And so Glastonbury is over for another year and it won’t be back for two years, given that 2026 is a ‘fallow’ year in which Michael Eavis’s vast farm will be allowed to recover and peace and quiet will return. Some folk will be pleased to have a quiet year, others who somehow seem to acquire tickets year in, year out will be sad. As someone who prefers listening to music radio than watching endless TV, my feeling is generally one of relief, a normality restored at least until next Friday when, tragically, BBC 6 Music, my station of choice, devotes the entire day to 1994 in general and returning generic rockers Oasis in particular. Things can only get worse?
Music on TV is a weird concept and always has been. That explains in part why so little of it is on mainstream telly. Apart from Glastonbury, only Jools Holland is permitted by our national broadcaster to make music shows, like his excellent ‘Later’ shows and his abysmal New Year’s Eve Hootenanny and you are far more likely to see a music awards show on telly like the piss poor Brit Awards than you are actual music. For one weekend a year, we have Glastonbury, warts and all.
As music itself is such a subjective experience, what I liked might not be what you liked. Highlights for me included Neil Young’s blistering show-closer on Saturday night, John Fogerty’s astonishing Creedence Clearwater Revival’s revival show not long before him, Weezer, St Vincent, Biffy Clyro, Wet Leg, The Script and English Teacher, all of whom delivered in the rock department. Plenty of decent electronica, like the ageless Gary Numan, Four Tet, Overmono and Maribou State and for the pipe and slippers brigade there was plenty of non-threatening middle of the road music from the likes of Raye and Lewis Capaldi. If you shop around, there is something for everyone.
There is plenty of stuff for da yoot, too, like the staggeringly talented Olivia Rodrigo, although I am of the view that perhaps her shtick is not aimed at me. Wheeling out Robert Smith of The Cure was a wonderful thing though, and worked a treat. I admit, though, that I wound through to Smith’s appearance and it was worth it. The superstar acts were, I felt, a bit of a mixed bag.
As ever. Nile Rodgers and Chic were pitch perfect. With a back catalogue like theirs and a stellar cast of singers and musicians, they don’t know how to fail and of course they don’t. 1975 do nothing for me so I didn’t bother with them, nor did I watch Alanis Morissette and snoozy Snow Patrol. And wild horses couldn’t drag me along to watch Pulp, even though they are clearly still in peak form, which was more than you could say about Sunday’s ‘legend’ slot Rod Stewart.
When Paul McCartney played Glastonbury a couple of years ago, the talk from some was that his voice was shot and it was time for him to retire. I certainly acknowledge that his voice is not what it once was but he still sings in the same key that he sung in 60 years ago and anyway, he’s a Beatle and he can do what he likes. This year, the Sunday tea time legends slot was filled by Nigel Farage’s new best friend, Rod the Mod. I am not sure even his greatest fans could seriously suggest that this is not a performer deep in decline, not that anyone seemed to care.
If McCartney’s voice is shot, then Stewart’s must be near the cremation stage. The hits – mostly covers and some sung by his backing singers – came thick and fast and while we suspect his arse-wiggling and dirty dancing are a bit of a piss take, unlike his so-called boomer fans in the crowd I found it all a bit of an embarrassment. On came Simply Mick Hucknall, seemingly with the intention of showing that Rod’s was not the only struggling voice in Somerset, Lulu, who can still belt out songs like the rest of them and, best of all, Ronnie Wood whose edgy guitar work briefly turned what was a Vegas show into a rock concert. Marks out of five? A two at a very generous best. Stick to the great American song book and your train set, mate. Oh, and stay away from Farage.
The final show I watched live was The Prodigy. Minus the late, great Keith Flint, Maxim does all the heavy lifting these days but along with a brilliant light show they lived up to their headliner status on The Other Stage.
Was it a great Glastonbury? I don’t know, I wasn’t there. If you are the kind of person who judges Glastonbury merely on who appears on the Pyramid stage, then perhaps you don’t really get it? Just saying. The BBC coverage was brilliant and thanks to the iPlayer I can still watch what I want, when I want. One thing, though is for sure: as long as my arse points downwards, you will not be seeing me at Worthy Farm under any circumstances whatsoever. As I always say, I don’t like big crowds, I hate ‘sleeping’ in tents and I always like to know where my nearest toilet is, especially if Rod Stewart is anywhere to be seen.
