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From Caitlin Rose to Coldplay and Chemical Brothers, Bombay Bicycle Club to Beyoncé and Bono – Adam Burrows, Ben Welch, Julian Owen, Mike White and Tony Benjamin deliver their verdicts.
FRIDAY
Metronomy (Pyramid, 12noon) Early doors on Friday and Metronomy take to the Pyramid, drawing mainly from new LP ‘The English Riviera’. The sheer scale of the stage seems to swallow their bizarro lounge pop whole, and judging by the bemused expression on a lot of the assembled faces, it just doesn’t translate. New single ‘The Bay’ positively sparkles, though.
Noel Harrison (Spirit of 71, 12.45pm) The son of Dr Dolittle ambles on to join the excellent Solstice Quartet. Swelled to an eightsome, they make a beautifully arranged cinematic sound for Noel Harrison to deliver his Oscar-winning ’68 version of ‘Windmills Of Your Mind’. If his voice is quavery, we make allowances for his 70-something years and his second run-through (in French) was fine. There were other songs – a hippy campfire selection of Dead, Cohen et al – but for him and us that one bit of magic made the day.
The Naked and Famous (Other, 1.30pm) The first patter of today’s rain provokes a mass rummage for pacamacs and ponchos as TNAF (neither naked nor particularly famous, if the blank-faced crowd’s anything to go by) begin with a wig-out pile-up of synth, guitar and booming bass. They’re a good-looking foursome with an exotic frontwoman called Alisa Xayalith, who looks like Mylene Klass in a sheet. Slow-building power ballad melodrama meets angsty guitar wrangling via sunny-sad dreampop. It’s all genre coleslaw with not quite enough tune mayonnaise until 6Music-championed single ‘Young Blood’ brings the yelpalong the kids have all been waiting for.
Caitlin Rose (The Park, 2.15pm) “You might think you’re ready for Caitlin Rose,” announces a touring buddy of the Nashville-born singer, “but you’re not. She’s gonna rip y’all a new one.” And thus, he sets up proceedings perfectly: classic country tone with modern vernacular lyrics. The pedal steel player looks upon his instrument as a master potter upon a wheel, all care, pride and élan. This is sincere 60s country, smooth, warm, heartbreaking and glowing, nothing alt. or New about it. An artist of whom the whole world will come to hear, whether now or by after-the-fact Nick Drake-like rediscovery. To paraphrase Andie McDowell in ‘Four Weddings’: “Is it raining? Who knew?”
Wu Tang Clan (Pyramid, 3pm) ODB (RIP) notwithstanding, it looks like the Clan are all present and correct, RZA in his personalised wraparound shades, Ghostface Killa bouncing about in a bathrobe. The beats are boxfresh as the sneakers and they know exactly what the public wants, so we get a set heavy with ‘36 Chambers’-era classics, with a side-serving of side-project goodies – ODB’s ‘Shimmy Ya’, Ghostface’s ‘Gravel Pit’ – as Inspecta Deck’s giant, jewel-encrusted wristwatch swings above the crossfader. Twenty thousand double-hand Ws bounce as one. It’s business as usual – martial arts, money and marijuana the stock in trade. Nineteen years in the game and Staten island’s finest still reign supreme.
BB King (Pyramid, 4.30pm) The blues great’s playing has dirtied with age. Not in a bad way, but rather more grit in the oyster. And certainly not in an age-restricted way: he can still hit those crisp, pure runs of notes – those genuinely inimitable runs – when he wants to. While his voice’s shift from sweet pleading to commanding bellow is admirable at any age, in his 86th year it’s extraordinary; no latter years James Brown backing singer safety net here. “I'm gonna leave this town, ain't comin’ back no more,” he sings in Big Bill Broonzy’s ‘Key To The Highway’. You might want to bet against that.
Little Dragon (West Holts, 4.45pm) There’s a slight gawkish geekiness about the two bearded ones, an intense drive about the drummer and an unselfconscious girlish abandon about the singer. It looks unlikely but the sound is superb, gorgeous fat 80s analogue synthwaves like the Silicon Teens attempting a John Carpenter soundtrack. She’s a livewire, too, rocking out the poppy songs or wafting around wrapped in a tablecloth for an ambient-rock nod to Hawkwind. Their greatest hits were unduly techno for my liking but galvanised crowd dance action in an instant. Smashing fun.
Warpaint (The Park, 4.45pm) These California girls make a winsome art-pop swirl of three-part harmonies. Their gentle meandering feels like an extended jam and attention wanders – iPhones are fingered, cigarettes rolled – but those close enough to hear the detail are rewarded with more than mere slowcore swooning; the bass rubbery and playful, the drums socking and skipping about. There’s a hint of the spooky sleepwalking of ‘Forest’-era Cure in there somewhere, and single ‘The Undertow’ even elicits a lazy singalong. Nice.
