The Greatest Place On Earth
Words and Images by Cameron Avery
I must preface this article by confessing that it will be incredibly biased.
This is not a review and I am neither a photographer, nor a journalist, this is merely a personal account written from the perspective of a true believer.
I’ve been attending Glastonbury nearly every year for over a decade now and to the outside world it is often thought of as a ‘just another music festival.’ However, to me and a great many other lunatics who make the trek out to Worthy Farm every year, rain, hail or shine, it is affectionately referred to as The Greatest Place On Earth.
I often find myself around dinner tables preaching to the uninitiated, trying to describe a performance, a day, a sunrise…or that time I collapsed whilst watching Jungle on the West Holt stage. With very year that passes on the last weekend of June in Somerset, these singular moments, which I try to recant have all but surrendered to a bigger feeling which I revert to, its a tough emotion to pin down but some version of euphoria is the easiest way to put it for the time being.
I’ve begun to think the enormity of the Glastonbury ecosystem allows any one person to either tailor a unique experience for themselves, hitch themselves to someone else’s ‘Worthy wagon’ or maybe jump off the deep end, try something completely different and just let it happen. For someone like me, who’s been multiple times and in many different capacities, the ride is different every time, that’s one of the the aspects that I love the most.
For example; there are those who stick to ‘The Healing Fields,’ an area entirely devoted to rest, rejuvenation and spirituality. These punters wouldn’t dream of cramming themselves into the front row of the 100,000 plus sized crowd at the Pyramid Stage to watch Stormzy on a Saturday night, but they might head to Maceos in Block 9 (the nightclub district on site) at 2am to watch Guy Lawrence of Disclosure do an unannounced DJ set to 70 people in a what feels like a sea container. There is seemingly another world behind every hedge, down every garden path and at the end of every ‘trip’ taken whilst on the farm.
Speaking of which, I was relatively well behaved this year apart from Saturday’s psilocybin soirée at The Park stage, a far cry from a previous years attempt to meet the gods by way of crystal MDMA, not for the faint hearted, which as it turns out, I very much am. I steered clear of the astral plain in 2023, trading my disco-bikkies for a 6am sleeve of Hobnobs for which my serotonin levels thanked me on Monday.
My good behavior this time round was rewarded with seeing more music than I usually do. Weyesblood was my personal standout. For whatever reason it can be challenging for American acts to fully embrace the loving but (at times) discerning hug that the Glastonbury crowd provides but Natalie had myself and many others tearing at the timbre of her voice, laughing at her quips in between songs and cheering in wonderment at the supremacy of her lyrics. She killed. Whilst I’m talking about crowd reactions, Arctic Monkeys (told you it would be biased) ignited more than just flares in the Friday night main stage audience. The Sheffield natives had the masses heaving, putting on a Pyramid Stage sized clinic that only Somerset veterans such as themselves can abide.
Last but certainly not least I walked up to my favorite place in the whole festival; The Crowsnest. It’s the highest point of Worthy Farm where you can really take in the scale of the festival. There’s my favorite bar in the world up there but also a tent where they serve tea and cake and I was treated to an intimate performance by Beth Orton featuring Adrian Utley of Portishead and Dan Okumu playing guitar, pretty special.
This kind of thing happens a lot at Glastonbury. Every year a handful of acts perform unannounced and often multiple sets during the weekend purely for the love and respect they have for the institution . This year I missed the Foo Fighters but I have personally seen secret performances by Pulp, Radiohead and Ronnie Spector just to name a few. The rumor-mill ahead of these special guests usually fires up at around noon on a Friday and the absurdity of these rumors never disappoints whether they’re true or not. Everyone and their aunty claims to have some inside track or private line regarding a special guest or a suspicious slot on the schedule. 2023 was no different with Elton John set to play his last ever show in the UK, there was a slew of “confirmed” special guests ranging from obvious ones like Dua Lipa and Eminem and then the worlds biggest game of telephone reached fever-pitch when people started claiming that Britney Spears had been seen at Bristol Airport.
Sahil Varma, another decorated Glastonbury veteran, and I got done good this year. Upon hearing a whisper that Jarvis Cocker had been seen in the interstage area, we glanced at the Saturday afternoon schedule to see an “interesting” billing which read ‘Rick Astley & Blossoms performing songs of The Smiths.’ Having already heard Rick Astley’s; ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ blasting over the grounds earlier that day we cried FAKE NEWS, grabbed our beverages and began 30-40 minute trek down the hill from The Lands End Bar behind the Park Stage to the Woodsies Stage, brimming with excitement at the thought of seeing Pulp tear it up for an unsuspecting crowd. After a 35 minute chin-wag and hike down through the camping area we weaved through the packed audience and into the backstage area only to find Rick and Blossoms waiting to take the stage.
