Glastonbury 2013. Where do I even start?
We
have all grown up with mythical stories about this legendary music festival - the Grandaddy of them all. I remember while I was at university Mum sent
me email from a family friend on his OE. He was so blown away his Glasto experience, he must have emailed his entire friend list giving a full run down of the acts he had seen. His favourite? A new act called White Stripes – soon to be musical inspirations of mine.
When we began to expand our R&V event from a party into a festival we hired an Event Manager to help us pull it together. Having recently returned from her OE, Glastonbury was all she would talk about. Michael
Eavis this. Oxfam that. Radiohead. Muse. Coldplay. Blah
Blah. Shut up already! She made me buy the Glastonbury book however and I was inspired by the history and the scale of the event. But it was still hard to appreciate the passion or vibe without having been.
My ex-girlfriend who was living in London attended in the mid 2000’s. I remember her calling me from the festival while I stood on the lawn over looking Waiohika Estate, Gisborne one grey June day. She was blown away and how
much I would love it. Massive FOMO kicked in. Why wasn't I there? Yeah yeah, in time I’ll get there. One day!
The trouble was June was a traditionally a tough time to get away for me from NZ. It was all hands on deck as we locked in the line up for R&V and got our marketing plans, creative direction and sponsorship signed off in time for our August release. Still, phones would go quiet as UK agents would disappear for the last week of June, resurfacing in early July to sheepishly sign off our offers.
As a result of this however, I have had some amazing trips in Europe later in the northern summer and had attended many inspiring festivals. From Ibiza to Sziget, V Festival to Notting Hill Carnival - but Glastonbury was to remain ellusive. Somehow I liked it that way. It kind of meant I always had something still to do. But deep down it also niggled me. How could I be a festival promoter if I had never attended the most famous music festival in the planet? I shrugged it off. My time would come.
And still the Glastonbury war stories kept coming across my desk. I was being dragged along to moonlight cinema by my Auckland flatmates to watch the Glastonbury
movie. They had recently returned from
the UK and sat there with glazed eyes throughout the screening. Looks ok, a bit crazy, a bit hippy trippy. What's the big deal? Who cares about Jarvis Cocker anyway? Oasis - they are bit past it now? Killers? I saw them at V Festival and the Big Day Out.
Then my sister attended and had the
experience of her life. Stories gushed down the phone via her croaky voice, lost somewhere on a Somerset field. It again made me curious as to what it would actually be like? Mud? And four days of it? Isn’t that
a bit long?
My friends in London would call me
each year encouraging me to sign up for tickets in Octoberish. I was never
organized enough and each year slipped by.
Until this year. A stella late effort by a friend locked me in to a
teepee. I had no escape. I was finally going to Glastonbury.
Preparation
My wing man and long time travel buddy Tom Bates and I arrived in London the week before and we
thought it would be a wise idea to go to the beach. You know rest up before the big event. Somewhere hot. How about Hvar, Croatia Tom said? Should be nice and relaxing. Yeah right! But that is another story for another time.
We did however make it safely back to London from Croatia on the
Tuesday night after a long travel day and the nerves really began to kick in. Sure I
had the tan after some beach action but was I ready for 4 days of Glasto? As the gates officially opened at Worthy Farm, I spent
the Wednesday chasing my tail around London looking for gumboots, purchasing a raincoat, packing
the bare necessities and endeavoring to have an early night. I tossed and
turned in anticipation, waking many times during night. It was like Xmas Eve. Michael Eavis was a
fitting Santa Claus after all. If not a slightly evil and sadistic one that had 4 days of grueling punishment ahead for us!
I awaked like a bolt on Thursday morning and
began to gather my things anxiously. Did I have a cold? Was that a strep throat I could feel coming on? Have I got the right phone charger?
Should I shave my beard? I made my way to O2 carpark where the bus was
leaving from, our tickets part of an organized tour group. After getting the wrong
tube I began to panic. What if I missed the bus? Would I still be let in? Unnecessary thoughts crowded my mind as I tried to fudge
the apprehension and nervousness for my debut at the big time.