Bright Eyes (Other Stage, 5.35pm) In the past Conor Oberst has been known to be a somewhat obtrusive performer – he is the poster boy for distilled self-pity, after all. But today he turns up with an unexpected stand-out set, drawing on the best work from his golden period and delivering every line of that visceral poetry with the conviction of a seasoned performer. From old tracks like ‘Bowl of Oranges’ (“one for the enthusiasts”) to new songs like ‘One for You, One for Me’, on the strength of this showing, Bright Eyes are still streets ahead of the ankle biters.
Fleet Foxes (Other Stage, 7.35pm) “We’re a little late so we’re just gonna get down to it… sorry.” Fleet Foxes aren’t ones for theatrics, and as for an opening salutation, they should have played it safe with “Hello, Glastonbury”. But whereas in the past the warmth and texture of their songs have dissipated in the festival environment, today they are faultless. With new multi-instrumentalist Morgan Henderson in the ranks, they now have a full-bloodedness to counterpoint their intricacies. A little more from new album ‘Helplessness Blues’ might have been nice, though.
Jimmy Cliff (West Holts, 7.45pm) A whirling dervish in gold trousers, Jimmy Cliff gets on the front foot with ‘You Can Get It If You Really Want’ and – a miracle! – crutches are raised in the crowd in skank-fuelled celebration. He’s righteously fired up. ‘Rivers of Babylon’ is given the old time spiritual treatment it deserves, and ‘Vietnam’ is reworked to chorus each time around with ‘Afghanistan’. It scans nicely. Good job we didn’t invade Chad.
Morrissey (Pyramid, 8pm) “Hello, Bristol,” says Morrissey, cryptically, before an intermittently sublime set in which solo gems ‘First of The Gang To Die’ and ‘Every Day Is Like Sunday’ rub up against the prime Smiths of ‘I Want The One I Can’t Have’ and ‘Shoplifters Of The World Unite’. After ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’ – which has grown men wiping what must be drizzle from their eyes – there’s an awkward trio of plodding new songs, before the cantankerous old goat puts the boot into the fluffy festival vibe with an epic doom version of ‘Meat Is Murder’ – beginning with a dedication to “silly twit” David Cameron, and ending with several minutes of wonderful, howling noise. An impassioned ‘Irish Blood, English Heart’ and punkish ‘This Charming Man’ finish the job admirably.
Radiohead (The Park, 8pm) Who’s it going to be? Rumours abound: Pulp? The Killers? Michael Bublé? But secretly everyone knows. Unbilled though the ’Head were, the Park’s mighty amphitheatre is heaving. In the entrance quagmire, grim-faced security men drag the fallen from the mud. Behind us, the crowd fills the hill right up to the tree-lined horizon. And then Thom Yorke appears, beaming through the drizzle and suggests a ‘King of Limbs’ singalong. Everyone thinks he’s joking, but mostly he isn’t. We get a few treats from ‘In Rainbows’, but the rest is fiercely new – even a showing of forthcoming ‘From the Basement’ release ‘Staircase’. It’s a brave set – big Glasto crowds want all-round entertainment not fan boy obscurities. Maybe it’s the rain, the lure of pre-Bono burgers or (more likely) the lack of hits, but the crowd thins once people realise this won’t be a best-of howl along, even as the warm lilt of ‘Arpeggii/Weird Fishes’ rings out. So, no ‘Just’, no ‘Creep’, no ‘Paranoid Android’ – but props to Thom and co: they weren’t officially on the bill at all, so let them play their new stuff and sod the proles. ‘I Could be Wrong’ gets a whoop, as do the eerie ‘Reckoner’ and the announcement of ‘The Daily Mail’ as a paean for “liberal and freethinking people everywhere”, before the all-too-brief encore of ‘Street Spirit’ gives the sodden faithful the singalong so many were after.
Cee Lo Green (West Holts, 10pm) This starts with the riff from Black Sabbath’s ‘Iron Man’ and ends – worryingly – with a karaoke run-through of ‘Glee’ favourite ‘Don’t Stop Believing’. In between, Atlanta’s Cee Lo Green plays it a little too safe with a set of glossy pop soul that belies both his flexibility as a vocalist and the diversity of his back catalogue. ‘Crazy’ goes down a treat, of course, and not just because it’s Green’s biggest UK hit. It’s also one of the very few songs in tonight’s set that packs an emotional punch to match his top-class musicianship and personal charm.
U2 (Pyramid, 10pm) It’s easy to take pot shots at U2, a band that have outstayed their self-appointed tenure as Biggest Band on Earth for many a Bonophobe. But you can’t deny that they’ve got the anthems that get the Pyramid going, not to mention the occasional absurd flourish: tonight, it’s an astronaut on the International Space Station joining in on ‘Beautiful Day’. Bono doesn’t explain why. But let’s say what needs to be said: at some point since the release of ‘Everything You Can’t Leave Behind’, U2 transitioned from genuinely relevant veterans to fondly remembered former heroes. For a Glasto debut, this all feels deflatingly familiar.
