Random
Glastonbury has never really been about the music, well it wasn’t things might have changed since the appropriately named Mean Fiddler took over the running of things. Since the very first festival it has been something special, larger than the component parts and the most fun you can have with your clothes on, off or swapped for a litre of cider with a chap called Moon Rocket. Before some idiot decided to let the Police in it was a righteous anarchic Brigadoon of a place, constantly surprising evolving and entertaining. Where ever and whenever you went there would be something going on, chances are it would be highly entertaining.
I was walking down from the Green Field through the Traveller’s field, unlike the rest of the place the Traveller’s field always had an air of calm and civility about it, I guess because they were used to this kind of life style, they were good at it. It was dark, a warm and clear night the air filled with smoke, fireworks and intermingling throbbing baselines. An old bus painted dark green and converted into a home was being used for the weekend as a café. Between it and a rust old van a roof a snow white winter camouflage net interwoven with ultraviolet reactive strips of orange and green. A band was setting up, a small crowd gathered. Sipping my Special Brew, when in Rome, I joined in the waiting group as guitars were tuned and microphones tested.
“a one a two a two three four”
Very loud guitar led barn storming music exploded into life for a few seconds before spluttering out.
“Where’s the –ing drummer?”
After a bit of shouting a figure staggered from a nearby fire and took his place at the drums.
“a one a two a two three four”
This time it really kicked off and the rapidly growing crowd warmed up by up to a week of partying were immediately bouncing about like the grinning maniacs that they arguably were. There was even a light show, of sorts, lots of white spotlights came on, with slowly spinning barred gobos in front of them creating a whorling world of black and white stripes.
“Where did all them –ing zebras come from?” asked the lead guitarist as he toppled over backwards quite unable to cope with the situation anymore.
Somewhere on the other side of the site someone famous was playing, Sting or some big name high earning star or other. I strolled off to grab a cup of tea around a fire and a chat with whatever mad bunch of colourful characters I ended up sitting with. You can’t buy entertainment like that.
Got a Glasto tale to tell? Then send it in.