Thing started to pick up as we left the
motorway with a bus full of festival heads. We were on our way! As we pulled into the local village of Pilton the Worth Farm site sprawled out in front of us. Thar she blows! It was like holy Constantinople, with the Pyramid Stage standing tall like the Blue Mosque. The wind was bitter and raindrops started to
appear as we found our way to the teepee shuttle. This would take us through the
narrow country lanes to our camp site at Worthy View, high above the Stone Circle looking down over the festival.
It was now Tom who was starting to freak out, realizing he only had his leather jacket and a pair of old running shoes to
protect him from the rain and mud. At least I had comfort in the fact I had my jacket and wellies. We ran into Auckland friends Damo and Jess on our bus. As first timers they were as nervous as we were. The shuttle took us
wide around the festival, darting through narrow hedgerows like Postman Pat. The Tower of St Michael stood tall
in the distance, keeping watch over those who had gathered in this region for
centuries. They talk about the lay lines, the hippy trippy...yeah yeah what ever bro but there was definitely something cosmic in the air.
We wearily trudged over the hill to the teepee processing. Tom’s bag got thoroughly searched by the over zealous security guards, even dipping their
fingers in his moisturizer and seizing his glass bottle of cologne. Checking into
the world’s most famous festival wasn’t unlike leaving Gatwick on Easyjet. I
was lucky and we found our way to our teepee with my toiletries and (cavities for that matter) in tact.
The rain had started to appear and we started to frown. This was going to be a classic muddy Glasto that you read about. Tom was
now really in need of some gummies or his weekend was ruined. Time to get our wristbands and head into the madness. We walked down the steep hill and saw the site closer through
the fog. It was huge. Big Tops, Ferris Wheels and tents as far as the eye
could see. More of a valley than I was expecting, dotted with large trees and hedge rows. It wasn't the flat, sprawling muddy paddocks I had imagined. Yet!
We wandered around past the rows of food and clothing vendors, into the Healing Fields but
no luck. I chuckled to myself as Tom was tiptoeing in and out of puddles as he held his leather jacket up around his head. He looked like a fish out of water. Finally we found some gumboots for 10 quid, along with plastic
ponchos and stocked up on some clean festival socks.
With our wet weather gear in
place it was surely time for a beer. We poked our head into the 'The Common Room' a student pub-like environment where hundreds of campers were already getting stuck into their work. Here we were Thursday afternoon of Glasto and geezers launching
into a few warm pints as classic tunes from the likes of Dirty Dancing and Rocky boomed over makeshift PA's, complete with swan dives and shadow boxing. Jesus I thought. Surely the festival can’t keep this pace up or we will never get through the weekend. But it did. It’s Glasto after all innit? A term I was to
hear many times over the weekend, helping justify all sorts of behavior to get
you through the tough times.
I snuck off to the portaloo and ran smack
bang into the ‘Beat Hotel’ which was to be home base for the next few days. A
hipster DJ lineup, strong cocktails and a good middle class crowd it felt like you
were in an East London bar on a Saturday night.
And conveniently located between the main and dance stages. Perfect.
After getting a good lay of the land we
trudged back to the tent to meet Kate and her boyfriend Paul, our teepee-mates
for the weekend. They were Glasto veterans and happy to take us under their wing and point us in the right (or wrong) direction. We ran into some other
kiwi friends who were heading to Shangri La. We did a lap through the nightclub
area but it was hard to really feel the buzz we were to experience the next few nights. The others headed off for a night cap back at
the Beat Hotel but I made my way to tent and tucked myself up in bed. Prepping for a big weekend
ahead.
Day 1.
'Wakey wakey!', Kate teased enthusiastically in my
face. I looked at my phone. 7.30am! Jesus! Time for a Vodka and Berrocca to get the
day started she insisted. No - time for you to shut the f#ck up I thought. Please? Can I not sleep in? I’ve got a festival
to attend this afternoon. No, no no no NO! Its Glastonbury! This festival has already begun. Rise and shine! My head throbbed and throat hurt as my Hvar trip began to catch up on me. Or was it? You’ll feel better if you get up and have a shower, Kate said. No I’ll feel
better if you guys piss off and let me go back to sleep! Still there was
going to be no such luck as Tom and Paul were already up as well, rubbing their hands in
anticipation.