We couldn’t believe it. As much as we would have loved to been the envy of all of our friends who didn’t walk down from The Park with us, because they called bullshit on our bullshit, we were certainly not disappointed by the cover performance. The crowd was singing every word and the renditions were mega.
Roughly 230,000 people are on site at during the week so losing your Glasto Crew at some point is an inevitability, it happens in the blink of an eye. Sometimes it’s fucking terrible, like when the headliners are done on a Saturday night, the music has temporarily stopped, all 200,000 people are planning their next move and there’s about as much phone service as there is people in their tents, this is a time for calm contemplation. Sometimes it’s great because you meet another bunch of legends in your travels and if you can, merge your new legends with your OG legends.
This is met usually with the exclamation ‘wheehheeeeeyyyy’ by all parties involved.
Sometimes you get lost on purpose, James Ford and I discussed the subtle art of ‘Lone Wolfing’ on Sunday. It can sometimes feel cumbersome traveling around in a group, constantly worrying about losing people and endlessly discussing a plan. I personally, often to the dismay of others, like leaving my phone and wallet in the Tipi and grabbing a couple hundred Pounds and seeing what happens for a few hours, which brings me to my next point.
I’ve never felt more safe, secure and more looked out for in a group of strangers at any point in my life than when I’m at Glastonbury. The atmosphere Michael Ives has cultivated over the past 50+ years is one of literal love, respect, safety and actual good vibes. I’ve never seen a fight or any act of physical aggression for that matter, in any year that I’ve been.
During the changeover before Elton John this year, with more than 140,000 people waiting for the show to start, someone about 20ft from me had obviously over-indulged a bit in the substance department (we’ve all been there) and no-less than 5000 people began chanting “SOS” at the side stage paramedics, two civilian doctors in the crowd were assisted by the surrounding onlookers to our friend in need and arguably a life was saved. I’ve been to just about every major music festival in the world and there’s truly no group of people like those who attend Glastonbury every year.
A couple of said legends saved my Saturday this year. I wasn’t in mortal danger like the poor chap at the Pyramid Stage, merely in danger of “fluffin it” on Saturday night. Whilst up at the Lands End at about 2am after watching a bit of Fatboy Slim I met up with Jack Guiness and a bunch of regulars groovin around at the bar. I went to use the bog without telling anyone (rookie error) and returned to an empty bench where the aforementioned groovers were previously groovin. I later found out, they had assumed I was lone-wolfing again and had apparated in a cloud of mushrooms. The ditcher….had been ditched. Phone service wasn’t great and the fear had set in that I had missed an opportunity to get into NYC Downlow with Jack and his mates. Side-bar; NYC Downlow is a meat-packing district themed, gay night-club, where a specific colored fake mustache is required for entry and is about the most fun you can have.
As I was about to walk down there by myself and definitely not get in, out of the darkness I heard a couple of voices; “you alright cammy?” I turned around to see two of my Somerset ride or dies with open arms Annie Mac (in a wig, so I was freaked out at first) and Rupert Murphy (with his standard, great looking hair). We proceeded to blag our way into Rabbit Hole, because we couldn’t remember the riddle (yes there’s a venue you can get into with a riddle) and faffed about dancing intermittently until we noticed the sky beginning to turn to shades of violet. Annie suggested we rally the troops to Stone Circle, a kind of mini Stonehenge up the top of the site where you can watch the sunrise, play djembe around a fire pit and walk around naked if you like…
Yes I’m talking to you; Barney with your knob out from a few years back, to whom I, fully clothed, chatted with about the band POND, painting and casual nudity, Legend. The weather was perfect this year so the sunrise was breathtaking, and as the sun peered it’s head over the horizon, a mighty cheer is let out amongst everyone on the hill as the drumming stops.
The sun is now up and as the chanting and drumming resumes. A brief conference is held with the the rest of the straight-through-crew regarding whether or not to sleep just yet. I’m reminded just how much I love it here. My face hurts from smiling, my voice fries from laughing, singing and screaming, my eye’s itch from the lack of sleep and my feet feel like they’ve been tenderized by a fucking meat-hammer. Like, why do the tops of my feet hurt?… But there is no place I’d rather be.
I often wish the world was a lot more like Worthy Farm for that week, there’d certainly be a lot less of what I have to come back to every time I turn on my notifications as I ride back to London. Sure sometimes the weather sucks and you’re covered in shit but maybe there’d be little less hate, a little less sadness and who knows you might give an awkward and entirely inappropriate thumbs-up to Matt Stone, co-creator of South Park, whilst you’re in a towel trying to dash from your communal shower to your tipi?