DJ Shadow (John Peel, 10.30pm) Slithering darkly against a pro-Bono tide, I get inside the tented stage. There’s a slight delay to fine-tune projectors and then Shadow’s on, a quick wave before disappearing into the stage-dominating big white ball. A momentary silence breaks with a simple rocky beat and the graphics start… It’s a collective Oh My God moment as an unbelievably brilliant mix of sound and vision begins and we realise this is going to be amazing. It’s Turner Prize stuff, this, taking The Art of the DJ to a whole new level – even when he spins the sphere to reveal his wiry workplace and embed himself in the visual narrative. Distracted, I’m caught unawares when he hits the reedy Farfisa sample and ‘Organ Donor’ starts. Even after everything else it’s a sublime high as he mashes it in and out of shape and basks in roaring adulation. The man’s a genius.
Primal Scream (Other, 10.45pm) As expected (and hoped for – you’re probably not hotly awaiting the 20th anniversary of ‘Vanishing Point’), they go heavy on ‘Screamadelica’. ‘Movin’ On Up’ opens up proceedings accompanied by a troupe of swishing white-robed gospel singers. Business is meant, Bobby Gillespie unstinting in trying to warm a U2-thinned crowd with his light-footed Jagger clapping. With that album aired in full – plus extraneous hits like 'Jailbird' and 'Rocks' – he didn’t have to try too hard.
Tubular Bells (Spirit of 71, 00.25am) It’s hard to hurry uphill but I’m hopeful: Charles Hazlewood, Will Gregory and Adrian Utley reviving Mike Oldfield’s hippy minimalist classic. In hammering rain I join a respectable crowd dripping in the open but an hour later we’re still waiting. It’s a rotten start – most people leave – and the eight-strong multi-instrumental ‘band’ seem off kilter too. The music’s unsettled, like a first rehearsal, and when ’71 survivor Arthur Brown strolls on to narrate the final section it feels as though it hasn’t happened yet. Whatever the other factors, the piece itself seems too insubstantial, but big marks to the percussionist who hammers those bells, whatever.
SATURDAY
Fight Like Apes (John Peel, 12noon) Amid a stage festooned with multicoloured classical Greek-looking mannequins, a band in body stockings are initially hard to spot. Turns out they’re the blue ones. The singer’s altogether more distinct, rocking a big-haired, big-lashed, heavy-eyelinered look halfway between Amy Winehouse and Barbara Ellen. They give their all to their song: fiercely pounding, sci-fi synth-stabbing, singing switching between purring pout and floor-dropping abandon. It’s a good song. Trouble is, they’ve forgotten to pack any others and so play it again and again.
Treetop Flyers (Other, 12.20pm) Winners of the festival’s annual Emerging Talent Competition, Treetop Flyers are countryish rock balladeers influenced by the likes of Gram Parsons, The Band and The Rolling Stones. Reid Morrison’s lead vocals – along with decent harmonies, and nimbly executed bluesy runs from guitarist Sam Beer – make for a technically strong performance, but the songs rarely rise above the generic.
3 Daft Monkeys (G Stage, 1pm) Using fiddle, guitar, a globe-trotting array of percussion instruments and a relentless 4/4 kick, 3 Daft Monkeys stomp their way through a set of what sounds like Levellers b-sides given the contractual house remix treatment circa 1994. The songs aren’t fleshy enough to take home, but they’re as Glastonbury as a muddy elbow and go down accordingly.
Steve Hillage (Spirit of 71, 1.15pm) I’m trundling into one of the muddier corners a tad late for this set but it’s clear the act before is still getting settled in… I trudge away, therefore, and return bepinted as the ‘house band’ starts a crunchy, jammy version of ‘Checking Up On My Baby’, fiddle flailing soundlessly, guitars howling painfully. Things get better on the next, Floydish rock number, slow paced and spacious, but it’s clear that Gong guitarist Steve Hillage isn’t there and my keenness to see another band means I never find out if he arrives. I bet there’s no mud on Planet Gong, though.
Nicolas Jaar (West Holts, 2pm) Jaar’s subtle, sophisticated music is rooted in techno, disco and house but the live guitar, drums, synth and sax aren’t just there to beef up the live sound. All of the musicians are given space to express themselves, bringing dynamism and fluidity to their leader’s finely wrought textures and beats. Jaar’s crepuscular croon and his group’s threatening late-night ambience seem incongruous in the light of day, but there’s no shortage of inspiration. Heard in this context, Jaar’s music is an inspired cross between the techno-jazz excursions of Carl Craig and the soundtrack funk noir of Barry Adamson.
Medicine Creek (Bandstand, 2.30pm) It’s a hoedown amid the woodchip for Medicine Creek and their swinging reels. Having dusted down lesser-read pages from the great American songbook, the trio breathe life back into them via voice/guitar, double bass and – impressive combination, this – drums/fiddle/harmonica, and sweeten coarse lyrics with honeyed harmony. A big local win.
