So, the week of Glastonbury is upon us once again; on Worthy Farm, the cows have been ushered into their temporary homes while an intruding tent or stage takes up their favourite grazing spot, the BBC is readying a small army, pockets bulging with a few months worth of license fee money, in preparation for its TV and radio coverage, and up and down the UK, thousands of festival goers are packing away their wellies, raincoats, straw trilbies and various other essential apparel in readiness for a weekend of mud, beer, and music – in that order.
For those staying at home, a quick glance at newspapers, TV listings, magazines and Internet sites shows more widespread excitement as the 41st event prepares to get underway.
But just what is it about Glastonbury that holds such a vice-like grip over the British, and worldwide public? On the face of it, while the line-up boasts some undoubtedly huge stars, it is no more impressive than most of the other major UK festivals which will be feverishly emptying wallets throughout the next few months. Coldplay are fast becoming the perennial Glastonbury safe-bet, whose previous two Pyramid Stage headline appearances mark them down as a bankable, but not altogether inspiring booking. U2’s long-awaited arrival, with their own stage and record breaking live show in tow, will also deliver the goods, while Beyonce will offer variety and a different kind of sure-fire live experience for the crowd, something clearly marked up by co-organiser Emily Eavis as a major consideration when securing acts this year.
Anyone who’s spent four or five days in Somerset recently will also testify to the prices of tickets, food and drink on site hardly being a massive relief as compared to the other major festivals on offer, while the expanded capacity has significantly increased the likelihood of a rogue tent being skilfully intertwined into your own during the depths of night, and made the early two-day dash to avoid pitching next to a portaloo all but an Olympic sport.
What Glastonbury has, in the face of the similar prices, similar cramped spaces and similar line-ups, over all others is quite simple: tradition. Glastonbury is the last relic of an almost forgotten era. While those relics may now superficially be reduced to open camping areas and the lack of a ‘stage area’, elsewhere complete with bag checks and casual crotch fondling at the entrance, Glastonbury nevertheless both clings on, and harks back to, a time when the first festivals were created over forty years ago as a chance for both bands and fans to join together in their shared beliefs and world-views, when revolution seemed to linger in the air as tangibly as a well built campfire.
When Somerset farmer Michael Eavis, imagination fired by Sixties blues carnivals, first dreamed up the ‘Pilton Pop, Blues & Folk Festival’ in 1970, handing out free milk to his 1,500 attendees, the newsprint had barely dried on stories which are now mythical tales of early festival folklore – the last Isle Of Wight event, before its reincarnation three decades later, and all its theatre and legend, had just been played out, while Woodstock, Phun City and Altamont – and all they stood for – were very much fresh in the memory. Four decades on, only Glastonbury still stands as both a flickering beacon and palpable link to the birth of true festival culture.
In those days, festivals offered bands the chance to give something back to their fans, free of outside influence and usually free of price. They became perhaps the most vital symbol of a shared doctrine, of Power To The People. In the years since, other annual events have sprung up and grown gradually into money-guzzling monsters – as has Glastonbury to an extent – making it virtually indistinguishable from its modern counterparts. It’s now a cut throat, corporate world of sink or swim, of fighting off the competition, of out-bidding your rivals to secure the big-name acts. “We put this festival on for you bastards, with a lot of love…Now go buy a fucking t-shirt!”
And yet, while Michael Eavis is still at the helm, tractoring around the original Worthy Farm site as he has done almost every June for over forty years, beard all pleasingly present and correct, rosy-cheeked, farm air smile glued to his face, Glastonbury will always retain a link to the past, a link to the origins of today’s big-budget festivals, and thus helps to conserve a bond, even if just by a mere thread, to the true, innocent spirit of those Sixties pioneers which first inspired him.
Like Test Cricket, Wimbledon and rainy July’s, Glastonbury’s longevity and cultural belonging has fixed it firmly in the fabric of the British summer, now providing a sense of comfort and continuity in constantly changing times. It’s a quality we Brits seem to care for, and it is thus only growing in popularity as the years go by. As Johnny Cash, Rolf Harris, Shirley Bassey and Tom Jones found out, that status is powerful enough to re-ignite the most flagging of careers.
Hell, they could even do it to The Wombles this weekend.
