Whilst at least in the eyes, if not the hearts of many Jay-Z triumphed over adversity during his headline slot on the Pyramid Stage last year, Pharrell and his geek-chic N*E*R*D team take more like bricks than ducks to water as their vacuous rap’n’roll doesn’t power through technical glitches. From one set of international superstars to a somewhat more subdued bearded bunch, Fleet Foxes couldn’t look more at home if they were holed up in a log cabin down the back end of nowhere. They’re terrified and it shows, yet their superlative harmonic wonderment remains fortified in front of their biggest show to date and quite how White Winter Hymnal is yet to be included in every hymn book is a travesty.
Whilst the yanks provide many of the bricks to Eavis’ Pyramid over the weekend, over on The Other, the fruits of White Lies’ endless labours seem to have finally ripened, as their apocalyptic anthemia blasts out, soaking the throng in washes of majestic grandeur and crashing choruses. Their time is now. With a splattering of special guests smeared all over this year’s bill, they range from practically homecoming heroes Klaxons to the downright disappointment of Supergrass spin-off Hot Rats.
However, The Park Stage truly puts the special back, airing a debut festival show from Jack White’s new venture, The Dead Weather. Fronted by sultry Kills woman Alison Mosshart and flanked by Raconteurs bandmates, White installs himself in the background, glaring out from behind a rather modest drum kit. Bashing it half to death, they’ve staked themselves out as quite possibly the coolest collective of all time. Their highly-anticipated dirty blues debut record may leave a fair bit to be desired but in the flesh, Hang You Up From the Heavens is utterly devastating.
From the devastating to the dishevelled, the newly crowned Princess of Red Light Pornographic Dance Fight Pop Lady Gaga looks about as out of place down on the farm as she does fully clothed and with twelve varieties of soft drink on the old rider and almost as many costume changes, she’s eclipsing the diva tendencies of La Roux and her ginger fluming fringe. Cavorting about on motorbikes and a clan of robotically choreographed muscled torsos, she slurs her way through the polished sleaze of Beautiful Dirty Rich and Poker Face as if Michael Eavis is paying special rates. Unquestionably the all-out show of the weekend. And to top it all off, a secret early morning masquerade show down in Shangri-La equipped with firework bras. Ideally imperfect.
The Pyramid photo pit’s buzzing with bigger lenses than those aimed up Gaga’s numerous skimpy skirts come Neil Young as his cult Americana blasts out across the main arena bowl, rattling rib cages with giddy guitar solos whilst standing every last hair up on end. But it’s over on the Acoustic Stage that jaws are dropping the mud as Kinks man Ray Davies delivers unsung Glastonbury moment upon moment, firing off the likes of Sunny Afternoon and All Day And All Of The Night at will. Returning for no less than three encores in which Waterloo Sunset and Lola are unleashed on the baying throng, he makes as strong a claim as any to the most gifted songwriter on site all weekend long. A Well Respected Man indeed. And on that triumphant note, it’s off to get down and dirty all over again down in the gender-blurring murky clubs and dingy night boxes of the outer reaches of Shangri-La and Trash City. Lord help us.