Rumer (Pyramid, 3pm) Venue loses a boot en route, so misses much of Rumer’s set, but catches enough to report it’s mellow, R2-friendly soul; Carpenters minus the melancholy, Magic Numbers minus the beards. She’s a big girl with a big voice, fanfared with silver trumpet, strings and plenty of smiles. Pleasant.
Pulled Apart By Horses (Oxlyers in West, 3pm) Pulled Apart by Horses trade in chaos, and in the muggy confines of Oxylers tent that chaos seems to multiply. New songs are as ferociously silly as cuts from their debut LP, and the set also offers the weekend’s only double crowd-surf/double on-stage vomit.
Billy Bragg: Bill’s Big Roundup (Leftfield, 3pm) Strong tea is the stimulant of choice in the Leftfield, as Bill the Bard and his fellow troubadours take turns to lift our spirits as we chafe under the Tory yoke. The ever genial Bragg opens with ‘The Ballad of Barking’ – comparing the recent anti-BNP victory in his home town to the 1936 defeat of Mosley’s blackshirts. Meanwhile, Derry’s Paddy Nash is energetic and droll – sending up police brutality and leftist clichés with equal relish. Leon Walker’s tales of a mis-spent youth have a certain cheeky charm, but his Arctic Monkeys-meets-George Formby schtick is a bit of an acquired taste, while Emmy The Great’s earnest Joni Mitchell-isms provide some much-needed melodic variety. Later, Bragg is joined by Guardian hack Tim Dowling, who turns out to be pretty handy with a banjo.
The Brandt Brauer Frick Ensemble (West Holts, 3.15pm) A dozen grey-clad Germans assemble across the stage, complete with concert harpist and the biggest vibraphone I’ve ever seen. Things start to click, building into a complex polyrhythm with shifting wave, a clever and unexpected soundtrack for daylight in a field. The next number has bigger beats, fat sub-bass synth and a tuba pumping while four spotless ballerina’s pose and preen before our muddied eyes. The shtick is dance music rendered acoustically (synth notwithstanding) as a form of classical concert and the music is clever enough to make that work. Probably better seen on a midnight club stage, though, as the mood of cool distraction wears thin after a while.
The Black Jesus Experience (G Stage, 4.30pm) Drifting away from the soundcheck, this Australian eight-piece look as though they don’t want to start, but return half an hour later to jump straight into a convincing ‘Ethio-jazz’ and hip-hop collusion. Trumpet and sax catch that distinctively unexpected Ethiopian harmony, percussion rolls with kit drum and the two vocalists (who seem to actually be Ethiopian) give it the usual ‘she sings, he raps, both dance’ combination. Is it ever the other way round, gender-wise? Whatever, this is lovely uplift for a break in the rain.
Omar Souleyman (West Holts, 4.45pm) Resistance is useless as a visibly gob-smacked English festival crowd collide joyfully with contemporary Syrian dance music. The sound is dominated by spiralling, overdriven lead runs on electric saz and synthesiser, the latter of which is played by Rizan Sa’id, who also supplies the kind of infectious, syncopated 4/4 beats that would slot nicely into a bashment house set. Souleyman himself – somewhere between a lamenting bard and a lascivious dancehall MC – may have found fame late in his life, but he’s every inch the superstar now. Props to the wrecked woman in the second row who seems to have invented a brand new style of dancing for the occasion – somewhere between a belly dance and a bogle. She almost gets away with it.
The Walkmen (The Park, 4.45pm) The Walkmen are a band that it’s easier to want to like than it is to like. On the one hand, the sound is impeccable, their taut and moody rock straining at the leash chasing quickfire salvos of drumming. But although the mix is as crisp and fresh as the suits on stage, the complete absence of hooks does allow the attention to wander – all the way to another stage, in fact.
Tinie Tempah (Pyramid, 5pm) Full disclosure: about a year ago I wrote, in the pages of Venue, that no one would know who Tinie Tempah was by this time. But rare lapses of judgement aside, Tempah exemplifies many of the quasi-credible pop acts that have crept onto the bill this year. He has energy and charisma to burn, but a short supply of stand-out tracks. You can practically smell the anticipation for ‘Pass Out’, and everyone goes appropriately nutty when that undulating loop kicks in, but he’ll need a few more like that if he wants to move up the bill. Also: what late-afternoon performer does an encore?
C.W. Stoneking (Avalon, 6.40pm) It’s all disjuncture for this one, starting with what looks like a well-groomed Okie from the 20s, hair shortcut and waxed down, impeccable white outfit and battered resonator guitar calmly belting Big Bill Broonzy lyrics and generally looking ‘Oh Brother Where Art Thou?’ while a hot jazz foursome behind belt out classic 30s-style New Orleans uninhibitedly. He’s actually Australian but C.W. Stoneking has assimilated that Southern States 20s jazz/blues entertainer persona to the hilt. It’s so authentic you expect to hear the crackles of a scratched Victrola – so authentic you can barely make out a word, either. Bloody good.
