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:: Saturday, June 28, 2008 ::

Junky Blood

Glastonbury 1997 - After the incident 5
Originally uploaded by gusset.

Not that I'm bitter about missing Glastonbury this year or anything. I was supposed to be working there but just couldn't afford to take the time away for it so had to drop out. To make myself feel better, I've dug out the 1997 photos.

Anyway, it was thoroughly miserable. We had seen Aphex Twin had play a great set that morning and seen Beck present a moving target in a white cowboy suit. The mud was everywhere. It was sticky. It took infeasible amounts of energy to get anywhere, and on top of that you had to walk ridiculously long routes everywhere due to flooding. By the Saturday afternoon we were pretty fed up with it.

We retired to the tent to cook some beans. We sat watching people trudging by as our food gentle simmered, a light drizzle replacing the steam coming off of it. (We had tried in-tent cooking the previous day but I'd set fire to my jumper.) There was some shouting coming from a large tent of crusties just across the "road" from us but that had been going on must of the weekend. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a syringe full of blood and scag lands in the mud between us and our lunch. Both our heads swing in the direction it came from to see two junkies running for it, pushing as they went, like rugby players after a stray ball.

One of them grabs it and they start to wrestle for it. Our gas is quickly extinguished and we retreat into the apparent safety of the tent and listen to the fighting just outside. They fall into the side of our tent, causing a partial collapse, which removes the last illusion of a safe hideaway. As we escape they tear through it, stabbing at each other with the syringe and spraying blood over all our stuff and our neighbours tent.

We go and find a security guard in the corner of the field. He claims he can't see anything and won't get involved. When we return everything has been flattened. A few items are salvaged and returned to the car, everything else is left to fester, to be trodden over and buried in the mud like the blood on a battle field.

At the farm house we are offered space in the barn along with several hundred other people (this was the year of the tent thefts). We decline and decide we will head home at the end of the day. We catch the end of Reprazent's two-hour set and then a great Chemical Brothers performance. When we head for the car we have to pass the front of the pyramid stage, in the middle of what later came to be regarded as Radiohead's greatest performance. I just cussed "fucking Radiohead" to myself and I fought my way through their fans. We have a surreal experience when we stop to watch some opera for a couple of minutes and chat to Stephen Frost, who seems just as bamboozled as we are. The drive home to Bristol was unusually quiet.

I swore I'd never go again after this. That lasted until the fence went up. I think I've been four more times since. It was my brother's first festival and I think he's only been to one other since.

Labels: Flickr, Glastonbury, Humour

:: Dan 28.6.08 [Arc] [1 comments] [links to this post] ::
...

Well, I'm back. I'm humming like a power station. And I better start writing about this years Glastonbury before I forget things. (Although it's taken several days before I've finished the job and posted.)

Even though the gates don't open until Wednesday morning Bristol centre is already full of refugees carrying tents when I leave work on Tuesday evening. I guess they are staying in hostels/hotels for the night?

Wednesday, leave house at 8am. Mrs P drops me off at Temple Meads for the 8:59 to Sheffield, the only place we could get tickets from. Start reading A Computer Called LEO: Lyons Tea Shops and the World's First Office Computer by Georgina Ferry on train.

I managed to get a first class train ticket for less than the cost of the coach back down again, and for only £4 over the standard fare. I've never travelled first class before but I have to say that the contrast between this and standard is pretty shocking. The seats are huge and comfortable, as far as Birmingham I get to put my feet up on the opposite seat, and then there's free food and drinks and newspapers (The Times only). If you'd bought half of this is standard class you'd have spent four quid anyway. Bargain. And they keep offering me more!

