Glastonbury 2009 Diary: Part 1

Intro And Warning

London, England
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Pub

It's an uncomfortably warm day in London and I'm sitting in a pub in the Queen's Park district of London. Across from me are my hosts, Mark and Lucy. Both are in — or have worked in — the music industry, and as such are grizzled veterans of the Glastonbury Festival.

As anyone who has been to a multi-day festival can attest, once you come back the whole experience comes together in your mind as a mishmash of singular songs, the sub-human conditions endured as well as the super-human feats of strength and agility you performed in order to overcome them.

I have been to several major festivals around the world. I've survived the mind-melting heat at Tennessee's Bonnaroo, the adventure of the Netherlands' Lowlands and even the humidity of Japan's Fuji Rock (I even have the commemorative fan to prove it!). But according to Mark and Lucy, I ain't seen nothing yet.

"I went one year and the mud was so high, it went up to my shooolders," Mark explains in a Northern English accent. "You could get trench fooot!"

"Oh, Marky, don't be so over dramatic." Lucy interjects, in a way only people who've suffered each other for years can.

"You won't get trench foot," she tells me. "But he's right about the rain and mud. I had a friend who had someone die right beside her. In his tent. Drowned in the mud.

"They had to send divers to see if anyone was alive."

Ten minutes earlier, I was quite excited to go to Glastonbury. Now I'm not so sure. Three days — the festival grounds open on Wednesday, but the good music aspect of proceedings only starts Friday — of mud, warm beer and Englishmen... what exactly had I gotten myself into?

"Don't worry, Jonathan," Lucy says, noticing my befuddled look. "Half the fun is in the journey. You'll have the best time ever."

Two days later, I would find out exactly what she meant.

London, England
Friday, June 26, 2009
6:30 a.m.

I awake with a sense of dread. This is not only because my jet lag is still bothering me and I'm — quite unsuccessfully — trying to get over the ill-effects of North By Northeast the previous week, but something else, something I just can't put my finger on just yet...

I decide to check my phone (17 messages?!) and discover Michael Jackson has died. For a while, I wonder why so many people felt the need to tell me this, knowing full well that a) I'm in the U.K. and b) I've never been a full blown MJ fan. Don't get me wrong; I dig his music and have done my share of "Billie Jean" karaoke, but in an homage to the man himself, I've kept my MJ appreciation private.

My curiosity piqued, I turn on the television (BBC 1) where I'm greeted by a rather chirpy British man (as chirpy a British man could be being both British and awake at 6:30 a.m.). He's talking to an old friend of Jackson's. I catch the last couple of sentences and manage to make out he's died of a heart attack.

With this, the chirpy Brit turns to the Glastonbury report. My ears perk up. The screen flashes to a rather unjoyous looking fellow. He's standing at a high point overlooking the Pyramid Stage — the main stage of the festival where the headliners play — dressed in wellingtons and a rain coat. My stomach tightens.

"It looks like it's going to be another muddy year..." he begins and I can hear Mark yelling "I told you so!" from his room upstairs. Fuck!

London, England
Paddington Station
2 p.m.

After a spirited discussion with Mark and Lucy, I decide to acquiesce to their expertise and purchase some camping upgrades. This cuts significantly into my Glastonbury time, but then again, I don't want to die of a mudslide in my tent.

I arrive to catch the train at 2 p.m., which should — assuming it takes about 10 minutes to set up my tent — get me into the thick of things around 5 p.m.

As I begin the trek to Castle Cary (the journey also involves a double-decker bus trip, which takes another 30 minutes or so to get you on site) I squish up against three hippies. They're seemingtly oblivious to their potent mix of body odor and patchouli, and they explain to me what makes Glastonbury so special to them.

"Well, it's right spiritual ain't it?" the one with shorter dreadlocks says in a Cockney accent.

"The site is built on ley lines and has healing powers!" the female of the group confirms.

"We don't even go for the music. We go for the good vibes," the longer dreadlocked one interjects. "We hang at the stone circle, walk amongst the Green Field. It's great, innut?!"

They all nod in unison.

I ask them how they can avoid seeing music? Isn't Glasto a "music festival?"

"This is your first time, isn't it?" the female says. "The farm is so bloody massive, you could be smokin' a splif in the hills for three days and not even hear a single note."

Bloody 'ell.

Somerset, England
Castle Cary Station
4:30 p.m.

As good an argument as dreadlocks made, I've decided to skip the spiritual side of the festival. I'm here to cover music (CHARTattack is, last I checked, a music site after all) and, despite an email from Lucy reminding me that this was more about the adventure than the bands, I would like to spend as much of my time here enjoying it with mass crowds of up to 80,000 [the festival attracts roughly 190,000 people] all singing along. That's something I just can't even conceive happening at, say, Virgin Festival Toronto.

