't investigated the campsite's postal service).
Don't think this was their real hair. The girl trying to get in the way displays some suitably hippy fake tattoos.
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White Lies, 5pm, Other Stage
After their triumphant NME tour, this was another impressive gig from Lynne's new favourite band. They played all their best tunes and even finished with a Bruce Springsteen cover. Lynne thought that they were perhaps on a bit early to really do them justice, but maybe next time they can secure a later slot.
Lynne still loved em, though.
Lily Allen, 6.20pm, Pyramid Stage
After White Lies, we hightailed it over to the Pyramid Stage to catch most of the end of Lily Allen. On the way, we spotted the guy with the Oldham Athletic flag and ruddy well shook his hand. Except that wasn't him - the guy whose hand I am shaking in the photo is a Manchester United fan.
Lily was in good form, pointing out her little sister, as well as her father Keith Allen (as part of an introduction to a song about him). She even located her granddad immediately before singing a song about fellatio. Her granddad must also have enjoyed her swearing, including a song about the BNP that featured the oft-repeated refrain "fuck you".
Lily wore a pink wig, which she took off halfway through, and a black catsuit which she was nearly popping out of (it was ok, though, cos she just shoved em back in). She also wore a single white glove, presumably in respect of Michael Jackson, rather than snooker referees everywhere. More feedback was gleaned: "good surname", I thought; "dirty bitch" offered someone else, probably Lynne. At this point, the Barlows legged it to go and see Jack Penate at the John Peel Tent, catching a glimpse of Lady Gaga at the Pyramid Stage on the way.
The Specials, 8pm, Pyramid Stage
We couldn't stay for too long watching The Specials as we had an appointment with British Sea Power, but we did hang around for long enough to catch a few songs, including the classic Ghost Town and, following on from Lily Allen, another song about the BNP "called Fuck You". They looked quite old and also played Stop Your Messin' Around, which was good.
A crazy superhero showed he was only human by drinking beer and chatting up Mick Hucknall.
The Streets, 9pm, Jazz Stage
A brief stop on the way to the Avalon tent saw us catch a bit of The Streets between toilet visits, including Fit But You Know It as we arrived. We were a bit too far away to see what was going on, though. It was pretty busy.
British Sea Power, 9.30pm, Avalon
We met up again with the Barlows at the Avalon tent in order to watch British Sea Power, who both Mark and I had albums by, as it began to go dark. In the Avalon area, there was a small inn, from the first floor of which these witch-like ladies waved their flagons from. Or something.
There seemed to be lots of people holding plants - we weren't sure whether this was just what happened at BSP gigs, or whether they had specifically requested the display of such items.
The above was a shot from a bit closer in - mostly we were watching from over on the other side and outside the tent. I must have been getting a bit drunk at this stage as I ran around all over the place trying to find a toilet and in the end gave up near some bushes (which probably weren't quite as private as I thought, but oh well).
Doves, 11pm, John Peel Tent
We then had a long (long) walk to go from one side of the site to the other; a good 25 minutes it took us. Well, probably - I was half-cut (and some might have said well on the way to full-cut) at this stage. At one point, I did a slide in the mud and possibly used someone else to stop me falling over. Close call.
When we (finally) got there, we discovered it to be absolutely rammed, so had to make do with standing a fair way outside the tent. It appeared that the organisers had under-estimated the popularity of Doves. After a short while, Master Barlow darted off to get more beers (two each, hic) and was gutted to hear Pounding being played while he was away (not that he was far enough away to not hear it, but he was still exasperated at queuing for beer during his favourite Doves song). This is the sort of view we had. Look, there they are!
Despite the slightly limited viewpoint, the sound was great. Particularly impressive sounding were the songs off their excellent new album, Kingdom Of Rust. Nevertheless, the highlight was an epic The Cedar Room, a classic from their debut album, followed by Here It Comes, There Goes The Fear and staple finalé song Spaceface by Doves' former incarnation Sub Sub. It was a fine performance, and I stumbled back through the madding crowd (several acts appeared to have finished at the same time).
I woke up on the Saturday morning with a stinking hangover. Might have been something to do with the 13 and a half beers (best estimate). Or it might not. A bacon and egg bap (having run out of our own food, we dined out for the rest of the weekend) and a can of Fanta barely dented the feeling of still being a little drunk. A little lie down, though, and I was ready for a swift jaunt back The Park to catch Marky B's new band tip, Bombay Bicycle Club. The sun baked down, rendering the tents a sauna, so we couldn't really stay lounging around anyway.
