my dear Glastonbury,

June 30, 2007

glastonbury mud
Oh, how I love you so. How I wait your call to arms, I delight in the knowledge that you’re around the corner, treating me to your music and madness and your temporary insanity.

You are certainly a challenge, but you make it worth every bit of effort I can summon from my skinbag of bones and blood. You eat people up, you consume them and spit you out. You put us out to the elements,  to withstand anything and everything the weather can chuck at us.

You should be painful, but you’re not.

Except for a little bit where  the dried mud pulled out my leg hair, leaving spotted bald patches on my legs. And the aching, and odd bowell movements from the Mexican place. Despite that, you’re (relatively) painless.

Anything can happen at Glastonbury. You could end up covered head to toe in mud, showering for the third time to get the remnants of the mud out of your nails. But you’ll always be fine.

You could end up lost in a fiery field in the dark, drenched with rain, no phone battery and no mates in sight. But you’ll always be fine. You could slip and crunch your ankle, falling to lay spread eagled in the  rain, mud and litter and piss. You could eat fatty, greasy food irregularly to fill your stomach with stodge and carbohydrates. By Sunday, you could almost pass for a wino with your beard and cheap wine bar booze*. But you’ll always be fine.

You could end up hitting on strangers, drinking wine (I quote, Morrison’s ‘GOOD SICILLIAN WINE’ in a box) from a plastic bottle, dancing to ‘Come Up and See Me’ next to a burger van in 12 inches of mud. You could end up using the same line each night: “Could you teach me how to dance in wellies?”**

You could get trashed on the last night and then be a little taken back when a scary 50ft clown comes up on the big screen at the Chemical Brothers mouthing “Do it again.”

But dear Glastonbury; as you consume us for the weekend, pulling your pilgrims collectively into your belly-town of fabric houses, marquees and mud, you give us something back. Spirit rises in your people; the rain may be cold and muddy, it may stick to me and become an effort to walk but it will not stop me having a good time. You are a challenge, and each person may approach you differently.

See, you could watch the Magic Numbers in the rain, in more rain, then briefly in a little bit of sun, and feel the smile come across your face when the lead singer looks out across thousands of people in front of the Pyramid stage and says humbly into the microphone, “Thanks for making my dream come true”.

You could see Fatboy Slim, in a dress, stripping to ‘Hot in Herre’ facing 500 welly-wearers, dancing monged in a medium marquee glamourously called a ‘Ballroom’.

You could end up sitting in a tipi, watching the cock dance of a half-naked mate and an old kaftan-clad hippy as they shuffle in their seat, smoke and unconciously (or subconsciously?) flash their willies at you.

You could laugh yourself into stitches when a mate tells you he was pissing hungover into a bottle in his sleeping bag and had too much for the vessel, hence overfloweth.***

You could aim to fulfil an ambition, to see a band that you’ve always wanted to see. But you also know that your stage of debauchery, not you, will define whether you’d get to see them (did: Manic Street Preachers, didn’t: Arcade Fire).

You could wake up in the morning, feeling horrible and form the logic that you can get wasted in order to feel better. And you always, most definitely do.

It’s the opposite to reality there. You communicate and (gasp) people are nice and friendly, they share their resources. They don’t look down at the ground, they look up and smile happy. Glastonbury is the opposite of the Tube.

Two guys even invited us to an ex-wife’s marital blessing at 6pm in the Lost Vagueness chapel. It could have been a lovely story – but unfortunately, you get drunk and forgot. It’s always, always, always the 7% pear cider.

You teach us one thing Glastonbury, reality just isn’t the same. People can’t wander around, getting wasted, watching music, doing what they like legitimately in the real world. The beautiful temporary meetings. Shame on them. But you adjust, you realise that real life isn’t so bad, it does have its good points – family, friends, toilets that don’t make you want to vomit, etc.

But I’ve been there before and I’ll be there again. I love Glastonbury. And I think it loves me too.

J.


*, **, *** (sorry)

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if anyone is selling a couple of tickets and isn’t a tout who’s trying to weasel as much money as possible out of fans, I would really appreciate it. Otherwise the tout might seem a bit tempting.

J.

glastonbury buzz.

June 19, 2007

Glasto

To everyone in the world who is going Glastonbury

…see you there!

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ! Ludicrously over excited!

I am now on holiday for a bit…

J.

(picture impolitely nicked from my lovely friend, SoftLad).

83_joshhomme_l081105.jpgJosh Homme (from Queens of the Stone Age, Kyuss, Desert Sessions, Eagles of Death Metal and other brilliant things) always makes me chuckle when he does interviews…

Pitchfork: When’d you start to play drums?
JH: I’ve been tapping on tables and chairs since I was little. [laughs] I got into guitar because no parent will buy their eight-year-old kid drums, unless they’re divorced and trying to get back at their wife. You know what I mean?

JH: Banks are kinda cool, you put some money in there. It should be kinda vaguely sexy, but it’s not.

His psyeudonym for some recordings has been Carlo Von Sexron (I laugh everytime I read this)

NME (on Eva Vulgaris): “Mentally, it’s the gnarliest Rubix Cube I’ve ever worked on”

KTVU.com: “And with the music industry the way it is with downloading, to ask artists to play for free … I might as well skip through the English countryside with a flute. One of the things about my generation is that there’s this punk rock guilt where people don’t know what they’re worth and they’re embarrassed to ask for anything for what they do. And that’s something that we need to get over. I don’t need to be the Sultan of Brunei, but at the same time, would you get your hand out of my crotchpouch please? Or at least be sexy about it.”

KTVU.com (on playing a Rock Honours show): I wrote ‘G-U-N-T’ on my arm during our performance at ‘Rock Honors’, because it’s an uncensorable word. Censorship isn’t about intent, it’s just about words that we universally agree are bad. Since ‘gunt’ is uncensorable slang, they actually focused in on my arm. A friend of mine was standing right behind Sharon and she said “Gunt? What the hell is that supposed to be?” I heard that and thought “My work for the day is done.”

Recoil Mag (on the band’s biography that goes out to journalists in advance): “That bio was written by Black Jesus of The Dwarves, and I think he’s bitter because they never asked him to be on the Warped Tour. We just told him, ‘Would you please write a bunch of lies and inflammatory bullshit about us in our bio just to make it more entertaining?’ And he obliged. And to be honest, he read it to me over the phone once, but I’ve never read it myself.”

I really wanted to collate more of these, because I love the guy’s wit, but time (and lunchbreak) is up…

Have a free song, a bonus track from the sessions for Era Vulgaris. A cover of the classic Billy Idol song…

Queens of the Stone Age; White Wedding

(have I nicked that link? You bet I have… Sorry! Oh, and click through to it, don’t right click as I’m not hosting it!)

J.

Too many YouTubes? I can’t particularly write right now. Observe and listening seems easier, too much going on… it’s exciting.

Found this atmospheric, black and white piece that was made by a few people, then posted on YouTube.

Here’s how they put it…

Final version of a video shot to Interpol’s “Hands Away.” Directed by Andy Bruce; starring Taylor Patterson. Serapolis.

Anyway, have a look, I like it.

J.

again and again…

June 4, 2007

J.