Glastonbury Festival. Just the name conjures up images of mud, music, and monstrous egos. But is it me or was there a severe lack of big box office draws this year? Not to mention a smattering of seriously dodgy vocal performances, many of which were delivered by a gang of crusties so decrepit you wonder what it must have cost to have them dug up.
Prepare yourself for a shock…
Now in its 55th year since the first festival in a Somerset field, the hallowed Pyramid Stage and its smaller siblings was dominated by the old folks: the 1975 on the Friday, Neil Young on the Saturday and token 20-something Olivia Rodrigo on the Sunday.
Even if they weren’t approaching pensionable age, the whole Worthy Farm farrago seemed to be a showcase for boring b-listers; also-ran acts that only were awarded with headline slots because the “usual top billings” — Swift, Springsteen, Beyoncé, Lana — are off doing their own thing, as are Oasis Quo, even with Rick Parfitt still dead.
Come back Bucks Fizz all is forgiven.
When I think of the major names who never played Glasto – Queen, Prince, MJ, Fleetwood Mac, Led Zep, George Michael, Kate Bush, Kinks, Tina, Aretha, Eurythmics, Depeche and Duran… hell, Take That or even Madonna before she ballooned would have put on a watchable show.
I hate to fall into generational negative ‘tropes’ (well, only from some angles), but in 2025 the set from The 1975 had me scratching my head from start to finish. I mean, I sort of wanted to like them — especially as the band were formed at a school in Wilmslow round the corner from my grandparents’ house — but it must have been the only ‘headline’ performance I’ve ever seen at Glasto where I couldn’t think of a single song of theirs beforehand.
One quick check at da ’75’s discography reveals wall to wall No. 1 albums in Britain yet not one solitary top ten single. My God, they’re boring. Are they a dirtier druggier Coldplay? Because I couldn’t believe how bland the band were, and how unsexy and gormlessly gawky frontman Matty Healy was.
I’m guessing he’s got a ginormous wanger, otherwise how to explain the much documented dalliance with Taylor Swift? The Mrs Thatcher of prom queen pop just doesn’t strike me as a Guinness drinker somehow. Mind you, neither does Matty, the little he supped from his naff chav prop.
The next act I caught? Oh yes, the wigged wonder that is Gary Numan. I won’t deny there was some coruscating chemistry from the guitarist and bassist. Everyone looked like they were savouring every moment on stage and that energy was absolutely infectious, with the assembled audience lapping it up.
But I’m sorry, I just don’t buy Gazza’s goth reinvention as Marilyn Dadson. Forty-five years ago, this Tory twit in the tacky tattoo sleeves (a pound a pair at Camden Market – bargain!) was responsible for three or four of the greatest pieces of electronic music that will ever be invented, yet he’s recast them all as NIN-eque slabs of industrial noise while employing a latter-day Bowie conceit: bouncing around in denial about your age while overdosing on Sanatogen.
So undignified, so testosterone-replacement-therapy-heavy…. and like the dearly departed Dame yet another middle aged man who married a fan.
Next up was the cantankerous crusty that is Neil Young, who closed Saturday night. It dragged on for an hour and a half and I haven’t enjoyed one minute of this ramshackle arthritic assholism. You could hear the halitosis,
This may probably lose me a gaggle of hyper-sensitive “followers” but, a couple of song excepted, I’ve always found the Canadian cretin hideously over-rated anyway , with a voice so grating it sounds like a bad Bob Dylan* tribute act being put through a mangle.
Plodding through a snoozy set largely made up of obscurities, Young sounded atrociously off-key and hideously shrill. But worse, he looked like a smelly pot-bellied hippie struggling to connect with or even acknowledge the audience, and should have been put out to pasture years ago. Now in his 80th year, he really should take some time off — say 15, or 20 years.
Bagging the Sunday afternoon “legends” slot, Rod Stewart was more entertaining but, sadly, it took all of two minutes to realise this is another passé geriatric who, like his old chum Elton, hasn’t made a decent record since 1976.
