Having spent three days squinting into its goggle-box eighteen miles due east of the festival site, the Bemolution is almost qualified to pass judgement on what variously went down on Worthy Farm last weekend. That said, being ill-informed has never stopped us before, and it’s sure as mud not going to stop as now.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the best bits of Glastonbury had absolutely nothing to do with the bombastically-billed headliners. It was Night Of The Living Dead both biologically and artistically speaking over on the Main Stage come Saturday night, as the Rolling Stones creaked their way through a rambling set of their greatest hits. It was fairly entertaining at times, but so are two monkeys fighting over half a fig.
The finest thing we saw was Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds on Sunday evening, the highlight a deliciously blasphemous rendition of ‘Stagger Lee’, their unhinged take on the Taft-era Missourian murder ballad. Nonchalant, swaggering bass provides the unflustered groove over which Cave’s derangement steadily builds to a Hitlerian frenzy. Detachedly trampling into the crowd, he bellows spittle-flecking profanity into the faces of his adoring acolytes while Warren Ellis’s electric violin whips up a feedback hurricane. Later, eerily calm, Nick ensnares himself an anime Kate Bush from the audience, touchingly reaches out to hold her hand, then mimes blowing her brains out with a Colt 45. and repeatedly screams into her stoned face.
Watching from home, the experience was only enhanced by the repeated appearance of a ‘we apologise for any swearing’ message from the BBC, and the joyful mental image of the poor sap employed to press the button the twenty-plus times Nick hectored variants of the word ‘motherfucker’, gleeful hours before the watershed.
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