AROUND THE WORLD III: GLASTONBURY DAY 2
Click on (most) pictures to enlarge.

There's nothing quite as disorienting as waking up in a bed that's not yours in a place you can't remember. Multiply that confusion tenfold and you've got the feeling of waking up on a sleeping bag in a tent with the sounds of a band warming up nearby, all in another country. The really confusing part? After I remembered I was in England, I marveled at how hot it was in the tent. My head suddenly reverberated with a scream coming from the Other Stage in front of my tent: "Glastonbury! You dirty fucking hippies!" Was it Eric Cartman, come to make my head pound? Or was it Boston's very own Dropkick Murphys providing me with the rudest awakening that one could curse and rock out to at the same time? I'd choose the latter.

It wasn't long before a stereotype was destroyed for me. I got up to go brush my teeth at the communal sink in the area, only to find an enormous queue of people armed with toothbrushes and little tubes of toothpaste. So much for the myth of Brits never taking care of their choppers. Speaking of choppers, I was finally hungry enough to set aside my fear of the porta-potty. It was time for breakfast. Nothing short of a "Full English" would do, and the bar that had so helped destroy me the night before was there to help me rebuild. I ravenously plowed into my English muffin, egg, baked beans, potatoes, sausage, and mushrooms, all slathered in my new addiction - brown sauce. I washed it down with an all-too-miniscule cup of coffee and was set to explore the grounds yet again. After a pitstop. d'Oh!

Having survived the loo queue, it was time for another hike. Feeling groggy, I was rather glad that Day 3 of the festival was only Day number 2 for me! I gazed out at the sea of tents and noticed that many people had met their limit - or simply wanted to beat the crowd - and were packing in. I got to the Pyramid Stage to witness a Glastonbury tradition - a special moment with Rolf Harris.For those unfamiliar with Mr. Harris' body of work (as I was), he's an Australian with quite a bad voice and the personality of the alcoholic uncle who ends up dancing with a floor lamp at every famiy gathering. You know who I'm talking about. The one everybody thinks likes children a bit too much. At any rate, Mr. Harris drew probably the biggest crowd of the festival - apparently, it's an annual obligation to come and humor the man. He slagged his way through some Jimmy Buffet-sounding material, told his stories, and just when I'd decided I had enough, busted into a commercial jingle about "Australia's Favorite Fruit." I couldn't help but think that the song was autobiographical.

I made a run for other parts and was drawn by the bass-heavy sounds of Eminem at the other Pyramid. No, the foulmouthed white boy wasn't performing, but a DJ was spinning the ubiquitous "Without Me" tune, which after hearing for the 4000th time this journey, had really grown on me. This was apparently an outdoor club of sorts, so I made mental note to check it out in the evening. Hoping to find some fast-paced beats to wake me up, I walked to the other end of the grounds to see what was going on in the Dance Tent. On the way, I ran into a couple of dreads selling cans of Stella - three for a fiver, or the "deal of the century," as they called it. I produced a fiver from my pocket, and jonesing for exact change, they said, in unison, "Quality!" That quickly became one of my favorite words for the trip. After draining one of the Stellas, I made it to my intended destination, went in, and heard something completely non-dancey. I believe it was Organic Audio on stage, but I couldn't be sure.

Unable to find music to wake me up properly, I wandered around again. I found myself drawn to the Other Stage once again, not because of the gentlemen in afro wigs, but the rockin' music coming from the walls of speakers. I couldn't help but start dancing a little - the music was very catchy, with nice, hard guitars cranking full bore and a redheaded hottie bouncing the bass. I just discovered my favorite band-I-hadn't-heard-before at Glastonbury. Their name? My Vitriol. I still have to find out more about them and figure out where to get their CD, but rest assured, next time they're playing in the states, I'll be there for it. I left the Other Stage with a satisifed feeling.

Going back to my tent for a short rest, I noticed a lot of noise coming from near the backstage bar. Clad in a leather hat and sweats, there was festival founder Michael Eavis, playing the part of karaoke host. Aside from one bloke's turn at Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody," the karaoke was terrible. I hadn't worked on enough of my Stellas to volunteer, so I just kicked back and enjoyed the show - the bulk of which was comprised of Mr. Eavis' antics, which included some singing, some friendly cussing-out of hecklers, some flinging of horse poo, and - something I was sure not to photograph - some of Mr. Glasto showing off his rear after dropping trou. At some point, he put his willy in someone's didgeridoo. It's safe to assume that instrument will not be played anytime in the near future.

