Sunday was press tent day for Cherwell Music, which meant a twelve hour shift and the chance to glean a ton of backstage gossip! 

The sheer size of the festival cannot be put into words and there’s a backstage production and press unit to match. A lot of people probably don’t appreciate the volume of work that goes into the festival to provide ‘the Glastonbury spirit’, or the fact that some of the workers have been here every year since the festival’s genesis back in 1971. 

These veterans have seen it all, but some of the backstage sightings were still pretty special. Wayne Rooney, who had apparently been refused entry to the production area the previous evening by a security guard who was very happy to make the Sunday papers for his efforts, made an appearance, as did the band Phoenix and Florence Welch, who had previously been rumoured as a special guest for the Stones. 

The Glastonbury rumour-mill was still in full swing come Sunday afternoon with the suggestion that Daft Punk were going to pop up on every conceivable stage and slot and murmurs of a David Bowie DJ set. This eventually culminated in 3000 people waiting fruitlessly at the Park stage for an hour last night after Cat Power’s set, convinced someone would appear. Meanwhile, if they were over at a secret room inside Shangri-La’s Heaven they would have been able to catch an unannounced appearance by Thom Yorke alongside his Atoms for Peace bandmate Nigel Godrich. 

The outlying areas of the festival such as Shangri-La  are where the true spirit of the festival lies and this is something I would soon learn as I was dispatched to Silver Hayes and the infamous ‘Block 9’ by the press team. Silver Hayes, previously known as the Dance Village, has been rebranded this year to shed its shady image of drugs and crime and this seems to have worked a treat. Highlights here included the blues stage dressed as a Jamaican shanty town, home to Mungo’s hi-Fi and the infamous ‘pussy parlour’. Similarly outré scenes could be found over at Block 9, where a post-apocalyptic theme was completed with the most amazing mock sets of ruined New York clubs. For a long time, Glastonbury has been stigmatised as a middle-aged festival with an early bed time but with areas such as these two, the frankly mental Shagri-La and Arcadia, Glasto has caught up with the party. 

Back in the press tent, Cherwell spotted Rufus Wainwright amongst other celebrities. There was time to catch a bit of Zane Lowe and some Vampire Weekend who were both on form, if a tad unoriginal, before packing up the tent for another year. As my first Glastonbury drew to an end, it became apparent just how different it is from any other place, not just festival, in the world. Walking through all the different areas is like passing through a collection of miniature festivals, with the result that every reveller has a completely unique experience. The older members of the press team reminisced about festivals gone by – ‘no way is it your first one!’ – and we got to go see Mumford try their hand at headlining. As the folksters plucked the last chords of the euphoric ‘Find a Little Help from my Friends’ with members of the Vaccines, First Aid Kit and Vampire Weekend joining them, the collective nature of the festival was truly captured. It’s hard to put the experience of this festival into words, just go and try it! There’s always a first time for everything and it’s bound to be absolutely incredible.  

 Glastonbury: â˜…★★★★ Five Stars

The Beeb has been going almost as mad for Glastonbury in the last few days as it has for Wimbledon, with multiple channels, as well as certain regions of the mystical land known as ‘The Red Button’, devoted to coverage of the festival. So of course all the usual festival-goers who couldn’t quite make it this year are tuning in all evening to watch other, more financially secure (or at least more on the ball) middle-class white rebels have an absolute whale of a time while they’re stuck at home.

Oh wait, no they aren’t.

The festival experience is about community, partying, committing to a whole weekend in a tent, abandoning social norms, refusing to eat or sleep in a vaguely healthy manner, drinking too much, and, yes, mud. Try as they might (and who knows, maybe 3D TV will one day accomplish this), the BBC cannot bring this to a living room audience. Live performances are only worth televising when there’s something particularly special about them. Jools Holland still gets views because bands are doing live sessions intended for TV audiences; things like The U2 360° Tour, The Rolling Stones’ A Bigger Bang Tour and Michael Jackson first doing the moonwalk on Motown 25 are valuable because of their special significance.

There’s nothing especially significant about Rita Ora playing the Pyramid Stage on a Friday afternoon, except perhaps as a sad indictment on the state of the festival today (Professor Green was on next). After a great deal of back-and-forth, The Rolling Stones, who initiallly insisted that none of their set be televised, have eventually conceded for an edited hour of their set to be shown on the BBC. Maybe they have the right idea. Apart from the obvious financial motivation of wanting to sell their own performances themselves, Jagger was reportedly worried about quality control. Music at festivals quite simply doesn’t sound as good as indoor concerts; the acoustics are unmanageable. Of course, no one who’s actually there realizes this because they’re all, quite rightly, off their faces. 

By all means film the acts, and allow those who went to relive it by finding the footage online (I for one scour all the footage of bands I saw trying to see myself in the crowd), but don’t fill up the weekend’s schedule with non-stop coverage, and don’t pretend that it comes close to replicating the experience of actually being there. After all, the only way one could precisely replicate the experience of seeing Mumford & Sons headline the Pyramid Stage at the end of Glastonbury 2013 live would be to lie in the middle of the road while one of your mates repeatedly ran you over in a car and another one jumped up and down on a huge pile of broken banjos and ukeleles.