Next thing I dragged myself up and lined up for the shower. Felt
like we were in Auschwitz as a single file of grown men would walk tired and grumpy into
the container to share showers. With the mud washed off from the previous night we headed back to the tent. A light breakfast as we poured over the
program, almost Churchill-like preparation for the battle ahead. Obscure artist names were being
bandied around and war stories told of festivals past. Where to start?
Who to see? We had all seen new LA band
Haim in SXSW so would be a perfect festival openers headed back down the hill late morning, expecting
a small gathering for the midday set. It was only Friday morning after all. Things were
only just warming up. Surely.
How I was wrong. The main stage hill looking
onto the Pyramid stage was packed! And it was only midday on the Friday! My
festival experience at the likes of Coachella or Big Day Out meant the crowd filtered in
later in the afternoon, many preloading at villas or carparks beforehand. Not the Poms. You must be having a fooken' laff son? Booze up, front up. Its Glasto innit?
Haim were great if not a little rusty and
looked like the hadn’t been to bed for a few days. Life of a rock star aye. The
mainstream crowd surprisingly knew little of songs and I realised the diversity
and scope of the audience. Not everyone present was SXSW-attending, NME-following musical hipsters we thought we were. Kids frolicked around their parents feet and everyone
from banker-wankers to flower-wearing hippies parked up with a pint of cider in hand, many chaining darts in true English festival fashion. Flags waved throughout the crowd, marketing territories for friends to find.
We walked around to the Dance Village and it too was already packed. The anxiety started
to kick in. Who do we see? Where do we park up?
Lets all take a breather….and
watch Katchafire. WTF? Come all the way to Glasto to watch a NZ reggae band? At
least it will give us time to think and we might run into other kiwi friends. The air wafted with the smell of sweet grass
as greenstone necklaces and koru tattoos glistened in the sun. The band were 30 minutes
late. ‘Chur…sorry bros!’ they apologized as they launched into their sun soaked reggae and the crowd
began to sway. Meanwhile we half looked over our shoulder to see Steve Aoki was
performing on the dance stage where we had just come from. Should we have stayed? Here was a headliner at uber American festivals like Ultra and EDC was afternoon set at
Glasto! Love the arrogance. Oh well they can do what they please…It’s Glasto!
Post Katchafire we made our way around to the
Other Stage and ran into our London friends who had driven in that
morning. The Lumineers had drawn a large
crowd, another main stage act from the likes of Coachella relegated to opening proceedings
here. The singer climbed into the
audience to play the final song - the first of many memorable moments. Back to the Beat Hotel for a debrief. The routine was established. ‘Checking in to
the Hotel’ as we called it. From here we could easily pop to watch The Vaccines and Dizzee Rascal. I was hoping to relieve Pyramid glory days of festivals past but found it a little too mainstream. Too many punters - kids, families, Mum's, Dad's - probably one negative sign of it
being opening day. Tom, Peter, Saraid and I made our way around to Other Stage
where up to 30 kiwis were gathered around a big Rangatingatanga flag, flying high in the breeze. I wasn’t
interested in Arctic Monkeys so we headed up to the more refined and cultured Park Stage. I resisted urges
to head to Chic featuring Nile Rogers and stayed to watch the Horrors, catching up with a few faces I hadn't see for a few years including some hard hitting festival Glastonbury veterans.
Day 1 was coming to an end but not before we would encounter Shangri La at its wickedness on Friday night. We made
our way past the Arcadia spider that was spewing fire and heavy drum and bass as Andy C
took the guest spot. We followed the abandoned railway line with the rest of the late night revelers. A stream of punters were
pouring out of the exit. Thinking we could sneak in the back door - Patty, his girlfriend and I snuck under the fence and
kept walking. Security apprehended us and sent us back to the . But where was Tom! Tom? Looks like we were a man down. Not
sure if it was a blessing or a curse to be left alone at Shangri La but we soldiered on without him.
It was like lining up for a ride at Disneyland
as we were herded into gates to await our fate. The
energy in the air was electric as we bounded up hill and down dale into The Commons towards Shangri La. This was of course a purpose built nightlife complex, whose laneway's were packed with those not content with a full day's action out in the main festival. Rather than shuffle down the street we found a
side tunnel and nestled in, popping up straight in the bowels of Hell.
Literally.