A Juliet Lewis look-a-like with amazing tattoos gets on and sits opposite me at Birmingham. She seems to know the stewardess and they chat away about gasping for cigarettes. At one point the stewardess asks if the other has seen any people heading to Glastonbury yet today. She says no. I've obviously escaped their suspicions through the cunning device of travelling in complexly the wrong direction. They move on to discussing where it is, as neither of them is quite sure. At this point they turn to me (damn it, cover blown!) I explain what I'm doing and where it is. The stewardess confesses she's glad she didn't say one of the things she was going to before she knew I was going. Intrigued I pushed her for what is was. She says, "Well, do you know what they all call you when you come back?"
"No. Go on."
She leans right in and says, "They call you crusties!" then laughs a Cybil Fawlty cackle into my face.
"Fare enough. Although I think that applies to a lot of people before they even get there. Pretty much anyone [not black] with dreadlocks gets called a crustie."
"It's because of the mud, you see. Because they're so dirty."
"Yes, I see."
I then chat with ‘Juliet' for the rest of the journey about what it's like there and what's going on. She seems nice enough.

Meet Rob at Sheffield station and lug all out shit over the road to the bus station. Sheffield has changed a lot since I last came through here. The water sculpture in front of the station is gorgeous. Six coach loads of festival goers – most in woefully inappropriate footwear based on what Bristol was like when I left – load up and set off. The Al Murry-esque bus driver tells us "When I was in Her Majesties Forces I was sent to the Falklands. I carried less for five and a half months than you lot are taking for five days." He obviously didn't carry his own booze. There's some quality pavement driving as we set off.

By the time we get to the A42 enough booze has been consumed that an emergency hard shoulder pit-stop is taken so that the overenthusiastic slack-bladdered youth can urinate in the general direction of Tamworth.

A planned break at Strensham (and an unplanned road sign scrapping down the side of the coach) finds coaches from all over the north descending on the services. The suspicious sweet smell of dope smoke hangs heavily around the entrance. We sit and snack out in the rain to help gets us in the mood.

After journeying the remainder of the motorway section we hit traffic almost as soon as we're on the A roads towards the site. A wrong turn in Street takes us up a residential access only road and leads to some more quality pavement driving and an impressive turning manoeuvre. We arrive on site and drag our asses through the gate around 7pm. So only eleven hours travel, to get to somewhere that's only about an hour from my house.

Walking through the site, everyone dragging all of their important possessions and wearing everything they possibly can reminds me of the fleeing refugee scene from War of the Worlds. We pitch up the tent, cook some curried vegetable rice, and then go for a wander.

Banksy's "pile of crap" in the green fields:



A spokes person for the green fields in the festival paper anticipates people reacting violently to the presence of plastic in the field and removing them. I predict people sitting on them, taking drugs, and not giving a shit. Turned out I was right, but I forgot to include in my prediction the copious amounts of paint that would be applied. We feel out of place as the only people there not playing bongos so head back to the tent.

Meet the girls in the adjacent tent, Lucy and Becky. Spend a lot of time swapping stories with them over the weekend. Becky shows off her glittering golden tights and complains of impending illness / possible death.



After breakfasting on a Sainsbury's Long Life Bacon Brunch (recommended!) Thursday sees more exploring of the site. We pop up to the cinema to see our Dolby fiends although the legendary Mike Denner can't be found.



Emily Eavis's new Park area, which feels like a self contained festival in itself. I presume this is a test of her organisational abilities. The view from the ribbon tower is impressive (larger stitched image to follow) and worth the hour and a bit (and two pints of real ale) wait, seeing as there's little else going on.



Mrs P phones and shakily announces, "I'll see your cyclist, and raise you a moped." I've always admitted that she is a much better driver than me, and she has never let me live down the fact that I hit a Morris Minor in 1995 and that a cyclist crashed into me (he was cutting down the outside as I was turning right) last year. Now the white scratch of moped along one side and deep into the windows even things out. The guy apparently skidded down the street then ran back to his bike and sped off, presumably uninsured. More on that as it develops.

Finish reading A Computer Called Leo and start on H.G. Wells' The Sleeper Awakes.

