Glastonbury 2009: Worthy Farm's year-round residents
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 Glastonbury 2009:
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Part 2 |
Part 3 |
Part 4
Glastonbury. It's probably the biggest music festival in the world. With that in
mind, we sent a brace of writers down to Somerset to marvel at the
carnage that takes place when you pack a hundred thousand tents into
one small farm. Glasto virgin Gideon Brody and old hand Rob Watson
pair up to deliver life and death at Glasto 2009...
Intimidating perhaps isn't the word that springs immediately to mind
when describing the family-friendly and eminently cuddly granddaddy of
music festivals. Nevertheless, it can be a little overwhelming; the
sheer scale of the site, stretching over and beyond the horizon is, at
the very least, awe inspiring.
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A patchwork of blue and red tents
sprawl across the land like the world's largest picnic blanket,
swamped under a sea of people. There are a lot of tents. So much so
that finding somewhere to make my temporary festival home quickly
turns from an assiduous pursuit for the perfect pitch to a desperate
hope that I can find any space big enough.
A couple of hours later, tent haphazardly assembled on suspiciously
marshy grass and location vaguely noted, I try to get my Glasto
bearings. Standing like yellow and blue circus tops the John Peel and
Dance stages seem suddenly rather small, and barely capable of holding
the fervent crowds that will pass through over the coming days.
Already though, the festival atmosphere - and curiously intoxicating
local scrumpy - is taking hold, merry revellers lounging prostrate
under gathering clouds.
Walking eastward along the old railway track,
everything suddenly starts to make more sense. Passing northward along
the main market stalls to the more traditional spiritual heart of
Green Future and the Healing Fields, I'm struck by the colour and life
that surrounds me, and suddenly Glastonbury ceases to be tens of
thousands of flimsy pieces of canvas and turns into a carnival of all
humanity that is near biblical in its scale. The Israelites perhaps
didn't walk across the desert in hot pants and lame novelty t-shirts,
but if they had, it probably would have looked similar.
An atmosphere more hectic and rushed than I had expected, stalls are
overrun with people in search of waterproofs, camping accessories and
other last minute lost or forgotten items. Looking at the sky, I
quickly snap up a waterproof jacket and realise that the question on
most people's minds is not how Springsteen's set will go or who is
playing the Queen's Head stage, but "Is it going to rain?"
And then, quite suddenly, the atmosphere changes; people are murmuring
in groups, checking phones, looking at each other bewildered.
Something about Michael Jackson. Ill. Dead? People are drunk. It's a
festival. Silly rumours like this have a habit of spreading. But then
I check my phone and it's true. Michael Jackson is dead; and yet, the
death of one of the most iconic figures in music can't dampen the
mood. In fact, on the eve of the festival proper, the night becomes
even more of a celebration. And the rain comes down.
Retiring to my tent, I listen to raindrops pelting the canvas. Sleep
doesn't come easily, the violence of the weather making me feel like a
lost sock being tossed in a tumble-dryer.
Glastonbury 2009:
Part 1 |
Part 2 |
Part 3 |
Part 4
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