I have to be very careful what I say about Glastonbury because I know it’s all a matter of taste. I know also that much of the stuff I like doesn’t usually appear on the Pyramid Stage. So let me say from the outset that I thought the Pyramid Stage experience, via the unsatisfying, patchwork BBC coverage, was not a pleasant one.
It doesn’t help that the headliners were not exactly the kind of musicians – and I use the word musician in a very general sense with Kanye West – I would cross the road to see. Florence and the Machine have their admirers but I am not among them. I know I sound like one of the old High Court judges (“What’s a Beatle?”), and not unlike my grandfather who probably regarded the Carpenters as being akin to the Sex Pistols, but I am afraid I struggle to see the point of Ms Welch. Each song sounds identical to the one that came before and her wailing style of singing, where she makes no discernible effort to hit the right notes, leaves me both baffled and cold. Kanye West would leave me cold but for the fact he makes vast sums of money from this non-meritocratic world of music for what is little more than talking, or rapping as da yoof call it. Given that his genre of music, I use the word inadvisedly, is not exactly my cup of tea, I suppose I should have reached for the off switch, but I gave him a chance and soon realised I shouldn’t have. Song after song came and went, often ending abruptly, and West himself made little effort to communicate with the audience. People described him as arrogant, but arrogance usually accompanies some form of ability. I was at a loss to understand where his was.
If I had been there last night, I’d have watched Ryan Adams, but as I wasn’t, I settled down for a jukebox set from the remnants of The Who. They weren’t great, but then I didn’t expect them to be great for both the main men, Townsend and Daltrey, are septuagenarians. I felt they were as good as they could be, with Daltrey’s voice more of a growl, although the old boy still managed a half-decent scream during Won’t Get Fooled Again. It was a heritage set really, no more challenging than Lionel Richie’s afternoon cabaret performance, but reasonably satisfying for all that.
I am probably not the right person to write about festivals because the idea of scratching around in the early hours for that nocturnal pee and then trying to find my tent again among hundreds of tents that look identical to mine is not my idea of fun. I know too that Glasto (what a clever nickname!) is much more than Kanye West and Florence and her Machine. There are all manner of performers and a plethora of stages so there is someone for everyone, even me, but if I did want to see Tame Impala and Songhoy Blues, which I do, desperately, I’ll wait until they perform in more conventional circumstances.
It’s all a far cry from the Glastonbury of my youth, when people used to refer to it as the Pilton Festival and the acts were usually the likes of the Edgar Broughton Band (who, I hear you ask?) and Santana, before he started doing duets. The hippies are probably there, greying and balding, but the BBC cameras tended to pick out people who were smartly dressed and aged about 30. And you know what’s wrong with that? Absolutely nothing! There is no point in moaning about what Glastonbury has become. On the face of it, the whole thing looks a little middle class and twee, but perhaps that’s just the side you see on the telly and that things are more eclectic and challenging elsewhere. And anyway, there are plenty more festivals throughout the summer ranging from heritage to cutting edge and all points in between. Something for everyone, for sure, but not for me, thank you. Give me my nice warm bed!