Pilton, England
Glastonbury Festival Site
5:45 p.m.

It's sunny! It seems the rain of the past few days has gone away and left the area a muddy, but manageable mess. I arrive, put on my freshly bought wellies, unpack my tent in the hospitality/press area (six minutes, boo ya!) and head out to the Park Stage where a "surprise guest" is scheduled to play.

Along the way, I manage to catch a bit of Friendly Fires set. I remember seeing them with White Lies at Toronto's Lee's Palace earlier this year. The attendance then was maybe several hundred people, but here they're playing to several thousand, who are happily dancing their asses off as Ed Macfarlane, FF's camp lead singer, awkwardly sashays across the stage. They also have horns with them. Nice touch.

Park Stage
The Dead Weather
6:45 p.m.

That was a long walk. Those hippies were right — I hate when that happens — this place is massive!

I arrive into the Park area, which consists of several stages and a large tower. After wandering around for another five minutes or so, I find the stage and get close to the front barrier just as The Dead Weather take the stage.

Jack White, being something of a folk hero 'round these parts, immediately riles the crowd as the band, which also consists of The Kills' Alison Mosshart and two of Jack's Raconteurs buddies, launch into their set with the added boost you can only get from playing in front of countless thousands of people.

Having seen them a couple weeks earlier at Toronto's Horseshoe Tavern, I'm glad to report their brand of dirty blues translated even better in the open air. The crowd, despite not recognizing a single song, go mad and feed off the fuzz emanating from guitarist Dean Fertita's white hot riffs. It's the perfect soundtrack to the hazy fog that surrounds the park and, all told, it's not a bad start to my festival experience.

The Queens Head
The Rumble Strips
7:45 p.m.

After The Dead Weather finish, I try to run over to the Q magazine sponsored Queen's Head stage, which, despite boasting several big colourful screens, advertises itself as a tent where bigger bands play intimate sets.

I just miss The Virgins, a guilty pleasure of mine, and grab a (semi-warm) beer as I await The Rumble Strips, an English band I saw a year earlier in New York on the recommendation of Amy Winehouse producer Mark Ronson. He would eventually go on to produce their upcoming album (Canada's own Final Fantasy provides the string arrangements) and his influence is evident on the new songs the band play during their second Glasto set of the day.

"We played a gig at the John Peel Stage in front of 5,000 people earlier today. They don't know what they're missing, eh?" bassist Sam Mansbridge says with a laugh before the band launch into single "Girls And Boys In Love."

The set is a fantastic mix of Britpop, horns and boyish charm. The band members look like they're having a blast and lead singer Charlie Waller puts in one of the better vocal performances I'll hear all weekend. Look out for these guys.

Pyramid Stage
Neil Young
10 p.m.

After the Strips, I decide to try to pick up some grub. As I stand in line for a veggie burger, I see the first of the many Jackson tributes that will randomly pop up during the weekend.

A huge screen — presumably meant to simulcast shows playing on other stages — has started playing the extended music video for "Thriller." People slowly start flocking to the screen until, eventually, the whole area in front of it is full of bodies grooving to the song.

I decide to split and get a good position for Neil Young, who's headlining. As I walk towards the Pyramid Stage, I'm surprised at how large it really is. The size of everything here is on a different scale than any festival I've seen before. There must be at least 70,000 people here.

As Neil opens with a blistering "Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black)," my Canadian pride meter goes up just a little (though he never does get around to playing "Helpless", alas). Stopping intermediately to make a quick quip ["Are there any alcoholics in the audience? This one's for you!"] or to say thanks, the rest of the set sees Young running through his bag of standard ticks — one note solos, anguished vocals, grumpy, determined faces — while maintaining a sense of grungey ordered chaos.

Although a 10 minute "Down By The River" tests the audience's patience a bit, Shakey wins 'em back in the end with an anthemic "Rockin' In The Free World" [A song I've heard so many times it angers me to hear Young include it in the set in lieu of, say, "After The Gold Rush" or "Only Love Can Break Your Heart," but the English do love their anthems!] and a stirring encore of The Beatles' "A Day In The Life," complete with string busting, guitar kicking outro.

Thinking I saw something kind of special [Young would bring Paul McCartney on stage to play it the following night in London – damn] I head into the night excited for what tomorrow brings.

The evening ends at 2 a.m. as I narrowly avoid tripping over several tents the way to my own. Good night, Glasto. One down, two to go.