Having delved into the depths of Glastonbury’s offerings on Friday, Cherwell Music thought they’d go straight up the central reservation and into the mainstream for most of Saturday, and where better to start than Latvian rockers Prata Vetra on the John Peel stage? No?

There is method in my madness, from the Cherwell campsite, the Latvians sounded like another ‘surprise set’ in the form of the Killers and I was sure the Las Vegas quartet were here in Pilton but to no avail! Anyway, the Latvians most definitely delivered, blending soaring guitar melodies with the sort of vocals heard at the top of the British alternative charts only realising they weren’t from these shores halfway through the set! Three and a half stars.

From here I headed through the titanic mists of Silver Hayes to the Other stage where I was met by the 1975, a band no doubt about to be billed by NME as the ‘saviours of indie rock’ and the reinventers of the wheel. In reality they’re a bit pretentious (on a scale of 1 to Mount Kimbie I’d say about 6) and lack any real depth. Some cracking tunes though such as Radio-1-listener and teeny bopper favourite ‘Chocolate’. Two and a half stars.

What Glastonbury would be complete without a cheeky bit of Billy Bragg? And that’s what I got over on the pyramid stage. Usually to be found in the politically orientated area of the festival ‘Leftfield’ the veteran rocker strummed out some tunes to a hefty crowd and put forward his message for the festival, more activism! It starts with the people, and the avoidance of self-cynicism, was the general gist and a powerful message supported by his politically fuelled songs. What a legend. Four stars.

From here I basically camped out at the pyramid, as did a fair few others trying to get a good spot for the Stones. Laura Mvula was fairly uneventful with most of the audience actually sat down! Her unique compositions, and unique voice seemed to just about win the audience over but there seemed to be a lack of ‘oomph’ to get the festival crowd going. Three stars.

Next up was Ben Howard and, with his live performances almost becoming legendary, I snaked my way to the ‘cage’ at the front for what was a cracking set. Although frequently put in the ‘pop-acoustic’ category, this performance showed real substance, real flair and sounded nothing like the record! Howard has been with the same band for a long time now and it really showed as their interactions seemed effortless and even almost subconscious at times. His move away from basic acoustic songs and to something a bit more rocky and experimental is a welcome one. Definitely one to continue watching. Four stars.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was yet to eat all day so quickly headed to the ostrich burger van – they’re awesome! – and for a quick sit down. I caught a bit of Noah and the Whale on the Other stage who, along with Alt-J, have become a contender for ‘sunset slot’ dominators against Elbow at festivals. A very well-crafted set. Four stars.

Onto Primal Scream who were to support the Stones as a mini (and younger) version of the Stones, bizarre! They certainly rose to the occasion though and delivered a truly memorable set. Gillespie, dressed in purple suit, jived around with his characteristic charisma and the bands rendition of ‘Rocks’ was a sublime moment. Having seen them last year, my hopes for Primal Scream weren’t particularly high but with the release of ‘More Light’ seamlessly blending old material with new in their set, my fears were unfounded. Four and a half stars.

And now onto the Stones. The pyramid was packed with a record crowd over 100,000 people deep and, after a one and a half hour wait, the ageing rockers sure delivered. With an anthemic ‘Jumping jack Flash’ to open, the Stones set the tone for the evening with hit after hit. Highlights included turning the pyramid stag into a blues club with ex-Rolling Stone Mick Taylor delivering a knock-out solo, the bass solo in ‘Miss You’ which is the best I’ve ever heard, and the ‘dragon’ on top of the stage spreading its wings, taking flight and spouting fire during ‘Sympathy for the Devil’. Whilst there were fears that Keith wouldn’t be up to it, his chops seemed secure and, although not as good a guitar player as he used to be, Ronnie Wood goes from strength to strength and sure made up for it. But the star of the show was Mick Jagger. After quipping that ‘they finally got round to asking us’ with Michael Eavis having famously asked the band to play every year since the festival began, he added touches of humour to the set, moved around like a twenty year-old and possessed vocal cords that show no sign of giving up! The set ended as it began, with a bang, literally. As the fireworks took flight to end ‘You Can’t Always Get What you Want’ complete with full choir and Taylor onstage once again, the Stones proved that, if you try sometimes, you get what you need. Astonishing performance. Five stars.

So that’s it for my mainstream Saturday, Cherwell is currently trekking to the press tent whilst writing this for a twelve hour shift. Whilst less music may be seen today, check back in tomorrow to find out what happens behind the scenes, and in the Winnebagos, of the greatest festival on earth.

★★★★★
Five Stars

Kanye wants us to worship him. The primal snarls of “God… God… God…” at the end of New Slaves are a manifesto for Yeezus — the collision of superlative narcissism and industrial dissonance here is echoed throughout the album.  If we are going to get Biblical, though, then this is an album produced not by hip-hop’s saviour but by its Nebuchadnezzar, a mad king creating an exaggerated and hyperbolic image of himself for his devoted followers to venerate.

