Glastonbury - a field of dreams? More like nightmares!

The Herald Scotland

2 days ago

But why anyone would wish to go there is as much as mystery as Stonehenge. Or Coldplay. Worthy Farm is a field of discombobulated dreams, one gigantic, 1100 acre-sized earache-inducing, invariably sodden slob fest, where you can feed your face from 300 international food stalls and pay three quid for a half pint of Coke - yet the fact no website can quote the number of bars of soap/Lynx body spray sold over the weekend suggests far too few.
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So why would we sign up be part of a webbed-toed world in which your tent (your home for the weekend) is likely to be peed upon, as part of some strange middle-class male ritual, no doubt developed in the halls of Eton or Harrow?
Let's consider the possible reasons why.
Glastonbury emerged in 1970 as a homage to Woodstock, (1969) but without the sunshine, free love and Janis Joplin and CSN&Y. However, this wurzel Woodstock had T-Rex and sold itself on the hippy commune concept, which immediately conferred some new-agey credence amongst those who loved the idea of wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt and love beads and becoming an eco-warrior for the weekend, before returning to their 20k a year public school while awaiting a top job in the City/government/BBC.
Yes, Glastonbury is 3000 miles away from Yasgur's Farm, but it was also founded on the principle of 'environmental and spiritual focuses', which is why the first Pyramid Stage was a replica of the Great Pyramid of Giza in Egypt. (Shame its construction involved so much plastic sheeting.) All in all, the event sold itself as the musical equivalent of backpacking in Thailand, reading Jack Kerouac or having your left hand henna tattooed. So how could you not embark upon a love affair with a world of suggested peace and love, where the spirit of King Arthur and Avalon flowers as if fed with John Innes Multi-Purpose?
Neil Young at Glastonbury (Image: PA) But aside from being sold spiritual happiness at £348.50 a pop (plus booking fee), Glasto lends itself perfectly to those who love to perch on their friend's shoulders and show off their new top/zany sunglasses/ face make-up. It doesn't matter if this obscures the view of the woman directly behind who's saved her tips at Nandos for months to pay for entry. What matters is the percher may be seen on the telly.
Which brings us to the BBC, who have an exclusive contract to show the event live, broadcast 40 hours on TV and 85 hours on live radio, whether we want it or not. Indeed, the Beeb's coverage is as saturated as the underwear worn by those attending (except the likes of Kate Moss and the glampers). With this comes presenters such as Jo Wiley who are perfectly fluent in the language of hyperbole, continually telling us how brilliant it all is.
Which brings us to an important reason for the success of Glasto. The myth. We're constantly being told, (perhaps not in so many words, yet a thought possibly perpetuated by umbrella and sleeping bag makers, or anyone who has shares in the likes of Tiso or the makers of the morning after pill) that attending the festival will result in result in transference to a higher spiritual plain or even the loss of virginity. Thus, we're sold a weekend escape to a place where everyone can claim to be having the greatest of times, (see 'delulu' in current teen lexicography) ignoring the reality that your girlfriend/boyfriend is currently being snogged by the bloke who borrowed the toilet roll and looks like Shaggy out of Scooby Doo.
There is also little doubt that the ageing Old Farts have kept the field blooming. There are more than 1,200 compost toilets scattered across the site, transforming human waste into horticultural compost, and you sense the organisers agree it's a shame the same can't be done with some of the performer's musical content. (eg, the auto-tuned bonkers act reminiscent of an overly dressed TV evangelist that is Kanye).
The organisers know however the likes of Elton, Macca and Rod can still produce, (this year the star oldie is Neil Young). Whether at the age where they play with train sets or not, the family who run this show must know that very few who attend could hum one of Charlie XCX's hits. And while some may argue the appearance of 80-year-old Rod Stewart is reason enough for cancelling the entire event, you have to consider several points; Maggie May is still one of the greatest songs of all time, his hair still occupies the same position on his head where it first grew, and he really, really can't stand Michelle Mone.
What the Glasto committee also do very well is enhance the feeling of desirousness around the site by often placing two relatively decent acts on at the same time, forcing a choice - and a subliminal thought about returning the following year in the hope of catching the missed performance. And of course, the Arthurian-level mysticism is indeed aided by its legacy labelling, being billed as a rock festival.
Yes, this labelling is questioned when the likes of Kylie is signed to appear, but Glasto PR people do their very best to suggest that the little Antipodean's gold hot pants indeed suggest a symbolism that suggests of wondrous mythical times. Even if they were created in at the Millennium days. (Sure, Keith Moon will have been doing cymbal crashes in his large coffin when he heard her perform The Locomotion.) Rock star status is also conferred on this year's act, Nile Rogers. And Chic. If you've ever wondered why Rogers has become acclaimed there is a real chance you will still be clueless at the end of his set. But the hype works. Doesn't it?
So, we believe Glastonbury is to offer music from the gods, a spiritual awakening that is entirely life-enhancing, with a beautiful mind-blowing aesthetic - because we are told it is. And perhaps it is, if you love to see Passchendaele reimagined, with metal helmets replaced by KFC buckets.
And I can say all this of course with total, unrelenting conviction, given I've never actually been.