We find the Spunky clothing tent for the Wrong Music "secret rave" at 10 but are told it won't be happening until midnight. We go and buy bread, eat soup and head back for 12 to find Syntheme in full flow. Great acid set from her, although I don't know how long this is likely to last as Ben (Demon Cabbage) tells me they are having problems arguing with the management about how long they can go on. Syntheme plays for half an hour, then Mully does the same (although dropping in tracks that aren't his won feels like cheating), Demon Cabbage provides 30 mins of excellent heavy jungle, Scotch Egg gets thrown out, the police pop in twice to tell them to turn it down, and Shitmat then provides the usual unprofessional holey set with comedy MCing. Unfortunately the whole thing is shut down at 2, before Chevron (J) gets to play, which is disappointing especially as he doesn't have another set during the festival and Shitmat has another hour long set on Saturday to look forward to. Was really looking forward to hearing his new material too. Feel bad for J as we tramp back to the tent again. Was still good fun from everyone else though.



Friday sees the first of many insanely heavy rainstorms. When the sun comes out we head over to the Glade for Seth Lakeman. I grab a coat but Rob doesn't. The skies open again on route and when we get there find it so rammed we can't get under cover. We give up after a couple of tracks and go and cook. See Rob's slightly damn t-shirt. We listen to Gogol Bordello on the Pyramid as we eat.





In the afternoon I headed up to The Park again to see Chas and Dave. Great tunes and amazing musicianship, you have to respect them. The performance of Rabbit was one of my festival highlights, I can still barely get my head around how fast they do that alternating singing thing. And is there a world record for how high a pianist can lift his or her hand off of the keyboard between beats? I think Chas should have it.



A few failed phone calls to arrange meeting up with Rob later and I resorted to the old fashioned festival meeting method and standing near a known meeting point (the ribbon tower again) and seeing if he showed up. An Australian guy accosted me and tells me to get off the mud. I am "churning it up and ruining it for everyone else." I laughed it off for a while then eventually moved in the hope this would shut him up. He asked what I was doing.
"Waiting for a mate."
"Who is he?"
"You don't know him"
"How do you know that?"
"It seems unlikely, statistically. His name's Rob."
He walks around for a bit bellowing Rob and asking some other strangers.
"Can't see him," he reports back.
"No."
"Rob!"
"So what are you doing here?" I ask, hoping to change the subject.
"Waiting for Rob."
"No, what were you doing before I got here?"
"You were here first."
"I think I'm going to go and check the bar." I wonder off.

Becky has changed to green tights and claims they have hypnotic powers. She sits are stares at her knees. We witness the "wonder of the dry shampoo." I'm not convinced it did anything additional to that provided by the associated brushing, and it would seem a hat disguise is still required anyway. God, I remember having hair, but I'm sure it was never this much of a pain. Mine used to be greasy end to end in two days anyway. The only difference with leaving it five days without washing was the fear of spraying oils from it if I moved my head too quickly. Even then, that is prevented naturally by the increased inertia provided by the additional dirt/mud/sand etc that sticks to the grease. Its almost self-sustaining, except, like your boots in the mud, it gets heavier and heavier everyday. I wonder it it eventually reaches a critical mass and starts a chain reaction, forming a black hole?

Two paellas later and were back in the dance field to catch the end of Surgeon (love the "new rave = poo" visuals, and bits of Eat Static, Gus Gus and Asian Dub Foundation as we scurry between tents. It's then off to the Other Stage/Glade area to run backwards and forwards between Squarepusher and Bjork, all whilst eating falafels. After about half an hour of Bjork I catch the end of Squarepusher and an encore of Cum on My Selector. Brilliant set. Bjork's distinctive squawking is still audible all across the site as I wonder back to the tent again. If I'd realised how late her set was running I would have stayed to watch more.



