Once more an early morning Sunday battle ensues between the resilient iron fist of golden oldies Tony Christie and Status Quo in the blue corner, standing face to face with promising electro indie pop pioneers Wave Machines and Glastonbury’s house band of the weekend, We Have Band, over in the red. Awaking to the hymnal wafts of the WaterAid West Country Community Choir, this is about as close as life gets to an ‘Easy’ Sunday morning. Wave Machines’ brand of emotionally scarred psychedelia owes more than a nod to Animal Collective yet tinged with a sense of coherence often devoid of the Merriweather trio’s musical meanderings. Appearing in freak show paper masks of their own faces, Dead Houses could spawn a frog in the back of Faris Rotter’s throat whilst Punk Spirit blissfully contradicts its title, equipping itself with perhaps the most memorable chorus this side of Christie’s path to Amarillo. However, where the scouse Wave Machines triumph, We Have Band’s Diet Daft Punk electro funk fades into the flimsy and forgettable Glastonbury recycle bin. Despite counting amongst their ranks two fiancées, their hearts seemingly aren’t quite in it. Wearing vital organs on their sleeves however are New York Emo types Brand New. Taking a slightly misguided detour from August’s Reading and Leeds festivals, a healthy gathering of rage-harbourers have come to bow down before one of the last few purveyors of the Emotional hardcore that the likes of Rival Schools and The Get Up Kids scrawled all over underground tunnels and sewer-like clubs. Drawing heavily from seminal previous record The Devil And God Are Raging Inside (Sowing Season’s soaring chorus is the moment) with a dash of Deja Entendu (Sic Transit Gloria...Glory Fades) and the odd glimpse of desperately anticipated new material it’s a vital Glastonbury appearance. Defiance of stereotype complete. If only the Daily Mail were sponsoring The Other Stage at least for that single hour...Perhaps their booking isn’t quite as off-kilter as Enter Shikari’s blurring of the ludicrously distinct boundaries between trance and metal. Knowing what can be lived with and without, they’re largely avoided like swine flu. Switching the magnet from repel to attract, Karen O’s arthouse New Yorkers Yeah Yeah Yeahs could almost hold their own sequined fate headlining tonight. New additions Dull Life, Runaway and Zero add to the flash stage show, taking in everything from spangly blue backdrops to inflatable eyeballs that roll over the thousands that sprawl out across the green green hills of home. Well, judging by the Glastonbury addiction experienced by every last veteran it’s at the very least a spiritual home. Maybe Eavis should leave it open all year round? Karen O’s enviable quirkiness/ madness (both overheard during their blistering set) is toned down by Natasha Khan’s Bat For Lashes although the sequins hold on for another hour or two before depression sinks in. Adorned in sparkles that Björk may come back for, she’s not so single-handed these days, having roped in perhaps the alt. female supergroup, comprised of New Young Pony Club’s drumming damsel Lou Barlow and Ash ex-pat Charlotte Hatherley. Haunting opener Glass is otherworldly enough for late night strolls deep into the hidden holes of Glastonbury, the zither twang of Prescilla is as sublime as any sunset and Daniel has become the undeniable ace in Khan’s pack, rounding off a subdued obliteration of Sunday evening amidst the smell of cinders and rain. Needless to say, the glitz and the glamour of Khan and O are, for the most part, absent from Justin Vernon’s Bon Iver. It’s no wonder that the record of the past year translates to one of the indispensable shows of the festival. Frankly, it seems criminal that Nick Cave & his Bad Seeds sit atop the Pyramid drawing anything away from Vernon’s tales of smashed hopes and hearts. Once more, The Wolves swathes wondrously into the lantern-filled heavens and regardless of what happens from here on in, For Emma, Forever Ago will never be forgotten. Nick Cave is about as energy-fuelling as the dirty noodles strewn all over the floor, as he growls and prowls his way through a lacklustre outback of nothingness. The only oasis comes in the shape of There She Goes, My Beautiful World, where Cave’s botany brain cells get an exercise although without the ecclesiastical gospel choir committed to Abattoir Blues, there’s room for improvement. Or retirement.
And finally, flying the flag for quintessential Britain, Colchester’s finest and Damon’s day job, Blur. Opening with the ground-breaking This Is A Low, it’s an ecstatic excursion from here on in. The shyness of specced-up unsung hero Graham Coxon puts fears aside to belt out Coffee & TV to the hundreds of thousands gathered to witness history/ relive the glory days of Britpop/ round Glastonbury off with the best karaoke show of all time. Their nostalgia bus stops off at Girls & Boys, Parklife, Out of Time, Beetlebum and a mesmerising Song 2, regurgitating the incomprehensible dilemma of quite how there ever were a ring fit for the Gallaghers’ egocentricity and monotonous, dirgy records, and Blur’s pop genius. Maybe the dispute will settle itself once and for all come August when Oasis’ dreary presence and weary heads headline this year’s V Festival. If they beat Albarn’s majestic final frontier, we’ll all be rushing out to grab one of Liam’s extortionate Pretty Green parkas.
Once more, Michael and Emily have pieced together the knees-up the temperamental British summer yearns for as the coronation of the crown of roses for the best festival on the planet has already been bagged. Keep it coming, Michael. There’s life in this old beast yet.
