Festival review by : Laura Chapman

Glastonbury Festival 1999

Friday 25th to Sunday 27th June 1999
Worthy Farm, Pilton, nr Glastonbury, Somerset, England
£83

"Welcome to Glastonbury!" beamed the nice young man in his fluoro jacket as he waved us through the Blue Gate. We waved back and I silently gave thanks that Emily's mini had survived the journey down the motorway and through the country lanes to Pilton.

My mind wandered back to 97, and waiting in queues on the A37 playing I-spy: "Something beginning with M?" "MUD, WE KNOW". This year was very, very different. The sun was baking down, there were no queues this Thursday afternoon, and I was feeling really rather optimistic.

As we unpacked the car I made sure that no valuables were on display and that the glovebox was open, on the advice of the Avon and Somerset police. Then I left my mobile phone in the car. Oblivious, we joined up with the rest of the convoy that had come down from London that morning and headed on in.

We headed up towards the cinema field, found a nice spot with plenty of space and started to pitch up. Muffled swearing and slight tetchiness followed, but within an hour we had our circle of tents and a big pile of firewood ready for sundown. At this stage I should have been out and about exploring the tranquility of a Thursday evening at Glastonbury but in all the heat and excitement I'd over-exerted myself so instead I settled for a nice lie down in the tent with my Festival Programme and a couple of paracetomol. Reports came back that it was all going on in the Green Fields, but the furthest I managed to haul my sorry arse that night was to the Jamaican food stall. (Which, incidently, must have been the foodie bargain of the weekend. A heaving plate of rice and peas, piles of fried plantain, mushroom stew and salad for four pounds, you can't really say fairer than that.)

Impatient to BURN STUFF we'd already set up our fire and were waiting for the sunset. And what a gorgeous sunset it was - pink and gold, and a view that took in the tents and, down the valley, Glastonbury Tor floating in the mist. Sometimes life just doesn't get much better.

Dark fell, fires were lit and more stragglers turned up. Chris and James had come down together.

The next morning I fully expected to wake up in a sea of tents, but our field was still pretty spacious by comparison with the areas nearer the main stages. Now, you know you're getting really old when (a) the bands you want to see are on the main stage and (b) you find yourself reading the festival guide and asking your mates "who on earth are....?", and (c) your mates don't know. So a ragtaggle bunch of distinctly ungroovy and totally clueless punters made their way towards the main stage for Bjorn Again. The beer was flowing, the sun was shining, noses everywhere were getting distinctly pinker. I witnessed the Bjorn Again experience for the first time, which, considering I was a student in the early 90s is probably quite a distinction, and they certainly put on a good show. Barenaked Ladies were the surprise act of the day - you can't help but warm to a band who such an effort to get an early Friday afternoon going, "this is the headline time, right?"

Blondie got everyone going, even if Debbie Harry was dancing like your mum at a family wedding. And then I felt it was time to eschrew the main stage and it's corportate vibe (man) and head to the hills. To the Sacred Space, to sit among the stones and feel the energy of the earth. To be still, to contemplate the mystic, erm, mysteries. But mainly just to have a smoke, chill out for a bit with about a thousand other people and stare across the site, murmuring such profundities as "Blimey, it's really big, isn't it?" and "Look, there's our tent. Right over there. Miles away."

(Note to self: each year I tell myself that I will spend more time in the Green Fields and less running around like a blue arsed fly to get to some stage in order to see some wet behind the ears band with one album that the NME think are quite good, each year I usually fail. Next year I will, honest.)

I know that I made it back to the main stage in time to see REM and, after some initial reluctance, I was very glad I did. Fab: from the sparkly background (which wasn't, 3D although some of our more chemically challenged friends were conviced it was) to the sparkly suit, to the old favourites and the new songs which sounded like old favourites to me by that stage of the evening. Michael Stipe diving into the crowd, setting a precedent for every other act that weekend. Everyone swaying and singing along to "Everybody Hurts" when I didn't even think I knew the words. The band being obviously thrilled to be at Glastonbury and the crowd thrilled to bits that they were.

Saturday morning, and a mission back to the car. Okay, I'll admit, we wimped out slightly. But it was Colin's idea. (Colin, our mate, who lives in Wells, 5 miles from Pilton). He was a Glastonbury virgin and fancied nipping back for a quick shower. I offered to come with him, just to make sure he found his way back alright you understand. And then Kieron, Andy and Steve followed. Not rock and roll, but then again after two days the prospect of a gleaming toilet bowl and a hot shower can make even the hardest girl crack.