Needing desperately to wash some visuals out of my mind, I made it back over to the Dance Tent to catch Ursula 1000! Unfortunately, the schedule had changed, so I ended up watching Blue States, a band whom I'd seen open for Thievery Corporation when they were in San Francisco a while back. (See review.) Their vibe was dreamy and mellow, which didn't help me wake up at all, but it made it easy to converse with people around me. I ended up making the acquintance of the friendly Dan and Ange from Sheffield. We talked for a while, exchanged contact info, and discussed potentially ridesharing out of Glastonbury that night. They'd come all the way down in a camper van and would be going back through Bristol, which was perfect for me, as I had to go back to the hotel eventually. Alas, although I tried their mobiles several times in the evening, I couldn't get in touch with them for a lift. I hope you enjoyed Fila Brazilia, guys!

The DJ that followed Blue States was pretty good, and he managed to wake me up nicely by inserting the Rae & Christian mix of "Is You Is or Is You Ain't My Baby" into his set. That meant I was ready for another pint! Unfortunately, I'd have to leave the tent for that, and not wanting to miss any music, I made my way to the nearby Experience Tent (which had a bar in it) where Darren Christian was working the decks. It was beautiful - It was broad daylight and there was already a good crowd wearing down the dancefloor. I was a bit disappointed to find that my only choice at the bar was Budweiser, but I'll admit that it tasted good. I still swear to this day that Bud tastes different there - and while it's still a pansy lager, the European version is actually decent.I decided at this point that, since it was such a nice day, I should spend it in the sun. I took my Bud back to my tent and kicked back in front of it, hanging with my neighbours, working on my British Isles tan.

By mid-afternoon, it was time to return to the Dance Tent. Sure, I'd seen them before, but they were good enough to warrant an encore. I grabbed myself a spot in front of the stage, eagerly awaiting the appearance of Thievery Corporation. The set was very similar to the San Francisco gig, but the atmosphere made it completely different. Instead of an upscale club with a moderate crowd, here I was watching the same band under a giant, smoke-filled tent with a few thousand people. While the music was almost the same, the energy was several orders of magnitude greater. It must've been that Glastonbury magic once again.

The smooth, soulful sounds of Thievery Corporation, as enhanced by their Dido-like vocalist.

Thievery's sound got more dubby - or rather Irie - when their MCs hit the stage.

The crowd went nuts for the DC duo, with the entire dance tent being filled with people... and, uh, smoke.

How 'bout a close-up of one of the MCs? I bumped into them before the show, mellow as can be, but come showtime, they're fierce.

Satisfied yet again, I hung around the dance tent a bit longer for the turntable stylings of Mr. Scruff, one of the UK's hottest DJ's at the moment. He played an eclectic, energetic set, helping inspire my own DJ dreams. A handful of songs into his set, I found myself itching to wander around once more. Along the way, I passed one of the many Q Magazine-sponsored message boards. Take a close look to see some of the cheeky messages left on it. As I walked around and noticed how I was among 150,000 people, I started thinking about the dreadful traffic on the way out the following morning, knowing I had to catch an early train to Bristol. I pondered leaving early, having already had a grand time - the time of my life, in fact. I could be in Bristol by nightfall, have a few pints at the Shakespeare, get a decent night's sleep, and get on the first train to London and go exploring there. I went back to the backstage bar to mull it over some more drinkies.

Over the course of a couple of hours and numerous beverages, I weighed the pros and cons of an early departure. Pro: 6-8 hours of sleep. Con: Missing Groove Armada. Pro: A few more hours to see London. Con: Missing Groove Armada. Pro: Peace of mind, knowing I'd be sure to catch a train and get home in time. Con: Missing Groove Armada. Sure, I'd seen them not too long ago at a club gig in San Francisco, but I knew this was a live gig with a full band. I couldn't miss that, right? Hell, if my body didn't give out, I could pull an all-nighter and make sure I was on the first train from Castle Cary to Bristol, providing the shuttles started running early enough. The decision was made. I'd be Grooving for sure! I finished off another Stella and made my way to the Other Stage, where I caught the latter portion of Belle and Sebastian. I'd heard them before (no doubt, everyone heard them in High Fidelity) and I'd enjoyed them, but not enough to want to buy a CD. After seeing them perform, they're now on my checklist of artists to spend a bit more money on. Their energy and presence was amazing, and ending their gig with a cover of Thin Lizzy's "Boys Are Back In Town" proved that they're way more fun and way less serious than their pretentious fans here in the states would make them out to be. Following their performance, the crowd thinned out a bit, giving me the perfect chance to get up front and center for the next act...

Groove Armada! Fortunately, security was so nice there that they were more than happy to oblige my desire for a picture (unheard of in the States!) to prove that I was front and center - and, oddly enough, sunburned in the nose (unheard of in England!). After securing my spot, I turned around to notice that a crowd numbering in the very high tens of thousands had packed in behind me. Fortunately for the little girl riding daddy's shoulders, this monstrous crowd was completely non-threatening (unheard of!). A light drizzle came down as the stage was being set, and minutes later, the sky opened up into a solid rain. We were getting soaked. The equipment on stage was getting soaked. But the band would come on, electrocution be damned!

