All Sundays, Glastonbury or otherwise, should commence with what Beach House may brand "a walk in The Park", their reasoning being "'cause you don't need anything", anything in this case a horizontal lounge-about to the weekend's best acousticalia. Up first is Julie Ann Baenziger who, in Wayfarers, gumboots, and plaid flannel checkery well and truly looks the Worthy Farm part.
Rifling through a blazing selection of
Sea Of Bees' downcast, downtrodden, and
criminally underestimated debut LP Songs For The Ravens, Baenziger is backed by a sole guitar-toting associate with whom she exchanges guitars infrequently, chopping and changing between heartstring-tugging acoustic and mellow Telecaster electric, the zesty Marmalade sprawling into Americana soundscape that'd have their Park Stage predecessors The Pierces hurtling for home, or at least the hills of the Kidz Field.
With
Edwyn Collins enjoying a truly inspirational, once-implausible renaissance of late, his snapshot acoustic set amidst the cardboard cutout gulls and tropical paraphernalia of The Free University Of Glastonbury follows a tear-jerking talk from wife-cum-manager, Grace Maxwell, as she enchantingly delivers segments from her biography of Collins' testing times, Falling and Laughing: The Restoration of Edwyn Collins. Collins himself professes to having little to no interest in revelling in the past, instead opting to regenerate present and future, a feat that he's achieved with utmost integrity, before he reels off a short, particularly sweet dash through the eponymous opener from arresting latest LP Losing Sleep, debut Orange Juice single Falling and Laughing, and a handful of tracks from his seminal Gorgeous George record, namely the sublime Make Me Feel Again and perfectly ramshackle version of A Girl Like You. Were all degree-geared talks as engaging as an hour with Edwyn and Grace, few would rant, rave and riot over paying well over the odds for education.
A stone's throw from the sweltering tent, compatriot and companion Norman Blake, alongside boyish/girlish alt. heartthrob Euros Childs meanders through sunkissed despondence in the format of
Jonny material from the duo's
recent self-titled LP. Perfecting hazy Sunday afternoon acoustic dream pop with unidentifiable flutes, lolling bass lines and woozy harmonies, the likes of English Lady and I Want To Be Around You prove almost too delightful, such is the level of saccharine produced when Blake and Childs' honeyed voices lap over one another like wilting tides. A protracted Cave Dance closes proceedings, their self-styled "magnum opus" sounding like Gorky's Zygotic Mynci fishing for the psychedelic spirit of Glastonbury down the nearby Rabbit Hole.
As many a neck turns to the colour of those hocks of roast ham that dangle abominably in butchers' windows, the imposed respite between
Laura Marling's folksy tedium following her unfitting promotion to the Pyramid and the long-awaited return of Graceland man
Paul Simon is excruciating. In wearying, scorching heat however it's Simon's dreary setlist that proves to be, ultimately, unendurable. His throat's croaked, and an almost inaudible The Boy In The Bubble instantaneously tranquillises any effervescence, before incessant noodling and intermittent bass solos signal interminable self-indulgence. If Simon's oft celebrated for his conjoining of African influence with pure pop, funk, and overtly percussive elements, and that's what you seek as Glastonbury begins to wind down before one almighty hunk of historical destiny, best tune into
TV On The Radio, the Brooklyn bunch entrancing over a back catalogue-ravaging hour on The Other Stage.
Rockin' and a-rollin' to thunderous opener Young Liars, Tunde Adembimpe prowls and bounds, sweats and croons with the swagger of a Pyramid Stage-slaying behemoth throughout, periodically offering up vocal duties to the impeccably bewhiskered Kyp Malone, before taking the momentary breathing space to thrash and glide about unreservedly. It's a defiant, counterculture hit-strewn show, particularly in light of recent tragedy, a tripped-out, slowed up Staring At The Sun resounding sonorously and filling the field. Wind chimes jingle and jangle off the headstock of Dave Sitek's racing-striped Telecaster to the off-kilter soulful stylings of Caffeinated Consciousness, with Will Do too evidencing the positive resonance of latest long-player Nine Types Of Light in the live setting. A visceral Wolf Like Me segues into a bewildering, rickety cover of the Ghostbusters theme, equipped with trademark duelling tremolo solos. Fires are a-burning within as TV On The Radio take their live show premium.
