Once again, I’m in the throes of my annual sulk: it’s Glastonbury week, and I won’t be there, thanks to the inconvenient truth of being a teacher. The academic calendar doesn’t quite sync with festival season. Every year, I think, “Just a couple of weeks later and I’d be there,” knee-deep in cider, sunshine and someone else’s tent pegging.
I’m no hardened Glasto veteran. I’ve only been twice: once in 1986 as a wide-eyed, long-haired university student, dodging the cow pats in a 60,000 crowd, the Cure crowning the bill with gloomy majesty; and again in 2019, this time with shorter hair but just as much happiness – only in a better tent, with portaloos and two adult daughters in tow for their first festival. Magically, Robert Smith headlined again.
Those two visits, separated by decades, cemented my love for Worthy Farm. Not just the music – although the sheer range is astonishing – but for its messy joy. Where else can you stumble into a Black Uhuru set at noon, learn about ancient druidic healing rituals by tea time, and finish the night dancing to a not-so-surprise Fat Boy Slim gig in a neon glade?
Inevitably, every year, miserable critics point out its flaws. There’s that creeping corporate feel – ironic for a festival founded on free love and anarchic ideals. Sponsorship deals, exclusive BBC platforms, VIP areas akin to Davos afterparties. There are real questions about diversity and access: how affordable is it really anymore for the average music lover. Then there’s the environmental debate: the waste, carbon footprint and influx of thousands of people into Somerset fields.
These are valid criticisms and not to be ignored, but they don’t negate the magic. That’s why my family now saves up, treating it as an annual holiday.
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Because Glastonbury, at its best, still does this special thing. It makes you feel part of something bigger, messier, more human. It’s a reminder of what live music and shared experience can mean. My music-loving daughters have inherited the bug. They send smug photos from Shangri-La and text me ecstatic updates about some act they stumbled across, or a band I introduced them to.
And this year? Honestly, I don’t love the headliners. Charli XCX has some tunes, Olivia Rodrigo is talented and Neil Young a couple of classics. But who really cares? Having just lost Brian Wilson and Sly Stone, we should celebrate legends while we still have them. Not just Young, but Rod Stewart, Nile Rodgers, Alanis Morissette… These aren’t just acts, they’re history. They’re the voices that soundtracked our lives – all in one gloriously chaotic place. They won’t be around forever. So enjoy them alongside younger talent like Rodrigo and the wonderful Raye.
What does it matter whether the Pyramid Stage is pop or rock? Let’s relish diverse artists we still need to celebrate, before it’s too late. We don’t know who will be on the bill in 2027 (after the fallow year). We don’t even know if we’ll be around to go.
And me? I’ve decided that next time, I’ll be in that field – even if it means faking a dentist appointment. Just don’t tell the head. Because if “Patchwork” really does turn out to be the incomparable Pulp this week, the Fomo will be just too much.
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