Pulp (The Park, 7.45pm) “Surprise surprise!” says Jarvis archly, snaking on before a sea of expectant faces before launching into ‘Do You Remember the First Time?’. And boy, do we remember. Every. Single. Word. Arms aloft, the biggest crowd The Park has ever seen yells delightedly along to ‘Disco 2000’, ‘Babies’ and ‘Common People’ – though the ones that really hit home are the bittersweet bouncer ‘Sorted for Es and Whizz’ and the fate-contemplating ‘Something’s Changed’. Decades after they first played Glastonbury, Pulp are as playful, poignant and perfect as ever.
Aloe Blacc (West Holts, 7.45pm) You know him – he needs a dollar. But with stagecraft of this calibre and a voice this good, we don’t think he’ll need one for much longer. It turns out this plucky nu-soul singer has a hell of a lot more to him than one memorable single, and even the mud can’t stop the crowd’s feet from moving.
Elbow (Pyramid, 8.15pm) There’s huge affection for Elbow – grown men bear-hug and dab at leaking eyes, women whoop and sigh and sing – and the self-effacing Mancunians give all that love back and more. Guy Garvey’s ebullient, even a little overwhelmed. There’s soaring sadness (‘Tower Crane Driver’), euphoria (‘Perfect Weather to Fly’) and surging passion (‘Grounds for Divorce’), leavened in between by Garvey’s bashful high jinks – he instigates a reverse Mexican wave; later, egged on by the crowd, he downs his pint and sticks the glass on his head. It’s Elbow’s 20th birthday, he says, so we all sing to them – a joyous noise only outdone by the final, ecstatic chorus of ‘One Day Like This’. An overpowering, all-unifying Glastonbury moment if ever there was one. Happy birthday, Elbow.
Janelle Monáe (West Holts, 9.15pm) “You’ll like this,” they said so here I am watching a stage full of black-and-white-clad musicians, dancers and sub-Scream faceless cloak wearers. This is A Show, all right, a big production number designed to impress. Of course, one of the cloakers is Ms Monáe, a sprightly lass supremely confident in the all-singing, all-dancing way that recalls a certain Mr Jackson (and indeed she does a respectful cover of ‘ABC’). It’s a great on-stage sound, with swirling strings set against economic brass in the style of Quincy Jones. ‘Sincerely, Jane’ has grace and power. I’m not too taken with the razzmatazz but they were right – do like the voice.
Big Boi (West Holts, 9.30pm) Big Boi may be the less flamboyant half of Outkast, but he’s a showman nonetheless, and tonight he proves he’s as good as anyone at running a Saturday night rap show. Joined on stage by a crack team of live musicians and dancers, as well as hype man C-Bone, he smashes through his considerable back catalogue, finding time for Outkast cuts like ‘Ms Jackson’, ‘B.O.B’ and ‘Ghetto Musick’ alongside material from recent solo album ‘Sir Lucius Left Foot’. The new tracks stand up well, especially Soul 2 Soul-sampling floor slayer ‘Shutterbug’ and weed-smoking anthem ‘Fo Yo Sorrows’.
Coldplay (Pyramid, 10.15pm) Coldplay seemed like a pretty safe choice to many people, but tame as they might be, they know their way around a festival headline set. A stunning light show, complete with oversize balloons and fireworks, plus a back catalogue that demands to be yelled in unison by 100,000 people equals a dependably enjoyable end to Saturday night. Pilled-up packs of Scousers visibly wilt into one another for ‘Shiver’, a sight worth the price of admission alone. No spacemen appear to join in on songs.
Chemical Brothers (Other, 10.30pm) A slow countdown, ten to one. Darkness. Silence. The first of many very slow build-ups before the beat finally drops, we all find out how hard it is to dance with immovable feet, and lunacy takes over. The light show’s reliably spectacular – a huge pulsating cylinder of LEDs, lasers slicing the sky. Inexplicably, a girl dressed as a cat attempts a handstand. Your correspondent is kicked squarely in the balls and showered with warm cider. But no matter. The beats continue to explode, regroup and fragment; the fixed-foot hip wiggling becomes ever more spirited. It is a very friendly crowd – ‘Hey Boy, Hey Girl’ provokes mass hug-bouncing, ‘Out of Control’ seems oddly fitting as great clumps of saucer-eyed youth tumble around clutching onto each other. The set’s nicely menacing – giant beetles swarm the big screens, then prowling tigers and huge scary clowns – but the Chemical Brothers have got dance music for the masses absolutely nailed. It’s simultaneously populist and credible, immaculately crafted stuff, but accessible to all. They’re masters of anticipation – synth spiralling higher and higher… and higher before the bass at last kicks in again. We see the fireworks go up as tonight’s other headliners finish – but as ‘Block Rockin’ Beats’ booms out, no-one here gives a monkey’s about Coldplay.