Bombay Bicycle Club, 1pm, The Park
Doing the soundchecks themselves, Bombay Bicycle Club (hereafter BBC) were a little late to begin, giving us chance to engage in a little hair-of-the-dog with some mildly cold cans of Stella Four. They were apologetic for their tardiness, and with me not knowing their songs, the opening numbers appeared to lack a notable melody, but the set was a grower, pulling out some catchy riffs to get the heads nodding and the feet tapping. A small but dedicated bunch of fans at the front ensured that we knew which the more famous tracks were (although avid radio listener Barlow knew a couple anyway). Initial impressions were of a cross between The Editors and Pavement. (Incidentally, BBC were also playing the Queen's Head on Sunday evening.)
In sharp contrast to the previous day, the rest of the cool dudes enjoyed the glorious sunshine. Put those knees away.
During the gig, sightings included Cerys Matthews, a suspected Jarvis Cocker, two men wearing stilts and a man in an all-in-one green body suit (with the face also covered, rather bizarrely) who displayed a wondrous array of moves, some a little David Brent-esque. Here is one of the stilt guys - oi, down in front!
The green jumpsuit guy was subsequently joined by three mates (or colleagues), two in matching green and one in pink (perhaps he drew the short straw). We had no idea what this was in aid of, other than it being very Glastonbury. One thing was for certain: it must have been bloody hot in those costumes. You can just about make out the original green bodysuit guy in the photo below.
After BBC, The Memory Band (on at 2.10pm) performed songs from the Wicker Man. Lynne and I stuck around for a short while, with nothing pressing to do. Mark and Kate went off to explore the craft fields. Each to their own. (He later said that his main memory of this is paying £3.50 for a Mr Whippy ice cream.) The Memory Band attracted a limited following (the band probably numbered equivalently) and came across a bit like a park band. We stayed for a few (not many) songs, but soon sought shade and food, bumping into some performance artists wandering around doing their stuff.
We also noticed, amongst other things, some over-sized flowers
The Script, 3.35pm, Other Stage
We caught the end of Jason Mraz (news to me), who was on at 2.20pm on the surprisingly very busy Other Stage, before meeting up with Barlow and Newland at the outer edge of the field. Mark had heard The Script on the radio, which was partly the reason for our viewing them (and also it was somewhere to wait for Peter Doherty to show, which could take a while - there wasn't a lot else on during the Saturday afternoon, unless you fancied Eagles Of Death Metal or Spinal Tap).
The Script seemed overawed by the large crowd, having only played to around 20 or 30 people at last year's New Bands tent. The sight of hundreds of hands clapping in the air was impressive. Entering to the drummer's solo riffing (a good start that wasn't matched by the rest of the set), the Irish soft rock crooners almost tended to cheesy boy band pop in places. After a particularly blustery power ballad, he was a little moist of eye as he sat on the edge of the stage. Hmmm. Mark's verdict: "they were shit". Meanwhile, a bunch of old ladies (or not really) found something hilarious.
Peter Doherty, 4.50pm, Other Stage
Peter Doherty, aka Pete Doherty, arrived on stage bang on time, surprisingly, accompanied by a full orchestra and two ballerinas, perhaps for a visual dance representation of the music. Pete meandered through the set, neither thrilling nor entirely boring. A mid-set acoustic part, just Pete plus guitar, did nothing for this, although the inclusion of The Libertines' Don't Look Back Into The Sun was welcome, as were a couple of other songs from his first band. He may also have played a Babyshambles song or two as well, but we weren't sure.
He didn't play a long set, leaving us plenty of time to meander over to the Avalon Tent to see Badly Drawn Boy, while Mark and Kate stayed around see Paolo Nutini. Mark's memory of him is that he's a bit of a pretty boy and really one for the girls (a bit like James Blunt), but the guy in front just absolutely loved him. Unnervingly so. He kept high-fiving (or hi-fiving if you like slapping palms with enhanced sound effects) all of his mates when a particular song came on - must have been a fellow Scot. On the way to Avalon, there was a man dressed as an, um, crow, sat on a bus. Glastonbury, eh.
Also on the way, Lynne tucked into an ice cream. Yum yum. Nice suntan.