‘I Am A God’ goes a step further along the path to chaos, breaking down beyond individual words into yelps and gasping breaths as synths stab through a seething murk of bass-heavy production. Chi-town influences run through the album like seams of coal amongst diamond. Acid house, techno, and drill all lurk constantly in the background, even below the decayed auto-tune of ‘Hold My Liquor’. The atmosphere created is tense and schizophrenic, and the influence of Rick Rubin on the uncluttered production is clear. Where My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy was a maximalist effort, Yeezus is full of space, allowing us to experience the full weirdness of his primitive vocalisations, the full force of each unsettling sample and the full absurdity of his braggadocio.

Is Kanye subverting the Judaeo-Christian binary of god and man? Not really. He is just an arrogant, talented and immensely rich young man. To posture as a deity whilst demanding “hurry up with my damn croissants!” requires immense hubris but hardly points to a considered deconstruction. The true dichotomy which is collapsed here is not between god and man but between “broke nigga racism” and “rich nigga racism”, as Yeezy raps on ‘New Slaves’.

Where the black man was once constrained by his poverty, he is now constrained by the excesses he is supposed to aspire to (“What you want? Bentley? A fur coat? A diamond chain? / All you blacks want the same things”). In deifying himself, Kanye is doing nothing that societal expectations do not do to thousands of other role models for young, poor men.

This paradox is embedded in the production, in the evident tension between the industrial soundscapes and melodic samples of Yeezus. This is seen most obviously in the juke-like synths which tear through the plaintive ‘Strange Fruit‘ sample on ‘Blood on the Leaves’. The qualities of excess and hedonism black people are now told they should venerate make a mockery of the struggle for emancipation which the sampled track describes. The bitter crop today’s black youth gathers is bound up in the cult of the individual Kanye embodies, the constant reminder they are defined only by their failure to achieve riches and fame. 

Of course, the rapper himself is entirely complicit in this process. No-one is forcing him to accept corporate sponsorship, or to rap about his wealth and talent. In doing so, though, he is only taking on the mantle thrust upon him by society, by the music industry and by the limited expectations of what a black man can achieve. Nebuchadnezzar only turned himself into a god when advised to do so by his insidious counsellors, and likewise then the very arrogance inherent in Kanye’s acknowledgement of his abundant fame and talent is calculated to sell millions. Just as murkily abrasive basslines skulk behind his manic vocals, so behind his boasts prowl the hulking shadows of the record-label executives, sponsors and millions of fans who have created the crown he here assumes.

Track to download: ‘Blood on the Leaves’

As modernised adaptations of Shakespeare go, Joss Whedon’s spirited stab at updating Much Ado About Nothing is decent. The play is brought to life in the secluded excesses of a Santa Monica villa (shot in Whedon’s own house), and fans will spot many of his regulars peppered amongst the cast, though no overly famous faces.

Leonato’s (Clark Gregg) residence swells with manufactured romance and more sinister deception as his daughter Hero (Jillian Morgese) falls in love with Claudio (Fran Kranz), only to be manipulated into mistrust by the scheming Don John (Sean Maher). Meanwhile, Hero’s cousin Beatrice (Amy Acker) verbally spars with Benedick (played with aplomb by Alexis Denisof), protesting indifference to each other and vitriol to love in all its forms. Typically, they convince no-one.

Much Ado’s famous “skirmishes of wit” are delivered unevenly, unmistakably informed by SNL-style repartee. In particular, Amy Acker’s performance as Beatrice owes a lot to Kristen Wiig in Bridesmaids, though sadly never reaches such comic heights. Whedon’s message is clear – Shakespeare isn’t any different from modern rom-coms, guys! It’s an important point but I can’t help but feel Whedon has made it at the expense of some of the play’s charm – he forgets that much standard rom-com fare these days is pretty diabolical by all standards, neither romantic nor funny. At times, setting the action so conspicuously in this vein seems reductive: so determined is Whedon to cast the play as the forefather of modern romantic comedy, he is insensitive to the genre’s traps, occasionally descending into insipid fluff.

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Moreover, the film’s slick visuals – all crafty angles and well-lit interiors, shot in elegant monochrome – are about its only claim to anything remotely ‘cinematic’. Otherwise, the adaptation still keeps the feel of a theatrical production, insular and self-contained, its world shrunk to the boundaries of the scenic villa. At times, you wonder if anything new is actually achieved by filming this.

That said, the dialogue flickers with verve, even if it’s not totally sustained, and there are genuinely hilarious moments, especially when the soaring wit is bathetically paired with a good dose of slapstick. Benedick in particular is physically transformed by love, his smooth advocacy of bachelorhood undermined by an improbable series of lunges, somersaults and cross-country bounding that would make Cary Grant cringe, and the rest of us erupt with laughter. 

This is an enjoyable offering, at times tender and funny. Yet it is not without dull stretches where wit is smothered in Californian glamour, and lines delivered like a series of wrong notes.