CRST (London Underground/Block 9, 11.15pm) For those who haven’t had the pleasure, London Underground is the crumbling, 50ft high tower block with a derailed tube train hanging from the fifth floor. It’s also one of the festival’s best after-hours club venues – programmed with choice underground UK dance music all weekend. It even has a proper smoking area (it’s right by a stack of portaloos but we’ve been at Glastonbury so long we can barely smell them any more). Four-man Cardiff crew CRST get the place moving in style, with a set that skips between vintage 2-step rollers and heady contemporary house and garage.
Filthy Six/DJ Vadim (West Holts Field Bar, 12midnight) I’m passing this small marquee and hear damn fine funk jazz so join a small crowd generally jigging about to the trumpet/sax-led sextet whose smart set builds tempo and energy perfectly. They yield the stage to DJ Vadim, Ninja Tunes’ resident Russian, and his punctuated beat explosions add another notch to the atmosphere. Capering rapper D.Electric sings everybody’s praises but it’s the voice (and moves) of Hexstatic vocalist Sabira Jade that rules the room. At some point I wander off, confident I’ll bump into something else lovely because that’s Glastonbury, isn’t it?
Breakage/Shy FX & The Ragga Twins (The Hub/Shangri La, 1am-4am) The Hub is the centrepiece of the mind-blowing Shangri La area, and it’s the closest experience to an back-in-the-day outdoor rave as you’ll get at Glastonbury in 2011. Tonight it plays host to a Digital Soundboy showcase, with Breakage followed by label head Shy FX. Anyone familiar with Breakage’s parallel life as a maker of exquisite dark-side drum & bass and dubstep can’t help but be a little disappointed with his set tonight, which is dominated by slick crossover fare you wouldn’t have expected of him a few years ago. Shy FX fares better, partly because he’s always been at the crowd-pleasing end of jungle and drum & bass, and partly because of the presence of veteran MCs The Ragga Twins. They may not be getting any younger, but jungle hosts don’t get any better.
SUNDAY
Appleblim & Al Tourettes (Wow!, 1pm) Beaming their set from inside a giant glitterball, the Bristol mainstays kick off with George Clinton’s ‘Atomic Dog’ and stay funkily futuristic throughout. Vintage electro, classic house, 2-step, hardcore, dubstep and acid weave in and out of the mix with the lightest of touches, as a growing crowd forms in the intense midday heat.
Don McLean (Pyramid, 1.30pm) A couple of years ago Don McLean released a Johnny Cash-aping, credibility-seeking stripped-down back-to-basics album, ‘Addicted to Black’. It didn’t take. So here he is, once again the old school big band McLean and, boy, is it ever ponderous. “Here are a couple of Buddy Holly songs,” he announces, before the band plod and the singer attacks it with the perfunctory disposition of a covers merchant playing to one man and his deaf dog in Shit Creek USA. If he had more than a Lou Reed level of natural charm, it might work, but alas. Drenched in self-pity, railing at critics (um... oops), sensing the crowd’s ambivalence, he begs “I play a lot of slow songs and one fast one, but it won’t be too long.” How long can one crowd wait for one song? Venue has driven its figurative Chevy to the proverbial levee well before it can find out.
Daisy Chapman (Bandstand, 1.45pm) “I’ve played in Europe and America and last week I played in China, but this is my favourite gig ever.” We think Daisy Chapman is enjoying herself. Those lilting piano lines and gentle harmony loops are a far preferable way of sun lounging compared to Mr McLean.
The Joy Formidable (John Peel Stage, 2pm) Triumphant Welsh power-pop trio, fronted by Ritzy Bryan, a blonde bombshell in a little black dress. She’s tiny, wide-eyed like a kids’ TV presenter. They open with 6Music hit ‘A Heavy Abacus’ – it’s epic and joyous all at once, grungey and girly all at once (but nothing like Hole, thankfully). Vast slabs of guitar come crunching and swerving in relentless waves, but it’s all so exuberantly done that you can’t help smiling – this is rock made for the sheer joy of it. The drums pound, Ritzy’s power-riffing like an 80s guitar god, lunging and lurching and spinning around. As Venue slips away, she’s hammering a giant brass gong. Brilliant.
The Correspondents (G Stage, 2pm) The London duo’s act – and it most definitely is an act – is a tongue-in-cheek combination of breaks from old swing records and fairground weirdness. Singer and ringmaster Mr Bruce is one of life’s eccentrics – costume changes, table-top dancing and all. Natural born festival favourites, it’s quite possible that The Correspondents would barely make sense in any other context. You definitely wouldn’t want to get stuck in a lift with them.
Noisettes (Other, 2.30pm) Noisettes’ default word is a soul-yelping “Wooo!” It feels appropriate. Topped by headgear giving Beatrice a run for her money in the high hat stakes, Shingai Shoniwa almost literally throws herself into ‘Don’t Upset The Rhythm’ (aka That One From The Mazda Ad). There is a sweetness to their art, a poppiness that does for summer soul what Althea & Donna did for reggae (check those Abba-esque piano chords). An ice-cream float of a set.