Saturday is full on electronica day, starting with a brilliant set from Vex'd, which got better as it went on. Wasn't sure about the mash-ups early on. There's a full on DJ set from Noisa and more unprofessional hilarity from Shitmatt (Chevron and Mully provide the dancing, augmented later by a stage invader) My first viewing of the Scotch Egg Band is well worth the wait, although they only play for half an hour and then pack away as Shigeru breaks out his gameboy for the remainder of the slot. Some Bon Jovi karaoke fills some time and some dirty fried chicken related banter keeps things going.



I find time to eat again before heading back for what for me was undoubtedly the set of the festival, Bong Ra. Starting with a solid half hour of metal-mash-up ala his Servant of the Apocalyptic Goat Rave project with Sickboy it is the most relentless brutal thrashing I've ever heard. Yes, better than Slayer, although owing a lot to them thanks to the sampling. The girl next to me asks through dropping jaw, "What is this music?" I say its breakcore. Funny, I normally say breakcore first then have to describe it, this way is much easier. It only lets up a little when it slows down for the Venetian Snares remix of War Pigs (forthcoming on Jason's Kriss label). There's then some more gabba and jungly material and he finishes on The Prodigy's Out of Space (or was it the Soundbytes mix?) Andy C allows him pull out another track at the end. I have no idea how anyone could possible follow this set, maybe he's hoping for a mistake? But Jason doesn't make one; he ends on Doormouse's Skelechairs. It sounds beautiful. Judging by the crowd he won a lot of new fans.



I then get ripped of six quid fifty for a Square Pie with mash. It does taste amazing, but I can't help wondering if I'd've got a better deal from Pie Minister.

Steven, Damian and Ziggy Marley provide some great reggae vibes over at the Roots tent. The flag waving guy is a legend. He does nothing but wave a massive Jamaican flag all through the set. And he's ambidextrous with it.

We then finish the day, at Skip's recommendation (although we fail to meet up with him all weekend, sorry mate), over at the Fire Dance stage. There's too much emphasis on the dance and not enough on the fire but the big finale made up for it. I think there may even have been some sort of plot to it but don't ask what it was.



Sunday starts with listening to the National Youth Orchestra on the Pyramid as I sit and munch biscuits. Becky's tights are now orange although she morns the green ones. Is fascinated that you can see mud underneath them. Her voice has almost completely gone and she claims to be "choking on her glands" as well as suffering from trench foot.

We watch a bit of Tony Benn in the Leftfield, and fascinating and enigmatic as he is, we decide to try the real ale in the Red Bar instead. I opt for the stout. We then head back to the Leftfield for truncated Marcus Brigstocke and Ed Byrne stand up routines. Both are very good, I'd only heard them on Radio 4 before but this was better. I always like a political edge to my stand-up and these two are both now added to my recommended list. Will be on the look out for headline sets from them. Another stout and we then meet up with Julian who is to provide my lift home to Bristol and save me travelling all the way back to Sheffield. Yeah!



As we walk back to the Leftfield again we discuss Mark Thomas's recent Radio 4 show about the mass loan demonstrations and the absurdity of the right to protest laws in London. We arrive to find him doing exactly the same set. It really shows him at his best, and rather than analyse it any further I'll upload an MP3 of it shortly.

It's then up to the Acoustic field for more ale and 'Keith James plays the songs of Nick Drake.' Wonderful stuff. After that Rob disappears to find another mate and Julian and I trudge around the circus area discussing politics. Funny how that should come to mind after the morning we'd had.

Later I try to go see KT Tunstall but after waiting about half an hour decide all the stout is calling the shots and head off to find a toilet instead. I think I can hear people having sex in the next cabin as I sit their squirting.



Back in the dance field I meet Rob again and go to see Beardyman. His set is brilliant but cut shamefully short, doing only 10 or 15 minutes before some other shitty MC grabs the mic off of him and announces a shit DJ who wasn't even ready. Everyone leaves disappointed.



Chemical Brothers on the Other Stage finish off the festival proper in style. The set seems to be full of holes where synths gurgle but little else happened, the visuals were impressive and the new material sounds promising but the lack of back catalogue a little disappointing. As were the vegetable noodles and vegetable tempura, as in both cases the veg was just carrot and onions. Poor show.