Badly Drawn Boy, 6.30pm, Avalon
Badly Drawn Boy opened with a cover of the Jackson Five classic I Want You Back, complete with steel drum backing (not live, unfortunately). He was planning to do this anyway, he said, but MJ's death gave doubt; however, he stuck with his original plan and paid due respect. The first half to two-thirds of the gig were just him and his acoustic guitar, a flexible and strong enough combination to be watchable in its own right - in particular, a highlight was The Shining ("Faith... pours from your walls, drowning your calls") from his debut album Hour Of Bewilderbeast. Here is the shot from outside the tent - we couldn't exactly see a lot, but look how nice a day it was!
Just when you thought that it would stay like this for the whole gig, he introduced his band, with whom they had not all played together on stage before. With a history of relatively grumpy gigs behind him (in particular, Castlefield Arena in 2000), it was pleasing to see him in good spirits, showing humility. This facade did slip, however, as he aborted a song to berate the drums and/or drummer ("this is ridiculous, I can't hear myself"). That aside, there were no other hiccups.
Introducing About A Boy as being from a "film with Hugh Grant in" got a big cheer, but the biggest cheer was reserved for the finalé, a very much unexpected cover of The Stone Roses' I Wanna Be Adored, with the massed audience (the tent was full and there were plenty outside) going crazy. It was an applaudable crowd-pleaser.
Kasabian, 8pm, Pyramid Stage
Facing a tricky choice between Maximo Park and Kasabian, we opted for the latter, having seen Maximo Park before (twice in my case). It was a strong, rousing set that converted Lynne to the Kasabian live cause. They kept things thumpingly upbeat, nailing all the singles with aplomb and even segueing You've Got The Love by Candi Stanton into L.S.F. Another highlight was the obligatory topless girl perched on a man's shoulders in the crowd, which the lead singer pointed out with delight. Here is a shot of how many people were at the Pyramid Stage.
And here is the band itself, as the sun went down.
Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band, 10pm, Pyramid Stage
A brief gap in the scheduling allowed us to catch a little of the surely never to be repeated Bruce-at-Glasto (Mark & Kate watched the whole set, having seen Florence & The Machine instead of Kasabian - and this only because one of Kate's ex-school mates are in the band). Starting with an acoustic number about a festival (or a girl in a coma, depending on what you heard), he soon settled into rocking out the massive crowd. I recognised one song as Lucky Day, but only because it had been heavily rotated on adverts for Father's Day. Here's Brucey...
We didn't stay too long (about 20 minutes or so), mercifully perhaps given that he went on for nearly 3 hours, continuing long after Franz Ferdinand had finished and still audible from our tents after we had arrived back (it had been a long day - watching so many bands can be a strain on back and feet). Despite the huge set, he didn't play Born In The USA (for political reasons, Mark thought) or Philadelphia, but he did play Dancing In The Dark and Born To Run. He came out with an amusing line during our short stay there: "Don't bring shoes [to Glastonbury] that you want to wear again". We all chuckled and nodded knowingly at that one, before we personally looped back round to the Other Stage for some FF action.
Franz Ferdinand, 10.50pm, Other Stage
The legend of Bruce had evidently sucked most of Glastonbury's attendees to the Pyramid Stage as the Other Stage's field was no more than two-thirds full (a relief, really, as it enabled a reasonably good view and scope to, erm, dance if needed). They started tightly, with a medley of singles, including The Dark Of The Matinée and Michael, adding a couple of upbeat third album songs (presumably, anyway, as I've not listened to it that much). Just to confirm, they were scheduled to be on at 10.50pm.
Then the gig sagged a little, as they drew out one song ("la la la-la la la...") for rather too long - it appeared to end at least three times before kicking back up again, and involved a considerable number of requests for audience participation. Repeating their antics at the gig we went to earlier in the year (at the Manchester Academy), they did what these days is the done thing (cf, The Beta Band, Elbow, Doves, etc), which is to engage in multiple drumming, with the four of them crowded round the drum kit, the bassist using maracas.
They finished with a four-song encore, closing with a rumbustuous This Fire. Appropriately enough, more people in the crowd had again lit fires with the litter as we headed for home (they had previously been extinguished by stewards). One of the encore songs was a bit of a rave as Alex twiddled with knobs to dancey breakbeats. It was a more serene walk home than the previous night (most people were evidently at the Pyramid Stage, accompanied by the distant sound of Bruce Springsteen...