Jah Wobble & the Nippon Dub Ensemble (West Holts, 2.45 pm) Jah Wobble has been fusing his probing dub basslines with other styles of music since the late 70s, and this will surely go down as one of his most successful combinations to date. Sections adapted from Japanese formal music – using koto, flute, vocals and kaito drums – give way to sudden depth charges of bass and pounding Can-style drums in a way that’s obscure, but utterly infectious. The cover versions – played relatively straight – include reggae classics ‘I’m Still In Love With You’ and ‘You Don’t Love Me (No, No, No)’, the second of which prompts a crowd singalong.
Laura Marling (Pyramid, 3pm) Pale and slightly stern, Laura Marling’s is somehow not sunny day music – she’s the soundtrack of a winter’s night, a mist-shrouded dawn. But here we are in blazing heat, and she’s making the best of it: fresh-faced, hazarding the occasional shy smile. She tries out a “new song medley”, which is countrified and folksy by turns, augmented by a line of backing singers, cello, double bass and lots of odd little pluckable instruments. As ever at Glastonbury, the songs everyone knows go down best –‘Rambling Man’, ‘Ghosts’, ‘Alas I Cannot Swim’ – but as Paul Simon o’clock approaches, the hill fills with the half-interested hoi-polloi, dragging camping chairs and boxes of wine. Marling’s closer ‘I Speak Because I Can’ – defiant, sad and unerringly beautiful as the rest of her set – is mostly lost to the chatter. Pearls before swine.
Bombay Bicycle Club (Other Stage, 4pm) No one is questioning Bombay Bicycle Club’s songwriting nous, something well in advance of their short few years being alive. But today’s showing is flat and uninspired; there’s too much space in the mix, which sounds as if it’s floating into the (by now very blue) sky. Album stand-outs like ‘Magnet’ and ‘Evening/Morning’ simply fail to take off, although the closing calypso-tinged rendition of ‘Always Like This’ is irresistible.
The Duckworths (Bandstand, 4pm) Nick Cave’s ‘The Kindness of Strangers’ welcomes The Duckworths to the stage, and it’s neatly apt: apparently good-natured music concealing lyrics altogether darker. Thus the Bathonians bring forth Gretsch-led country roll and twang, whirligig keys weaving after-hours fairground moods, and burbling surf. And, in its only occasionally musically portentous midst – they work wonders with a minor key and smoothly sinister voice – tales of boiling down brothers.
Paul Simon (Pyramid, 4.30pm) For a great many people, Paul Simon’s back catalogue has been the soundtrack to life, always there in the background, comforting and celebratory at all the right moments. The sun blazes down and the great man – smiling in a pork pie hat, apologising for a throat infection – chooses a summery, percussion-rich set. There’s ‘The Boy in the Bubble’ with its instantly recognisable wheeze of accordion, ’50 Ways to Leave Your Lover’ fruity with organ and baritone sax. ‘That Was Your Mother’ gets hoedowned and jazzed up; ‘Hearts and Bones’ is all sighs and murmurs. Venue has a moment, happy tears flowing freely before the big carnival beat of ‘The Obvious Child’ gets everyone bouncing again. The resonance and complexity of Simon’s songcraft is a wonder to behold live – dulcimer, flute and grand piano all brought in to help, alongside a line of grizzled session musicians effortlessly jamming away. ‘Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes’ is a treat, ending with an explosion of percussion that seems to signify set’s end. Simon walks off. Even the Scousers in Union Jack underpants are baying for more. Then he returns to encore with a soft-focus ‘Kodachrome’, horn-blazing ‘Gone At Last’ and (huge cheer) ‘You Can Call Me Al’. Catches of its chorus are heard all over the site late into the night, caught in the ears and minds of everyone here.
Duane Eddy (West Holts, 5pm) We’ve heard B.B. King, the black man who honed the Chicago blues into an art form, and now we’ll get the white guy who started the whole rock guitar thing. At 75, Duane Eddy is still a cool dude, easy on stage in his cowboy hat, smiling comfortably across a growing audience drawn to West Holts by the unmistakeable sound of his twang bar guitar on ‘Movin’ and Groovin’’. The unruffled precision of his guitar music defined the core architecture of rock in the 50s, so everything he plays from his half-century career seems somehow essential and timeless. Pulp guitarist Richard Hawley joins him, happy to play rhythm guitar on the cowboyish anthem ‘Because They’re Young’, and if it’s frequently Ron Dziubla’s dirty tenor sax that steals the limelight, it’s still that twang-bar riff that catches the heart. The man’s a legend and gets the respect a legend deserves.
TV on the Radio (Other Stage, 5.30pm) With the year’s line-up attesting to the dearth of good guitar music around at the moment, TV On the Radio stick out like a tax protest at a U2 gig. There’s been a line-up shift since the death of bassist Gerard Smith in April, but the new chap behind the drum kit lends the band a real muscularity. Searing guitar and spacious samples are anchored by grooves that impel you to fidget, and they’ve got the range in their back catalogue to make every tune a treat. A complete cover of ‘Ghostbusters’ is a very odd choice to close the set, though.