After hours the last hangers on search desperately for the remaining shows. Drawn to the sound of Smack My Bitch Up, we find ourselves in a sparsely attended Circus Tent watching a live piecing show, with a guy having large hooks suspending weights on his sides and being dragged around the stage by hooks in his back an androgynous angel character. Horrified kids looked on. Its not often you get to watch a whole group of people being simultaneously scarred for life. Unless, of course, you're the kind of person gets dragged around a stage by hooks in your back an androgynous angel character, in which case it's all in a days work.



We find Woody Bop Muddy is still doing the same Record Graveyard material I remember him doing at my first festival, Reading 1995. I suspect it may have been old even then.

We dig our way out of a theatre field desperately in need of some hay or woodchip or anything that would prevent everyone walking through it sinking half way to their shins in the stickiest mud I came across all weekend. Maybe Woody should have been throwing his rice this way. And on to the climax of the festival, Bill Baileys headline slot on the Dance Saddlespan Stage. Unfortunately by this point it has started raining so heavily that it is almost impossible to hear the jokes. Rob gives up quickly but I preserve until the end of the first encore. (Apparently there was a second.) There wasn't much new material, it was more of a festival pleaser greatest hits set, like Chemical Brothers would have been better advised to do.

I slide into a damp tent for the last time at 2am. I find my previously waterproof coat has completely given up on any attempt at fulfilling its most basic function. In the absence of any more spare t-shirts I change into the least damp old one and get my head down.

I awake at 6am on the Monday knowing that Rob will be rushing for a coach at any moment. I wake him up only to irritate him as he'd planned on sleeping another quarter of an hour. After he sets off I sleep fitfully for another few hours, eat the remaining biscuits, slowly pack stuff up, and watch the tent practically fold in half in the now ridiculous winds. Is there an updated Beaufort Wind Scale based on camping conditions rather than sea or tree movement? Maybe also a Glastonbury Mud Scale?
Mud factor 1, loose sloppy mud.
Mud factor 2, may stick to boot.
Mud factor 5, may sink to your knees and you'll be lucky if your boot comes back out.
Etc.
The Bristol Stool Scale should also be used more on site.

By midday I'm all packed up and six phone calls later have found Julian's tent. We go for lunch in the staff mess and I sit on a chair for the first time since Wednesday. My back loves it. I eat a good spicy chick pea jacket and notice there's even flower arrangements on the bar up here! The other staff exchange stories of drinking with The Killers and, um, someone else. See, I'm starting to forget already. While I'm revelling in such relative luxury (admittedly there is still a trickle of mud running through the tent) I get a text from Rob. "The coach has been pulled over by the police as the suspension is fucked." And where did this happen? Tamworth. It is Tamworth's punishment for being urinated on last week. They had it coming.



We leave the site at 2:15 with no sign of the car park sinking disasters the rumour and media alike predict. By 4pm I'm home and soaking in the bath, with no plan of getting out anytime soon. I get another text from Rob saying he's got to Sheffield to find it flooded and his train on Huddersfield where his car is left wont be running. He spend a good part of the weekend complaining about having bought a return train ticket, saving a massive 10p, and having to keep the ticket safe throughout. And now that ticket is useless. He gets a bus the remainder and is home in Holmfirth by early evening.

I wake up and prowl around the house around 3am. I think my body was saying, 'right, that's your four hours sleep, what more do you need?' I'm still adjusting at the time of finishing this post on Friday. I'll be back next year. Other people had it much worse!

Other stuff:
Complete photo set
Tale of woe

Labels: Glastonbury

:: Dan 29.6.07 [Arc] [0 comments] [links to this post] ::
...

