Sitting on the grass in a little-known field in Somerset, I came across a newspaper with a Glastonbury related article in it. I ripped it out, screwed it up (apparently I was in no fit state to fold) and stuffed it into my bag to read at a later date (at a time when reading didn’t result in seasickness – apparently I was in no fit state to read). I have since discovered, de-crumpled and read the said article. And I’m glad I had the forethought to keep it. Written by music journalist Paul Morley, who has stubbornly resisted the music festival in any guise for all his years, it provides an account of Glastonbury through his first-time eyes and reveals more than a little of its curious quality.
A temporary town, a surreal city, an abstract English settlement had shimmered into existence, a highly decorative network stretching across miles of serene, gently rolling Somerset country. A single, continuous, organic structure spread out across the landscape, a mash-up of humanity and tent, a collage of endeavour and enterprise, a sight that did not exist a few days ago, and will completely disappear by the middle of this week, vanishing into the strange, local air leaving a few tantalising architectural traces.
Morley describes his first day, rather haphazardly, using lots of lists and comparisons and analogies. He’s hit by the myriad of sights that we regulars have learnt to expect and take in with ease. This sensory overload renders in him an almost childlike innocence and expectation, and leaves him with the uncertainty that that combination creates:
As I compiled my own experiences, following the advice stouthearted Glastonaut Billy Bragg had given me before I arrived to just accept what was round the corner, to drift in almost Baudelarian way and let things happen, I couldn’t completely shake off my anxieties.
Despite feeling apparently overwhelmed by the sensory experiences this festival provides, a festival which is admittedly now itself a kind of media-sponsored celebrity, surrounded by hype and fervour (and thereby instilling a sense of cynicism in those who have not been, whether through stubborn choice or by chance) it still manages to deliver. Morley is, by his own admission, tantalised.
As night fell, and the part-time city glowed for miles, a medieval mini-Manhattan, and it had been Friday for what seemed like days, even the thousands of people stoically tramping back to their tents didn’t put me off. Perhaps I never went because I was worried that this might happen – that I would want to go again, for the dragons and chaos, if not the campfires and queues.
So, Morley, I’m glad you liked it. Thank you for the article, I had ever such a lovely time reading it. See you next year!