John Grant (The Park, 6.30pm) Like a bouncer outside a Miami nightclub (all polo shirt and mirror shades), John Grant is slightly incongruous before the stately Steinway, and the juxtaposition between his delicious baritone and his funny, filthy lyrics is just as pleasing. There’s grandeur, pathos and confessional – with some raging against religious homophobia and a bit of gay sex thrown in for good measure. ‘Queen of Denmark’ was rightly in most ‘best album’ lists last year, and witnessing Grant live it’s easy to see why. The crowd’s small but visibly moved, swaying along, enchanted.
Eels (Other Stage, 7pm) Just before me and rock music parted company, Eels’ ‘Beautiful Freak’ album sneaked its way into my heart, so I bake in front of the Other Stage and think back, back 15 years. To judge by their beards, Eels have spent that time in a cave, the music also showing little sign of evolution. The eccentrically jagged stage presence of frontman E entertains and the wily songs are a scattershot of rock-pop influences from The Ramones (‘Johnny Don’t Like’) to The Beach Boys (‘If I Could Be That Guy’), but big hit ‘Novacaine For The Soul’ is defiantly their own, albeit claimed by the enormous crowd for a singalong. It was never broke, Eels’ sound, and it still isn’t.
Lykke Li (The Park, 8pm) Dusk on a beautiful Sunday is not the right environment for Lykke Li – like a flower, she wilts in the heat. Even the full black outfits of the band, billowing noir drapes and wanton use of dry ice can’t impart the atmosphere her funereal pop requires for maximum effect, but ‘Little Bit’ and ‘Love Out of Lust’ still beautifully demonstrate Li’s sound of sadness and sex.
Beyoncé (Pyramid, Sun, 9.45pm) “I want you all to know right now you are witnessing my dream,” she announces. Chances are it’s a thought less wholesomely reflected throughout the crowd. And it’s a crowd. There’s something faintly Michelle Obama-ish about Beyoncé, beloved by all who flock weak-kneed to stand in her presence whether they agree with her politics/music or not. They include those who see a strong aspirational totem on the less morally dubious side of a spectrum that finds ‘Sex and the City’ weighting the other end, lovers of immaculately purveyed pop, and others – though they’ll never admit it – drawn simply by the promise of legs you can see from space. ‘Crazy In Love’ and ‘Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)’ are straight out the box, the former’s trumpet hooks synched with towering stage-side shoots of fireworks. This is a show. Not enough, alas, to hold the attention of those who wanted purely to See Beyoncé – mission accomplished, the lengthy mid-set ballad section sees a long line of departees. Your correspondent is semi-sympathetic – she’s not a performer best served when relying on voice alone, at this juncture aiming for Whitney territory and falling just beyond American Idol; a straight take on Etta James’s ‘At Last’ is particularly unwise. As is Tricky agreeing to guest on ‘Baby Boy’. His befuddled appearance launched Best Conspiracy Theory of the Weekend: pissed at his long forgotten (to most) criticising of Jay Z for playing Glasto, it’s alleged the latter’s better half deliberately sabotaged his cue. Back to the show, and the breaking out of old Destiny’s Child tunes ‘Survivor’, ‘Say My Name’ and ‘Independent Women’. And, crikey, are we ever back. When not aiming at Serious Artist territory and instead dispatching immaculately lithe pop goodness, Beyonce’s sense of feel – and big-eyed, show-stopping theatrics, naturally – is as intuitive as it is peerless.
Kool & The Gang (West Holts, 9.45pm) Which one is Kool? Ten white-clad figures sprint athletically onto the stage, picked out by the setting sun, and the high-energy funk begins. Behind their smoothly commercial sound was always a depth of musicianship and this live set shows that to the max, with classics like ‘Cherish The Love’ and ‘Ooh Lalala, Let’s Go Dancing’ buffed up with fancy solos, while the show hangs together through endless playing up to the crowd, especially ‘the ladeeze’ who get lots of attention. Like the music, it seems both knowing and spontaneous, and the inevitable clincher ‘Celebration’ truly is that thing. Come on! Oh – and he’s the bass player, it turns out.
Queens of the Stone Age (Other Stage, 10pm) While most of Glastonbury is gawping at the jiggling derriere of arguably the world’s best contemporary pop star, Josh Homme must surely have a claim to the title of last of the rock stars. Cool seems to ooze from the man’s pores, and QOTSA can back up all this swagger with an utterly fearsome live presence. The guitars crunch like splintering wood and the drums pound with the force of a thunderclap, but even at its most boisterous, there’s always control. Getting fans in on the act to help choose the set list was a nice touch, too. Beyoncé might have set the tongues wagging, but QOTSA have the tunes.
Copyright Adam Burrows, Ben Welch, Julian Owen, Mike White and Tony Benjamin 2011
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