There is thunder and lighting outside and the rain is so heavy it's setting off car alarms. And I'm off to Glastonbury in the morning. (Via Sheffield.) I won't be back until Monday. I would normally ask Dash / Skip the Budgie to fill in while I'm away but he'll be there too. I know Spokesy and Popcorn are both busy people but maybe if you're lucky maybe they'll pull something out of their asses. In the meantime I recommend you watch the festival coverage on the BBC and remember that they have an editorial policy of only showing the most boring middle-of-the-road tat so as to prevent too many people exploding in a fit of jealously. Or you could just laugh at all of the footage of miserable people trudging though mud. It look like that's the least of my worries.

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Sixth Level of Hell - The City of Dis!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Moderate
Level 2 (Lustful)	Moderate
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	Moderate
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Very High
Level 7 (Violent)	Moderate
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	Moderate
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Moderate

Take the Dante's Divine Comedy Inferno Test

Labels: Glastonbury, Literature

:: Dan 19.6.07 [Arc] [0 comments] [links to this post] ::
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A few weeks ago I was busy declaring every one of the 120,00 people who managed to get a Glastonbury ticket a cunt. Now I join their cunting ranks, as I've managed to get hold of coach tickets. Via Sheffield.

Labels: Glastonbury

:: Dan 26.4.07 [Arc] [0 comments] [links to this post] ::
...

Back from Glastonbury, with healthy glow of a farm laborer about me, and their might be a whole new mini site dedicated to "Salad Girl" if the photos I surreptitiously took of the girl seen taking 20 mins to eat almost none of a small salad come out ok. I was there with Simon (posts here occasional) and his brother Paul (who I’ll be adding to the team soon), so they might have some more interesting incites.

The most interesting event this year came about when watching Ozomatli on the Pyramid stage on Saturday morning. Stood in a fairly spread out crowd minding my own business I felt something hit the back of my legs as it was dropped to the ground. I looked round partly out of curiosity and partly just to check I wasn’t in any ones way, and saw that what had knocked me was a rucksack with a bundle of clothes tied to it. I glanced upwards to see who the owner of the bag was and was greeted with the view of a totally naked unattractive middle-aged hippy woman bouncing around. I grinned to myself and turned back to watch the band as if this was nothing of great interest. A 30ish American guy standing in front of me wearing a Woodstock 99 T-shirt got prodded in the back by the woman as she probably assumed him to be a like minded soul, but he smiled politely then joined the people trying to ignore her, a small circle clearing around her. Five or so minutes later I felt someone hit my elbow. I glace round again to see the hippy woman had managed to kick me in the elbow as she was led on her back with her legs in the air....wait for it..... fingering herself. I turned away again and shuffled a little further away, the circle around her widening all the time. I dared not look (probably in a very stuck up typically English sort of way despite how liberal I like to think of myself as) for another five minutes or so. I could see other people in front of me glancing backwards and downwards occasionally and the looks on their faces confirming she is was still there. A young skater girl looking not unlike Avril "most miserable teenager alive" Lavigne contorted her face to a degree I cant even say I’ve seen young Avril manage, her hairline practically touching her eyebrows, and looking as if she was gagging on her own tongue, about to throw up at any moment. The next I see of the naked woman she has moved in front of me and singled out a young black girl to "join her", although I couldn’t really hear what she was asking it was obvious the none naked girl found the request unacceptable. A few more words exchanged and the hippy woman is holding the girls hand and forcing her to dance, albeit visibly reluctant in doing so. This doesn’t last long before the hippy woman starts rubbing herself up against the poor girl, who decides to grab her bag and make a run for it. The hippy woman disappeared after that. I'm not sure what happened thereafter, but in that midday sun, she probably burnt things I don’t want to think about.

Highlights:

The scheduled DJ set by AFX (poor photo) in the Glade on Saturday night was great, and it looked like he enjoyed it as well, grinning and waving to everyone when he came up. He played loads of old rave type classics, a few breaks, then some jungle, and the nuts stuff to finish of. I missed the second set he did later on where he apparently wasn’t allowed to play any beats (after 3am) so did all the Bjork fan scaring noise stuff then slowly relaxed into chilled ambient stuff to finish. Apparently this got some heckles from the crowed and he started insulting people and playing hideous distortion at them.

