| Stalking Guy
Garvey
 This
is a big day in Elbow’s life, maybe the biggest. We know that because Guy
Garvey told us, looking as emotional and spirited as a hulking brickhouse of Northern
man can, at an early acoustic set in the Guardian Lounge (a partially-furnished
area for the purpose of sprawling, consuming coffee, croissant and Camberwell-Carrot
and browsing news). The sound is proud and delicate, 3 intimate moments unfurl
and the tent becomes oversubscribed with rapt, gracious ears. There’s no time
for lounging though, next stop the Other Stage where I Am Kloot are
piling brilliantly through their dense acousto-beat-pop. Guy pegged it, as much
as a hulking brickhouse of Northern man can, over for a beautiful, harmonising,
set closing ‘To You’. A short while later though is when his and their true hour
arrives. A similar set to previous ‘Cast Of Thousands’ gigs, what marks this apart
is how lost in his moment Mr Garvey is, how their infusing soundboard smoothes
the edges of the experience further (we’re already basking under baking sun and
cooling breezes), and how their masterful bass continually takes the wind right
out of you. They cap it off with a champion ‘Grace Under Pressure’ (recorded live
to be released a fortnight later for landmine charity MAG), the stage heavily
staffed by assistants for its rousing climax, melodies, beats and emotions tumbling
fearlessly in all directions. Lots could be said, but the final line uttered of
course says it all: “We still believe in love, so fuck you”. Meeting
Thy Maker
 The
trad double of Oasis ‘n’ McCartney on consecutive nights was never going
to surpass last year’s dribblesome REM/Radiohead top-to-tail, but if nothing else
it showed Eavis’s wicked sense of humour – rumour had it the Worthy bearded one
even wanted the wind-up Britpoppers on just before the ex-Beatle, but Noel considered
that a little, ahem, inadvisable. You have to credit his astuteness – it would
have been. Oasis still do Oasis pretty well. Oasis fans are on hand on
cue and in droves to watch Oasis do Oasis well, and behave accordingly. ‘Rock
‘N’ Roll Star’, ‘Morning Glory’ and ‘Columbia’ for starters? Great! It’s a flat-pack
gig though, and nobody thought to bring a screwdriver. McCartney and his
people however have a full toolkit, probably a small pro-carpentry team and, if
hearsay is to be believed, rain-busting cloud-jets. Oh well, technology can’t
be trusted, eh – reboot the cloud-jets! Despite getting bogged down in session-musician
slurry, especially the excruciating solo-hell of the finale, it’s all just about
getting to the heart of the matter – songs that soundtrack a million lives – uniting
most bodies crammed into this vast field, making an event. And ‘Hey Jude’ becoming
2004’s campsite battle cry was sure a fucking improvement on last year’s ‘Gay
Bar’. Not sure how he’d fare with a return set in 10 years, mind. Somerset
Sirens
 Calling
all statisticians and nymphs. Yes, you! You may be interested to learn that the
gender split this year was around 58/42 percent in favour of the fairer sex. You
heard about the she-pees? That was the one comedy concession. Crud isn’t so hot
at the maths, we probably carried a decimal point or two over in error, but our
survey revealed people on stages to be roughly 97.823% sweaty, grunting man. Which
is plainly lop-sided (the fact of the matter, not our sums). But what lacked elsewhere
was countered by the striking work of a few, and thus we pay tribute to the leading
ladies on Eavis’s land this weekend. Her name in the programme was enough alone
to lend the whole event a classy rush of blood to the head – Queen Polly Jean
Harvey, playing a bracing career-spanning teatime set on the Pyramid,
in a ‘vintage’ torn Spice Girls dress, looks like the coolest motherfucker on
the planet and sounds like a Masai punk warrior in the final throaty throes of
ritual battle, without creasing her outfit. Carina Round may have a climb
ahead of her to the peak of that particular pedestal, but with a sharp black dress/white
guitar combo, a voice from the most tempestuous heavens and some schizophrenic
blues, she’s next in line. Leila Moss is the unseeded revelation though,
leading The Duke Spirit through another “heavy shower” of the apocalypse
on Saturday AM. Like the sweetest dominatrix you ever did see, cracking her whip
through a burst bag of thrashy emo-wave ‘n’ feedback, she owns that field. Let
them back next year so she can take it completely. So how is it you work those
funnels again..? ‘O’ Come All Ye Faithful
 His
infamous, extended mid-afternoon set (courtesy of The Raveonettes’ ill
respect for punctuality) became one of last year’s enormously special moments.
It was etched quietly into festival folklore and sales of his album ‘O’ rose 1000%.
Which gave us two certainties; there’d be turkey on the table in the Rice household
that Christmas, followed inevitably by a return to the scene of the sublime victory.
But in such a privileged position? All but the faithful questioned, and quite
reasonably so, whether Damien Rice could handle co-headlining the Other
Stage, and right before the neon funk explosion of Basement Jaxx. He
answered simply in falsetto and husky tones, with slight of hand and blistering
distortion, delicacy and bolting abandon. The endless surprises of last year were
unavoidably absent (the ‘Jaxx have turned up you say? Well darn it!), but he tends
to bring such a fresh approach to every performance we’ve seen, this one certainly
included, that it’d be erroneous not to label this A Moment. It positively feels
like one. Where he could have seized-up and bluntly rejected the baying audience’s
visible fervour, as is his want on occasions, he was unrestrained, intense and
untouchable, just like he was supposed to be. It feels like he’s making a difference,
even if that’s only as far as the eye can see for the time being. Each time the
experience is deeper than you imagined it could be and contrary to what most ill-informed
reports lead you to believe, he is practically without peer right now. Let
It Come Down
 Much
as we could harp on till our teeth fell out about how life-changing this mammoth
social Mecca is (and yes, Mecca, not Macca, nor Mozza for that matter), it’d be
dishonest to insist the weekend was free of dips ‘n’ disappointments. But how
would you define the experience if your Serotonin levels were peaking for 120
hours solid? Though we did our best to schedule our way around them, being as
geographically distant from Starsailor as possible for instance, some crept
up. Wilco, for one, despite releasing a divinely ambitious album 5 days
previous, appeared wooden, stiff and dwarfed. We were disappointed when 80s
Matchbox didn’t click for us this year, despite unleashing their most impenetrable
wall of screech yet and summoning a storm to wash the lightweights away – bet
it looked good on telly. The biggest let down was hauling our asses from a toasty
campfire up to the cinema field at 2.30am to see modern cult-classic Shaun
Of The Dead, only to find screen and projector sitting half finished, and
a handful of confused casualties slumped agog on the damp grass anyhow. The law
would have it that you can’t talk frustration without mentioning the football.
Despite being as interested in the game (Euro 2004 quarter-final, England vs.
Portugal, if you’re not keeping up) as Morrissey in a kangaroo burger,
we soaked up the glistening atmosphere by the Pyramid for 30 minutes, then
ambled back through the markets observing desperate attempts to track down a TV.
Back at the tent listening to 5 Live, the huge sighs echo like delayed dominoes
around the site, it was quite magical for us. Relevant sites:
http://www.glastonburyfestivals.co.uk
Photos and Report by James Berry for Crud Magazine 2004©
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