Shangri-Hell was a large sunken dance floor, surrounded by steep walls with medieval turrets on top. It was jammed packed full of ravers, a real den of iniquity. And who else was playing than DJ of
the moment Diplo! He was introduced as fire spurted out above us. He dropped the
latest trap remixes from TNGHT, Major Lazer and a remix of the song of the summer Daft Punk's Get Lucky. The crowd were losing their heads and roared with appreciation. So THIS is Glastonbury. My mind was
officially blown.
Diplo - Live at Shangi-Hell, Glastonbury 2013
As Diplo finished a few of us headed over to Block 9, another large area where all sorts of shenanigans were taking place. Here was constructed underground club with good ol' dirty british drum and bass, along with a big outdoor block party, revelers dressed with faux moustaches and fancy dress costumes. I trudged back before sunrise. My first night had far surpassed my expectations.
Day Two
Day Two began much like the first, but with stinking hot weather. Up mid
morning, a quick shower and around to the kiwi tent for a debrief over a warm Fosters. Then decided to head in. We took a route via the Stone Circle. What a bomb site. Fires
smoldered. Hippies rolled around the grass in zombie-like states. Northern geezers giggled to themselves as they dipped their fingers in bags of who knows what. Balloons hissed as punters coughed and choked on laughing gas. It looked like a Dunedin rinse.
We quickly paced on and headed to the main
stage to try meet my cousin. Again the place was packed early with flags waving. Made our way
over the hill and to the Beat Hotel. Troubadour Ben Howard was perfect afternoon warm-up as the crowd
gathered for the Rolling Stones. We ticked off hot new act Bastille at the John Peel
Tent. The dance zone was too packed for
Rudimental and so we just made our way to the Alabama Shakes on the Other Stage.
I had a meeting with the Arcadia guys that afternoon as the sun began to set. They
were ex festival production folk who decided to create mind-blowing monstrosities for massive music festivals. Why not? They told me they have
29 staff to run the Arcadia Spider. What kind of imagination to come up with such a vision? What do they write on their arrival card under the box 'occupation' we
wondered? They told me to get in before midnight to secure a good spot under the massive spider structure to fully appreciate the 25 minute show.
After a memorable Alabama Shakes and Two Door Cinema Club it
was time to settle in for the Stones. The Rolling-Bloody-Stones. At Glasto. This was set to be all time. We came in from the side and nestled in
near the front, stage right.
Jumping Jack Flash kicked things off and the crowd went nuts. The hits kept coming Its Only Rock and Roll, Paint It Black etc etc.
They did not disappoint. Mick swiveled and shook his skinny hips, raising his finger to the crowd and shaking his palms like a man
possessed. Was his soft and sloppy drawl of half finished sentences part of his rock and roll swagger? Or just a sign of old
age? Who cares - he makes up the rules!
Things really kicked off towards the end of the set when Start Me Up began, after a short Keith Richards interlude. A robotic phoenix came out of the top of the Pyramid stage during Sympathy for the Devil that looked a little
dated to me but was a nice touch. Although hard to see between all the bloody
flags and the odd flare. I snuck off for a quick toilet break and found it hard
to nestle back in as over 100,000 punters had gather forming a thick crowd in all directions.
The final fireworks fell during Satisfaction and we dragged our little team of 6 of us
around to Arcadia and bet the crowd which was soon to arrive enmasse. One of us popped out for drinks and didn’t return for 30 mins. The countdown finished and at 12.25 exactly the music begun, and it wasn't long til the bass dropped and the spider came alive. Performers hung from trapeze and the alien-like beast breathed fire into the still air. Following the show Fat Boy
Slim jumped on the decks to a huge applause, dropping songs from Daft Punk and Empire of the Sun along with his huge back catalogue of familiar sound bytes. The place was absolutely banging.
By this time I was hitting a massive wall. The broken, dirty beats of Chase and
Status picked me up but I was tired, hungry and thinking of bed. Still it was Glastonbury and there was no turning
back. Again we walked down to Shangri La this time in unison. We popped into
Diner which had a decent selection of bangers before checking out A-Skills back in Shangri Hell.
A quick detour home via the Stone Circle where it looked like a scene out of Braveheart. It was like a war zone as steam rose from the damp ground, fires smoking as people creaked and groaned, victims the last two days of battle.
