Lest I sound like some Daily Mail anti beardy-weirdy tree-hugging lentil-loving pinko-hippy type, I ought to say up front how much I enjoyed Glastonbury this weekend. I didn’t go of course. The idea of me trying to survive in a tent overnight, let alone three, is ridiculous. Instead I relaxed on the sofa, navigated my way through the various BBC interactive channels and caught up on their website.
I wasn’t taken with Bruce Springsteen, I fell out of love with him a long time ago, and Blur were a little rusty, seemingly desperate to get to the end of some songs with some band members quicker than others. Franz Ferdinand suggested the crowd had carnal knowledge of their own mothers and, judging from the resultant roar of the crowd, they may have been right. I liked their set but, even with the more electronic sound, I’m beginning to find them a little predictable.
There was a whole load of stuff I hardly dare admit I hadn’t heard before. White Lies overcame the cheap suits, lyrics such as “and all we heard was lies about the truth” and my short-lived mean-spiritedness; enough to persuade me to buy their album. Pendulum were loud enough to damage my hearing with the sound muted and were huge fun to watch. There were Doves, who I’d heard of but until now never listened to… and I finally discovered why Lady GaGa is “whack”.
However my favourite thirty-or-so minutes came from The Specials who managed to induce a big cheesy grin throughout their show. Terry Hall has understandably filled out a little and appeared to amble around the stage, leaning forward earnestly every so often; then I remembered he’d always moved that way. My favourite song, “Friday night Saturday Morning” didn’t really work, but that’s a minor quibble.
There was a lot of great music. Even acts such as Status Quo take on a new light when your seven year old daughter starts jumping up and down… though I may attempt to steer her in other directions next year. If I could stay in a hotel I’d take her…