(Note to self: when you have a perfectly good place in a the Blue car park, do not leave the site on a Saturday and find yourself refused re-entry to the Blue car park, and have to leave your ever-loving boyfriend to drive in queues for hours to find a place in the Red car park. He will hate you for it.) Unfortunately I was unable to share in the special hours spent queuing to get back in, as I had reclaimed my phone that morning and found a stream of SMS messages from my mate back in London, Ruth, who had consistently refused all our entreaties to get her to Glastonbury.

The first, of about ten, messages were moans that we were there and she wasn't. But then the messages came thick and fast: she was coming down, she was in the car, she was in Glastonbury, where were we? I'd arranged to meet her at 2pm by the cinema, thinking that even after no sleep she should be able to find a big white screen and she didn't let me down.

I find it's always reassuring when you find yourself doubting your own faculties to hang around someone who has very little control of their own. Ruth was a comforting rock, no doubt about it. In the space of 24 hours she managed to lose her phone, lose her stash, lose her mates, find them all again, have her bag stolen (including her car keys), *and* pull a nice young man. I think that's pretty much the whole Glastonbury experience in a day.

On every sunny festival, a little rain must fall. Luckily for us, we were in the Cabaret tent at the time, watching some youngsters with far more energy than us jumping around with drums. I completely failed to catch any comedy acts this year, which was a shame. One of my best Glastonbury memories was Mark Thomas, explaining that the world would be much better if Glastonbury was on all year round and you went out in to the real world for one weekend a year. Bring back Mark Thomas at Glastonbury I say - I know he's a crusading media star now but just for one weekend...

Underworld on the main stage, and an aborted attempt to see Orbital on the Jazz Stage. Too many people, too hectic but we were there long enough to catch that white ship floating across the crowd (or that's what it seemed like). Mental. Wonderful. You wouldn't get that at Reading.

So, back up to the stones to catch the remains of burning. We'd just settled ourselves down to listen to the drummers and watch the fire jugglers when, suddently, fireworks started going off over our heads. With the delight of four year olds we burst into huge grins and sat looking skywards, blissful and entranced. Sometimes you need a reminder of how much joy can be created between people collected together for the purpose of enjoying themselves. (And, obviously, if what you've ingested makes the sparks a little sparkier and the flames a little brighter then all the better).

We stayed there until we got too cold, and thankfully when we got back to our tent our mates had a roaring fire going. And wine.

Apparently it rained quite a bit later on that night. Whilst I was sleeping there was apparently a half-hearted attempt at thieving by some guy who walked into the centre of our tents and calmly, whilst being watched by three of the guys, opened a couple of tents and had a good look around inside. Luckily, armed only with the trusty sword of sarcasm, Kieron and Andy chased him away and then went round the neighbours to warn them. Don't even get me started on what I think should happen to the scum who come to Glastonbury to nick the few things that people have brought with them, but let's just say it includes pointy things, fire and endless repeats of "Noel's House Party".

By the time I woke up at 11, the rain had retreated and sunshine was poking through the clouds again. Colin had to go to work the next day, so after persuading, cajoling and finally beating we had taken down the tents and were making our sorry way back to the car to cart everything back to Colin's. BIG mistake. It took us about an hour to get out of the site, and getting back in was horrendous. We tried the Red Gate, but were refused entry. Radio Avalon announced that no more cars were being admitted, and so we had to drive further away from the site and pay to park in once of the private car parks. So, I pay 85 quid of my hard earned money for a ticket which is supposed to give me entry and parking, and the car parks are closed? On a Sunday? When people are *leaving* and there's plenty of space in the car parks? (I know, because we had to walk through them on our trek back to the site). Bastards.

To add insult to injury, one of the police on the road then told us that they weren't allowing anyone back into the festival. Luckily, this turned out to be false and we made it back in time to grab a beer and some food and catch Lenny Kravitz. Now there's a man who knows how to work a crowd. We saw the start of the FLCs, and then soft-boy Colin wanted to see Suzanne Vega in the Acoustic tent. As did everyone else, by the look of things - the tent was packed. Initially we were going to give up, but the wobble on Colin's lower lip persuaded us to hang around outside to listen. After a few songs the crowds had died down a little and Colin and Steve had managed to squeeze themselves inside, by the end we had all got in. Just one woman, a guitar and a bass player and she had the whole tent in the palm of her hand. Pretty impressive.

The day was drawing to a close but we could still spin it out a little. Down through the theatre field towards the circus. An act was just starting on an outside stage, and there were ropes involved. We decided to see what was going on. It was, I think (and I'm not sure but this name sticks in my mind) Heir of Insanity, or something like that. And it was blinding. Three performers doing things in the air on scraps of cotton that you wouldn't think possible. That seemed to be the perfect end to it all. As we wandered along the railway tracks towards the gate (and the bleeding great trek to the car park miles away, bastards) I looked out over the campfires and the tents, and the swarms of smiling, grubby people and realised that, hey, I'm not too old for this. And I'll be back next year.