I really didn’t get Billie Eilish at Glastonbury last night. I didn’t know any of the songs and could barely see her, peering as she was through the perpetual gloom of the Pyramid stage. Not for me, I’m afraid, but wait: that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.
Eilish is representative of a younger generation, not piss poor dad dancers like me. And on that basis, her music is not aimed at geriatrics like, well, me.
I have mentioned before that as a young lad I spent a lot of time with my paternal grandparents. I’m not sure that grandad liked any kind of music at all. He never listened to any when I was there and certainly didn’t own any. But when modern popular beat combo outfits, like the Beatles and the Stones, appeared on the box I knew the type of music he didn’t like. “Long haired louts, they can’t even sing” and so on. “All their songs sound exactly the same!” he pointed out. I was too young to argue that Get Back didn’t actually sound remotely like Yesterday or Hey Jude. You can imagine his reaction when Mick Jagger snarled at the camera, a reaction Jagger would have so wanted.
Unlike grandad, I don’t sneer at the likes of Eilish – I save that for the likes of Queen – because I know who and what she represents. And it’s a reminder to me that actually Glastonbury shouldn’t just be a middle aged snooze fest for the well-to-do.
Despite his youth, Sam Fender did impress me much. In my years of watching Glastonbury on the telly, I’d go so far as to say his was one of the great sets ever, in the entire history of the festival. When he launched into Seventeen Going Under, I thought I might cry. In fact, I’ll go even further: the power, the intensity and even the music was right up there with Bruce Springsteen – rumoured to be playing with Macca tonight – at his very best.
It’s the working class anger that resonates with me. I’ve never managed to lift the working class chip from my shoulder and I felt that Fender was singing to a young me, something Springsteen could never do on account of the fact that he writes about America. Fender doesn’t sing about Bristol, but he might as well do.
Tonight, it’s the aforementioned Macca, mining from the deepest musical vault in musical history. It’s The Avalanches, Leon Bridges, Glass Animals, Self Esteem and Caribou. And it’s a bit nearer my safety zone than the formidably talented Ms Eilish. Now where’s my copy of Revolver?