Squarepusher (The Reaper Jenkinson) worked his magic, although didn’t kill anyone as far as I’m aware. Mental bass riffs, not as abrasive as last years set, turned into a bit of a mosh pit at the end and the organisers had to stop the set and tell everyone to back off a bit, or as Tom put it "please rewind yourselves in terms of you spatial positioning... otherwise some mother fuckers gonna get it, mother fucker." Good fun had by all. (For those who care the set included (as far as I could identify tracks); Dimontane Co, I Wish You Could Talk, and Anstromm-Feck 4, new stuff and a whole load more)
Photos: 1 2 3 Kit.

Brushing over the other stuff:
The Cooper Temple Clause were pretty good but not spectacular. Electric Six were great when they were playing their best known stuff, but some of the other tracks were really just filler, over time I imagine they’ll develop a whole set of track as good as Remote Control Me, Danger! High Voltage! and Gay Bar. The cover of Radio Ga Ga was ill-advised. Mighty Ging, billed as “Bristol hip hop massive,” were surpisingly good when I stumbled across them (recommended viewer at Ashton Court Festival this year), a five piece all ginger funky hip-hop band, with the same kind of grove that made Crazy Gods of Endless Noise great. The Hybrid set (featuring Peter Hook) was ruined for me by their guitarist/front man being such a twat, but saved by a power cut as soon as Hooky started his ridiculous posturing. I’m not really an REM fan but they sounded OK considering. The Polyphonic Spree were utter bullshit, how can you have 23 members of a band without ONE who can sing? Turin Brakes were good. Plaid were very good, nice visuals as well. Lenigrad Cowboys were hilarious, photo should explain why. Asian Dub Foundation (or Asian Job Seekers as Slim so kindly put it) were alright in small doses but got dull. Ex-Sugababe Siobahn Donaghy was alright but hadn’t really got going when we had to run to see the remaining Sugababes, who were great, a much better set than the Bristol gig a couple of months ago, and Mutya wiggled her ass, what more do I need to say?

Sugababes poetry corner
Oh Mutya,
Oh Mutya,
Oh Mutya,
Oh Mutya,
Oh Mutya,
Oh Mutya,
And your arse.

Beth Gibbons and Rustin’ Man (Paul Webb of Talk Talk) were fantastic, well worth having to listen to Carys Matthews over running to see, a brilliant, haunting set, Beth somehow managing not to smoke until the last track, and her banter with the crowed was as incoherent as ever.

The DJ set that I think was Chris Clark was hilarious, all 90’s rave classics and techno versions of rock classics (including Money for Nothing and a Slayer track, I think it was Raining Blood) all being played by some old graying guy with a white tash who had to put reading glasses on and squint at the mixer, wearing a baseball cap and a UFO covered sweater and doing all the wavy arm dancing and some strangely literal mining. (Some dancers) He looked scarily like my father-in-law, but fair play to the man, it was a good set.
Bill Bailey was excellent, the crowd wouldn’t let him leave the stage, (possibly partly through fear that the next act might be as bad as the Mary Poppins impersonator who was on before), and he played plenty of his classic song pieces, including his ode to prog rock, The Leg of Time.

And finally, A Cooks Tour. OK, so it’s totally unrelated to Glastonbury, but I’ve been trying to find time to read this for ages and thanks to the Friday being very slow I finally finished the book having got less than halfway through in the previous three months. It’s an essential read for anyone interested in cooking, eating good food and a bit of travel, and I’m glad to say that British food doesn’t come off as badly was you might expect.

EDIT: Photos and additional text added :: Dan 12.7.03

Labels: Glastonbury, Sugababes

:: Dan 2.7.03 [Arc] [0 comments] [links to this post] ::
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