Big Andy C sings and claps along to "I See You Baby." He sees you, baby. Don't touch him.

The legendary Richie Havens joins the Armada on stage for a special tune. Must be that Glastonbury magic, once again.

If you're fond of sand dunes and salty air... then England's not for you. But for a moment, in the warmth of song, we could pretend we were in the tropics.

The lights may be pretty, but the beats were just ferocious when it was time to rock the crowd with "Superstylin."

I could gush on and on about Groove Armada, but I'll spare everyone. Ok, maybe a little gushing. It would suffice to say that anyone reading this - whether a fan or not - should see this duo with a full live band sometime. Their DJ sets are phenomenal as it is, so seeing them perform live is mind-blowing. Their set had a beautiful "peaks and valleys" flow to it, at times whipping the crowd into an emotional frenzy, and at others, lulling everyone within earshot into a mellow, happy mood. To hear the entire crowd sing along to "At the River" was simply beautiful. Hell, the set was so good, that everyone seemed to forget that the downpour was slowly turning the cowfield into legendary Glastonbury mud. Naturally, my Wellies (knee-high rubber boots) were in the tent. The BBC was on-hand to record/broadcast this on television. If anybody has a copy of this performance, please contact me!

The only good thing that came with the Armada's set ending was the end of the rain, too. Who knows, maybe Tom Findlay was doing some Hopi rain dance behind his fortress of gear. At any rate, after two straight nights of having a severe audio ass-kicking administered to me, it was probably a good thing that the French duo Air was up next. So I could snooze. Not that I don't love them. Those swingin' lounge lizards are welcome to play my living room or office party any time. (After all, I do work for Ze French.) But to end the Other Stage's 2002 run with stuff that's more appropriate during a bubblebath for two than a mudbath for 80,000, well, that's just anticlimactic. Oh well, I had to get in the loo queue anyway.

Hoping I might be able to have a pint in the company of Groove Armada, I made it past the mass of people trying to get backstage and (shocker here, folks) bellied up to the bar. Alas, there was no Andy nor Tom to be seen, but instead, I sat down to keep away from the English weather with Daryl, Mike, and Sarah - who just happened to be Glastonbury organizers. We talked, swapped stories and contact info, and a few rounds in, I was offered passes for next year's festival - if it happens. (Hey guys, I'm waiting... you have my info! Come through for me and I've got the first round.. or three.)

My curiosity got the best of me, so I went to check out the tail end of Rod Stewart (not Rod's tail, nor Stewart's rod), had a chuckle, and then went to the New Bands tent and caught the very end of Fila Brazilia's set. Phenomenal. Had I not been fraternizing with Michael Eavis' pals, I'd be kicking myself for missing this show. I was hoping to run into Dan and Ange there as the tent cleared out (and pinch a lift to Bristol in the process), but luck wasn't on my side. While either of the heretofor unused beds in my hotel sounded very inviting, it looked as though I'd be spending the night in my tent again. Already, I was dreading getting up and packing and catching the bus to the train station at daybreak.

It was time to wander around again. The Dance Tent was just closing down, with the Bays having just finished what sounded like a groundshaking set. Things definitely seemed to be winding down, with the giant fireworks display marking the end of the festival. People were heading off to their cars and camper vans, and the big field that was so full of people started to feel a little empty and much bigger than before. By the time I walked over to the Other Stage area, it had already been fenced off and a bulldozer was shoving all the garbage into a pile. Whomever said the British are slow has never seen the Glastonbury crew in action. All those years of colonizing people have given these guys some serious organizational and task-management skills. All quiet besides the sound of the bulldozer and some drunken stragglers firing off bottle rockets, it was eerily silent. This was the concert equivalent of the post-coital rollover. The sudden desire to just crash and let go. And I heard bass in the distance. That other pyramid that I'd seen during the day? It had the looks of a stateside "massive" all around it. Music was pumping, all the kids were jumping about and dancing, and it was beautiful. The audio-Viagra didn't last long, though. With my thoughts on getting to Bristol, I simply couldn't go another round.

I was still a little bit amped, though. One more trip to the Wine Bar would take care of that. One more expensive bottle of cheap red. One more round of singing along with a drunken crowd to the Police and Iggy Pop blaring on the speakers. And one more trip back to the tent. I didn't want this evening to end, but my body dictated that it be so. It was already well past 2:00, and the trains start running at 5:30. As much as I wanted to pull an all-nighter, my body could only take so much. "You can sleep on the train," the devil perched on my shoulder suggested as I partially packed my bag. "They're selling coffee at that one stall with the cookies," he said from the other shoulder, doing a little devil dance around my head. I took another swig from my wine, bashed the little bastard from my shoulder, and crashed out on my rolled-up sleeping bag, not giving a second thought to the fact that I'd just had an imaginary conversation straight out of a cartoon.

Shoulder-devils? Not finishing off wine? Uh oh. Get thee to London!