Why I Fell out of Love with Glasto

Ah, yes, the mud, and the rain. Glastonbury is really not Glastonbury till God puts on the showers, and then the stuff gets everywhere. When I arrived on Wednesday, the whole place was dry as fresh sandpaper. People foolishly skipped carefree about in Nikes and fancy clothes.

By Thursday, the drizzle made for light slipperiness. By Friday, ‘Chocolate Pudding,’ ‘Get your Wellies,’ were operative phrases. By Saturday a particular area had to be sectioned off in Trash City, the ‘chocolate pudding,’ had morphed into full-blown quicksand, and someone had broken a leg.

In Glastonbury, you need equipment to fully enjoy the experience, such as wellies, and ponchos, and clothes you are more than willing to throw away. I’d gone all out to make sure I was lacking nothing: tent, bed mat, sleeping bag, toothbrush, the lot. Only to arrive and find, lo and behold, my panic-buying was unfounded. Honestly, so long as you don’t mind inflated prices, you can arrive in Glastonbury with nothing but your soul and credit card, and buy everything there. In fact, forget your soul, just bring the credit card, they have ATMs.

Various stretches of the festival were no more than London’s Camden Market with added mud. Useful, but it did make the whole festival feel a bit corporate. Progress maybe, but I felt a bit gutted.

Glastonbury is huge, truly a miracle in organization: five days, and a criminally overwhelming number of bands, acts, and movies, food, alcohol, camping spots, and rave nights. Some places played music until 3am, like Chaiwallah bar and Saloon 22.

Then there were the other-worldly areas: Trash City, with its Neo-Burlesque-meets-2000 AD design, with the Rocket Rays bar, which stayed open 24hours. And then there were the toilets, those Brimstone pits of despair. Even Greenpeace was there, with free hot showers, unisex, I was told. Not that many people used them. I know quite a few hundred who stuck to wipes and lynx. And a few ten who mud bathed. Glasto is not where you go for hygiene or nutrition. I lived off a diet of burgers and crepes.

And then there’s the acts, they are, after all, why people go there, yes? And this is where Glasto is much like Satellite Television, as in, it’s been designed to have something for everyone, so long as

a) You love indie/chart music

b) You have a guide and know where and when Lethal Bizzle or M.I.A are performing

c) You are willing to walk to wherever to find something new.

Acts such as Scroobius Pip weren’t even listed, neither were the OneTaste Collective, performing at the Chaiwallah bar, possibly the only consistently brilliant performance evening in the whole festival, and always packed to prove it. Places like the dance festival, showcasing amazing flamenco and African drum acts, had no more than a double-digit audience at the most.

But then again, most people came to Glasto for big acts and rave nights. In all fairness, 2007 did not disappoint. While I, not all that into indie or dance, could not be bothered with a good ninety percent of whoever was performing at the Pyramid/Other stage, there were a few gems to be found, and with them I managed to have my own ‘Glastonbury moment,’ i.e a moment in time that was almost worth the money and hassle.

Friday was the best day, starting off with Soweto Kinch at the Jazz Stage. It rained like a pipe burst in heaven, but Soweto and band kept the mood elevated with high energy performances and some good freestyle rap.

Mid-afternoon I saw Amy Winehouse on the Other Stage outshined, literally, by the sun. Halfway through ‘Love is a Losing Game,’ the rain suddenly ceased and solar rays burst out in full blast. The crowd went wild with applause, almost drowning out the song itself.