From one cult (band) to another, ex-Czars man
John Grant entertains and enthrals with almost cabaret-esque tendencies up in The Park. The turnout's meagre, nine in ten are male, although three in four are decidedly devout. These disciples mouth every last witty lyricism lifted from last year's celebrated Queen Of Denmark effort, as Grant preaches of Jesus' alleged disapproval of homosexuality and Winona Ryder's inability to nail a schmaltzy English accent in Bram Stoker's Dracula, all atop grand piano plodding and gloriously budget whooshes of sci-fi synth. Such is the flagrant melodrama of Where Dreams Go To Die you half expect Grant to tear his shirt open, slacken chinos, and writhe provocatively atop said piano. Then from tales of Sigourney Weaver combatting the extraterrestrial to a progressively more otherworldly songstress that tonight looks a little like the aforementioned wood plank of an actress,
Lykke Li. Veiled in black, she emerges amidst dry ice before swiftly receding into the furled black drapes that bluster in the breezes of the festival's southwesterly corner.
Camouflaged and chameleonic beneath what looks like a mourning veil, she eventually reveals Gaga-like make-up, and clatters away importunately on a floor tom. Inebriated and infuriated by the lack of motion, Zachrisson is so centrifugal her bassist, drummer, keyboardist, percussionist, and backing singer all encircle her as if in pagan worship of her organic song constructions and of she herself. Little Bit is a touch limp, however Dance Dance Dance, complete with kazoo solo, and I'm Good, I'm Gone are significantly more racy. It's to new material though that cold blood really starts to circulate, the retro synths of Youth Knows No Pain, the vicious tribalism of I Follow Rivers, and autoharp solemnity of I Know Places permeating hacked up interludes in the aural shape of The Knife's Silent Shout and Kanye West's hyperactive sampling of Continent nº6's Afromerica.
It's then the turn of the queen of Afromerica, as the child of destiny
Beyoncé follows in the mud-sullied footsteps of hubby Jay-Z in hijacking the Pyramid. Having strutted onstage to Wonderwall armed with a Stratocaster as a somewhat inaccurate dig at Noel Gallagher's delusion at the once-audacious booking, Shawn Carter snubbed the special guests heavily anticipated in favour of doing the Sinatra, doing it his way. Mrs. Knowles was in attendance back then, as Mr. Carter watches both Coldplay and his beloved from the wings this time around, although up on the lofty balcony side of stage he remains. A token of indie acceptance is offered in Knowle West Boy Tricky making a negligible cameo during Baby Boy, although Knowles' ability to cast an R'n'B spell that Pilton can barely handle is one she conjures all of her own accord, albeit backed by a tighter-than-spandex all-girl band and myriad backing singers and dancers, all performed in just the one "costume", a sequin-glazed blazer. As fireworks erupt within seconds as with Coldplay 24 hours before, their radiance reflecting off her innumerable flaxen sequins, the Queen Bee resembles a phoenix from the flames as she emerges from within a raised pedestal, and you can almost feel the hearts of those witnessing Queens Of The Stone Age obliterate The Other Stage sink in the soft, yet increasingly firma terra underfoot. Arising centre stage, she immediately blisters through Crazy In Love and Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It). As opening gambits go, it's a signal of intent as startling as a flare ignited underneath a cagoule, a spectacle capable of cajoling all in attendance to stick about to see what she can pull out of her spangles next. Covers of the Eurythmics, Prince, and a suspect Sex On Fire follow, before raging rumours of a Destiny's Child reunion are quelled with a medley of Bootylicious, Bug-A-Boo, Say My Name, Jumpin' Jumpin', and an unsurprisingly rapturous Survivor. New material sounds vaguely ropey, although on the histrionic attestation of disputable Glastonbury 2011 anthem Halo, regardless of whether or not girls really do "run the world", this one certainly could on the evidence of an evening's rule over Worthy Farm.
And with that, it's down The Rabbit Hole, where memories are left at the door and Buckfast is heavily boozed. The Glastonbury weekend of 2012, whilst destined surely to remain dry and drenched in skin-shredding sun, looks as though it'll be lamentably arid on both the musical and general amusement front. The count down to Glastonbury 2013 begins now...
