Tuesday, 30 June 2009

Glastonbury 2009

Ahoy, groupie renters. I write this from the box bedroom of my parents' house in Essex. Top floor, far right window as you look on us from the outside in. The curtains are closed or I would wave. Sorry about that. Anyway, now is the time for a break from catching up on giving the people who read my beloved Kruger free things. It seems summer is the time give things away. The sun makes us more generous souls, I believe. But yes. Not only this but it is also time for a post-Glastonbury analysis. A dissection of the good, the bad and the "do you know who I am?" brigade. My heart and mind remember the weekend just past as one of utmost excellence, although my feet and knees would tell you a rather different story, could they form words and that.

For the most part of the weekend, I wore a bright orange high-vis tabard. This was not a fashion statement, more an obligation should I wish to remain on site. I would like to tell you that Michael and Emily Eavis have introduced a Glastonbury law which says all festival goers must dress in such a way but alas, it was because I was working. Simultaneously raising money for charity, dancing like a psychiatric patient to new and old bands and making sure none of you blaggers and chancers got entry to the festival. Thank you Oxfam for letting me do so, although I would like to take back some of that thanks for making me work through both Maccabees sets. The cheek of it.

But. On to the more important matter of who I did see. The highlights of this seemingly endless list were as follows:

Two Door Cinema Club. So good I watched them twice. Northern Irish synth-pop. Maybe signed to Kitsune. Maybe not. If they are, I want to be them. Perhaps I shall marry them instead. Watch out for maybe some exciting future announcements about Two Door, some other Norn Iron bands and RaG in the coming months. We may have something up our sleeves.

Kap Bambino. French electro. Is my life. Or a vast majority of it anyway. Yeahhhh.

Metronomy. First time without Le Stebbing. Ohhhh Stebbing. Twas good though, apart from the fact their lights are no longer push lights. And that the PA people cut the power before they could play Radio Ladio. Bastards. On a Stebbing related note. I spent most of my second shift making eyes at Michael Your Twenties, who was wristbanding for Festival Republic. I don't think he noticed my eye-making, or at least I do hope else that'd be well embarrassing, innit?

Golden Silvers - Another Universe made me bawl my eyes out whilst outside relentlessly heavy rain killed my tent.

General Fiasco. More Norn Iron-ness. Included in the watch out announcement 2door statement above.

Rumble Strips. Why can't I love you in London? A new song to add to the this-is-how-I-feel-about-Goldsmiths catalogue. Its getting quite expansive.

The Big Pink. Whom I also saw twice, and both occasions without meaning to. First on the way to see Animal Collective, I was diverted by the reverberations of their synthy noise which never fails to make my body shake with excitement. Second, whilst queuing to get a copy of the Guardian the next morning, the acoustic strains of Velvet made me squeal rather loudly OHMYGODITSTHEBIGPINK. And thus, I stayed and watched them and marvelled at how I could actually hear Robbie's voice for once, what with it being acoustic and synth-less and all.

Bombay Bicycle Club. Whom I am now interviewing tomorrow eve. But sadly only, it transpires, over the phone. With Jamie. Who. Is Kirsty MacColl's nephew. INSANE. This is probably good that I'm not interviewing Jack as he does make me literally weak at the knees a bit. Anyway. Park set. Good times. I was loving life whilst burning my face. Yayyy.

Hockey. Good dance routine to Work, is all I'll say.

Passion Pit. Beatzzz. Jarvis Cocker dedications. Sleepyhead.

Klaxons. In fancy dress. I LOVE YOU.

GoodBooks. Last ever show. I got strangely emotional and actually cried in the first four bars. In full view of Max. Low point.

The Soft Pack. Kept giving me strange looks. Ohhhh dear. Blistering garage-rock watched by pretty much no one as everyone else was being stupid and watching Karen O. Soft Pack > YYYs.

Nick Cave. SEXXXY.

Blur. Obviously... the best thing I have ever seen. Somehow two rows away from the front. Odd. But also sweaty and wet and ewww but also, in the words of Oasis, mad fer it. Badhead and Jubilee and Oily Water and Trimm Trabb and NO ESSEX DOGS. Sad times. Damon crying made me cry (even more). Graham did a VERY sexy dance to the slowed down drum intro of Song 2 which they have apparently failed to broadcast to the world via the BBC. I would complain if I were you. It was hot. Ending on The Universal obviously had the predicted effect of making me weep my tearducts dry. I love you Blur. A million times more than anyone could ever understand.

I return to the old London tomorrow afternoon, phone Jamie BBC, go to Asda to stock up on strawberry cider because I don't think I can handle going cold turkey, maybe go see Deerhoof or maybe instead go see Jamie T. Who knows. You will. After it has happened. YEAH.

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