Words Josh Jones and Laura Martin
Photos by Steve Bliss and Dan Wilton

Laura: In the words of Nina Simone (almost), it was a new dawn and a new day and a new chance to get fucked up all over again.

It all started gently enough with a small session from I Blame Coco, her of Sting’s loins. Her voice was definitely comparable to her old lute strumming, tantric-sexing padre, but she performed an impressive acoustic set that proved she definitely had enough talent to step out on her own merit. One of her backing bands looked like he’d got into the Glasto vibe and was tapping away on what looked like a shoe box he’d found over in the Green Fields. Yeah, it’s like I was totally feeling the beat through my veins, yeah?

With Phenomenal Handclap Band soundtracking our walk over to The Other Stage, it was time to carry on the chilled guitar vibe with Brooklynites, the National. Their stand out track “Bloodbuzz Ohio” sounded great echoing across the giant field as the festival goers prepared for another day in the stifling heat.

My friend excitedly exclaimed: “It’s time for gay Glasto to start!” so I was dragged off to go and see shimmying Columbian songstress, Shakira. She actually played a pretty good set as far as world music meets pop acts go, and her cover of the xx‘s “Islands” suited her sultry, emotive voice. I had to draw the line somewhere, so left my friend with arms and poppers aloft ready for the much publicised Scissor Sisters and Kylie extravaganza for the Foals instead.

I dunno why the Foals aren’t a bit bigger actually, either critically or mainstream, as they’re a top band. They secured this view in their sunset set, which made the best track from their current album, “Spanish Sahara” go from lingering intro to epic guitars soaring into the stratosphere. This was the sort of festival moment that can never be bottled or orchestrated.

It was time to shake off the main part of the festival and venture into the far end (literally) of Glasto…Shangri La, Arcadia and Avalon. Walking along the tree and fairy-light country path was like being Alice in Wonderland falling down the Rabbit Hole. Strangely apt, given one tent actually had Rabbit Hole, which was a secret doorway which led to a small underground layer.

But it was the remarkable creative stages and sights of Shangri La that tempted me, from the sleazy life-size motel, to the fully functioning Americana Diner and Club Dada, a post-industrial city within the confines of the hippy festival that was where the action was really happening.

Hours passed lost within this nether world. Junglist-swing dudes the Correspondents packed out Dada in the early hours, we caught the end of the Drums secret session over in Strummerville. The sun rose as we huddled around candles in the Stone Circle, then we passed out on a sofa by an open fire in the field. This was the moment we got Glastoed. There was no place better to be on earth at this point.

Josh: The best thing about press access at any festival, and especially a boiling Glastonbury, is that you can make your way to a clean, flushing toilet. When I was woken by the beating sun in my sauna -like tent, that’s exactly where I was headed. And the relief, was really quite the relief. Walking back to the bar was a bit like being 15 again as I could hear The Lightning Seeds “Life Of Riley” drifting across the site. I may have been a bit of a fan half my life ago, but they didn’t have a big enough impact for me to go and watch them singing football terrace favourites in a bid to whip up World Cup fans getting ready for tomorrow’s match. Heading to the world-famous ‘Glastonbury Cider bus’ to pick up a potent apple brew, we realised that last year’s headliner Bruce Springsteen’s mate Jackson Browne was limbering up for a bit of a sing song, so we sat on the grassy bank to listen to some good ol’ activist country rock.

Which is good for about six songs from the silver fox, before we got a little restless and seeing that Seasick Steve was on after him we figured we’d head somewhere else.

Devendra Bernhadt was exactly who we headed to. Or we would have if any of our group could tell the time. Instead we arrived at the West Holt Stage an hour and a half early to witness Bassekou Kouyate & Ngoni Ba about to come on stage. You know, that band from Mali who play the predecessor to the banjo? All joking aside, they were excellent. So we sat in the sun listening to these amazing musicians doing bumps and having drinks and enjoying ourselves totally. But not as much as Devendra had been – he arrived on stage necking a bottle of brandy and dancing about the stage while his band The Grogs watched him from behind their mic stands. He was having a whale of a time and when he launched into a cover of Taylor Dayne’s 1987 anthem, “Tell It to My Heart” the entire audience was with him. he signed off a glorious set with “I Feel Just Like a Child”, as you’d expect and we all had a big old grin.

Wobbling up to the Park Stage, we successfully managed to miss ‘special guests’ Thom Yorke and Jonny Greenwood (I’ve not liked Radiohead since Yorke shouted at my brother for no reason a few years ago), to catch the original voice behind “You Got The Love”, Candi Staton. She left it ’til right at the end of a set of Elvis covers to belt that one out. Laura Marling was up next, but she was far too nice to listen to at that point, so we bounded back to the madness of Shangri-La and the rest. Somehow I was also watching The Correspondents, and then wandered off to Strummerville to catch the Drums (I did get some footage, but my camera was feeling as bad as me at that point and it would be embarrassing to put up here!), but didn’t see Laura at all. My eyes were a bit swervy at that time so I could well have been sitting right next to her at that point. Then, like her, we headed to the infamous Stone Circle to see the sun come up – we’d missed it properly rise about three hours before…