Honestly, what has been the point of Rod the Mod since then, except to remake hideously lazy albums of ubiquitous standards while hawking his insipid supper club cabaret round the world’s over-priced venues. Fleece, cease and desist.
And I’m sorry, but any man who thinks bringing on the monstrous Mick Hucknall is going to bag him any brownie points is nothing more than a senile Farage-lover, which is how he outed himself as just days before the big show.
There was more than a whiff of misogynist showboating too, with a pretty parade of mini-dressed blondes who I’d normally suggest are being lined up to be future Mrs Rod Stewarts, though at present they have one thing NOT going in their favour — they’re already born.
Face race alert: bringing on Ron Wood and Lulu was marginally more fun, even if they murdered the choice material. Credit where it’s due: at 76, Lulu looks and sounds really rather good. I mean, she’s only written two half-decent songs in her entire career but, aesthetically and vocally, “Short Legs” compares favourably to Macca and Elton, who both sound like they’ve been talking voice coaching from their constipation therapists. Poor Ronnie, however, looked suspiciously like several of my relatives rolled into one, all of them dead.
All in all, Glasto ’25 been a mediocre-fest bar the odd highlight. Which leads me to (gasp) The Good Things:
Raye — if Amy Winehouse had remembered to eat then this is what she would have been. Great sassy chutzpah, and more in-key than the occasionally brilliant Celeste. Happy to see Alanis Morrissette looks and sounds remarkably well preserved too.
Chic — With that brilliant back catalogue Nile Rodgers is always good value, but this is the same depressingly predictable medley-heavy karaoke set that’s been hawked around every festival six squillion times. However, those songs stand the test of time, and thankfully, due to the curtailed running time Rodgers didn’t trot out every one of his umpteen well-rehearsed showboating anecdotes:
“You may not know that I also produced records for other people including Diana Ross, Madonna and David Bowie.”
Gosh, why have you never mentioned this before? In fairness, if you’d helmed that catalogue of material, you might be inclined to ensure people don’t forget about it.
Scottish indie merchants Franz Ferdinand were pretty darn fun too, especially when they trotted out the erstwhile Time Lord Peter Capaldi on the always visceral Take Me Out.
Pulp — oh, they were just divine and what a brilliantly clever reveal as the ‘secret’ set got underway. Cleverly opening with festival tour de force that is Sorted For E’s And Whizz the band are on top form, playing a flawless set of anthems to a crowd so big it feels like the whole festival turned out to see them.
I’ve loved these Sheffield miscreants ever since my sister Stella came to stay at the house share I had with Victoria and Judi in Golders Green in ’94, and suggested I check out this new song she’s heard on the radio called Do You Remember The First Time? “because I’m sure that’s Marc Almond singing.”
Over 30 years on and Jarvis Cocker — for it is he who sings — were simply majestic. Jarvis is such an unlikely pop star — he STILL looks like a geography teacher with a hangover — and like Neil Tennant, he can’t really dance but this magnificently misshapen oddball knows how to work a crowd. Which makes the fact I’ve never seen Pulp live (bar one song at the Brits in ’96) all the more annoying.
One day, one day…
Steve Pafford
* Ironically, one of the acts I didn’t catch at Glasto was one of the turns that garnered many of the column inches, though not for their music. Looking like an angry Aswad, the rap-punk duo’s ‘divisive’ performance saw them use their platform to voice their support for Palestine, as well as calling out the BBC, Israel, the US and UK governments and all the rest of it.
All I’ll add is that dear Aunty Beeb knew what would happen — just look at the moniker. Bob Vyle, an’…? Their daft misogynist lyrics are littered with advocating violence and verminous stereotypes. Oh, the power of comedy ‘controversy’.
By the way, not only is Pazzo a Pet Shop Boys piece but it‘s also Italiano for crazy. How apt.