Day 3.
The sun beamed into the tent as I awoke through dusty eyes. The festival forefathers who had come before me talk
about Sunday being a slower start. There was already one story of a kiwi friend overcooking it, having to head back to London early, tail between his legs. No sign of that in our tent - it
was Kate’s birthday so she encouraged us to get down early (11.30am) for Skream's Sunday club session at nautical themed WOW Stage featuring Disclosure, Artwork, Eats Everything and Justin Martin. We were invited back stage in the scaffolding, realising everything was in fact more like a movie set. What you mean its not real? We weren't really on a cruise ship in the middle of the farm? This was the first signs of the festival facade starting to crack.
Cries of ‘It's fooken Glasto, let's fooken 'ave it!’ were bandied about by the DJ's as
everyone was prepared to give it one last proper day out. I snuck off to watch new LA garage rock act Deap Valley in the John Peel tent, realizing time was nearly up to check out some of the hot new acts on display. The XX were playing a secret set for BBC Radio 1 we queued up to hear a couple of songs from the back.
Apart from the Stones the only other act I was not prepared to miss was Vampire Weekend. We headed around to the main stage we spotted a through the flags bouncing up and down surrounded by indian headdresses. Sure enough underneath where the kiwi crowd in
full swing. All chips were on the table
as this was the last roll of the dice Funnels on
shoulders. Wine cask sculls. Group photos. Mumbling chorus's accompanied by out of time foot-stomping and thigh-slapping. There was probably a sloppy attempts at a haka somewhere in there. Everyone
was throwing their hat in the ring. This was the Glastonbury I had seen photos and was a fitting finale. It was a memorable singalong and also showed
what a fantastic band Vampire Weekend have become. Future headliners for sure.
Checked into the Hotel one last time (made a pencil booking for next year) and
then settled on Phoenix to be our closing band. We weren’t disappointed. Felt like
a private concert as Thomas Maars and his French pals gave it heaps, going up against
local favourites Mumford and Sons and The XX.
Still one last bite of the cherry in Shangri La. This time we found Heaven which was the antithesis of Hell. We lined up and
were greeted by the friendly staff who quizzed us whether we deserved entry
into the afterlife. After a rambling rendition
of 'Piano Man' we were let in. Heaven was nice and chilled and perfect warm down for the Sunday night. Felt like lots of the cool kids had
gone home anyway. Even Shangri Hell didn’t have
the same gloss to it as some Bristol crew were smashing loud dnb.
Realising my Glasto experience was soon coming to an end I did a final lap of honour and managed to have
a good look at the infrastructure of the place. It really is an amazing set up - full power grids,
scaffolding, performers, stocked bars. A mock Colosseum. Water Falls. Rum bars. Wine bars. In all about 30 different night clubs in the precinct, obviously designed to keep the late night revellers entertained away from the rest of the festival. Set up a month before and ripped down just as fast. We trudged
wearily back to our teepee.
Conversation revolved around what we had on the coming week. Reality set in
about it being all over.
In all what a truly magnificent festival. I spent
the next few days couch bound in London, watching the footage taped from BBC over the weekend. The coverage of Saturday was pretty magical as a summer
breeze blew through the festival in anticipation for the world's most famous band playing at the world's most famous festival. The scale of the place. The history, the venue, the diversity. And of course the music. It really has it all.
As you can probably tell I am still buzzing over my first Glastonbury
experience. Feel a weight is off my shoulders as a large box on my bucket list has been ticked off. Maybe it is now my turn to skite to a whole new generation of family friends and I should forward on this blog to help inspire a new generation of festival attendees.
I will definitely be in the ballot for next year. I need at least one more Glasto under my belt and it would be fun experiencing with friends who have not yet attended.
As the days trudged on in London I began to
feel nostalgic. I will never forget that moment I walked into Shangri Hell as Diplo began, when the Stones
played Miss You, that final set of Phoenix. The banter and rubbish talked between Tom and I as we walked between stages (actually already forgotten a lot of it) and new friends I met. The refreshing taste of a mojito at Beat Hotel to help power on through the day. Even that groggy feeling of being woken up far too early on the first day.
Well until next year anyway.
Thanks Glasto – exceeded expectations and definitely the
best festival on the planet!
