apolla: (Default)
So, Glastonbury.

That's Glastonbury, the festival that was established in 1970 because the hippies thought the other fests were too commercialised....

God, I love irony.

Let me say this: I would not want to go to The Big G as a civilian, paying customer. Not in a trillion years. My production wristband and BAA laminate (more of that later) came in SO handy, not least because we were able to camp backstage away from the thieving scallies. Apparently, the Geldof Girls were in the same field, but I wouldn't recognise them if they presented me with their Blockbuster cards.

The weather on Thursday was OK. I managed to wear shoes, instead of my new wellies (see here)... which was the only time I could do that. I now have thighs of steel and calves of titanium after four days of slogging in the mud. Not just mud but wet mud, sloppy mud, sloshly mud, sticky mud, squishy mud, quicksand mud, mud-and-straw, mud-and-woodchips and very occasionally, grassy mud. By Sunday night, my tent had taken on all the qualities of a waterbed, although I'd like to say that the groundsheet was so excellent that it didn't leak.

Also, because I'd actually taken the trouble to put my tent up properly, it neither leaked nor blew away.

But now to music, because that's nominally why we were all there. That word 'nominally' sounds small, but it's doing an awful lot of work in that sentence. In fact, despite it being the best food on site, I could hardly stand to stay in the Hospitality Bar for long because of the godawful hangers-on, liggers, blaggers, posers and 'I'm dressed for Heat magazine' types.

Full-face make up does not belong at music festivals, you foolish, vapid, vacant bints. Nor does hairspray.

Donny Tourette Syndrome or whatever his name is, is exactly as much of an idiot as you think he is. Possibly more.

Funny thing about Glastonbury is that the less you look out for these famous people, the more you see, especially backstage. There were more than I saw, but I didn't stay around long - I wasn't there to people-watch, I was setlist collecting, you know? My life doesn't begin and end with listing the famous people I met.

By the way, Phill Jupitus is a lovely, kind and funny man. He's great.

I got a free Johnny Clash (not a mistype) 45 from Billy Bragg for donating to Jail Guitar Doors (a great cause, google for it). Have to say I expected neither vinyl records or a raffle when I turned up at the Leftfield Stage on Sunday morning, yet got both.

I spent quite a lot of Friday in the Greenfields and Healing Field on Friday to avoid hanging around the Glade tent, so I spent more money on tarot, palm reading and astrology than I was expecting (or was wise) but it was pretty cool.

Sick of the smell of marijuana smoke, by the way. Fortunately, I didn't work the Dance Village, so didn't have to put up with coked up, ketamine-fuelled DJs, cos I would've just walked away.

The Who seemed really fuckin' lacklustre to me, as if they're just treading musical water and bored, and they're so much better than that - Real Good Looking Boy proved that. Please, my darlings, remember why you do music!

Also sick of hearing people excuse these guys for being a bit shit by saying "oh, they're getting on". THEY'RE NOT THAT FUCKING OLD! I don't expect them to be leaping around. I don't expect Iggy Pop to still be perfectly skinny (and trust me, he aint, but the hair's beautiful). What I DEMAND is that these GIANTS OF MUSICIANS DO THEIR JOBS TO THE BEST OF THEIR ASTOUNDING ABILITIES! Are you telling me that Pete Townshend is no longer able to create decent music because of his age? Keith Richards too, for that matter?

I've got a mental list of bands I need to see before they die. I saw the Not-Doors in 2003 and left pretty much in murderous tears. I saw the remainder of Thin Lizzy in a couple of guises and they were good but not great. I saw the Rolling Stones at the Isle of Wight and Keith Richards was doing his best Bert Weedon in a coma impression. I've now more or less completed the list with the Who, and I left them to it during the encore, and walked back to my tent behind the stage feeling like I wanted to slit my wrists or find a spare TARDIS and fuck off back to 1974.

Glastonbury must've been a sight to see back then. I'd give my right kidney to be at the Isle of Wight in 1970 when my dear Doors were there with Jimi.

I wanted Jim Morrison, and I got Pete Doherty. I wanted The Who and got The What? I wanted... I wanted greatness and instead I got the Killers and the Arctic Monkeys. I'm sure that's good enough for some people, but it's not good enough for me.

It's like... Amy Winehouse is a good singer, especially compared to everyone around at the moment. But put the girl in a room with La Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday or Peggy Lee and she's.... not very much, actually. All these bands at the moment are OK, but they're not great. I didn't see a single act this weekend that made my heart thump or my soul soar.

It is WRONG that the best things I saw all weekend were comedians and Tony Benn. That the music was the least of my weekend proves only that Glastonbury is now the Disneyworld of music festivals - expensive, too big, crushed under its own self-importance and populated with mindless, vacant people. I love Disneyworld, but I'm not sure I respect it. I liked Glastonbury, but I didn't love it and I can't respect it.

It's now something people go to because they're now middle aged and didn't go when they were young, or they go to so they can say 'I went to Glasto, don't you know?' That's OK, but cancel my subscription to the resurrection.
apolla: (Default)
So, Glastonbury.

That's Glastonbury, the festival that was established in 1970 because the hippies thought the other fests were too commercialised....

God, I love irony.

Let me say this: I would not want to go to The Big G as a civilian, paying customer. Not in a trillion years. My production wristband and BAA laminate (more of that later) came in SO handy, not least because we were able to camp backstage away from the thieving scallies. Apparently, the Geldof Girls were in the same field, but I wouldn't recognise them if they presented me with their Blockbuster cards.

The weather on Thursday was OK. I managed to wear shoes, instead of my new wellies (see here)... which was the only time I could do that. I now have thighs of steel and calves of titanium after four days of slogging in the mud. Not just mud but wet mud, sloppy mud, sloshly mud, sticky mud, squishy mud, quicksand mud, mud-and-straw, mud-and-woodchips and very occasionally, grassy mud. By Sunday night, my tent had taken on all the qualities of a waterbed, although I'd like to say that the groundsheet was so excellent that it didn't leak.

Also, because I'd actually taken the trouble to put my tent up properly, it neither leaked nor blew away.

But now to music, because that's nominally why we were all there. That word 'nominally' sounds small, but it's doing an awful lot of work in that sentence. In fact, despite it being the best food on site, I could hardly stand to stay in the Hospitality Bar for long because of the godawful hangers-on, liggers, blaggers, posers and 'I'm dressed for Heat magazine' types.

Full-face make up does not belong at music festivals, you foolish, vapid, vacant bints. Nor does hairspray.

Donny Tourette Syndrome or whatever his name is, is exactly as much of an idiot as you think he is. Possibly more.

Funny thing about Glastonbury is that the less you look out for these famous people, the more you see, especially backstage. There were more than I saw, but I didn't stay around long - I wasn't there to people-watch, I was setlist collecting, you know? My life doesn't begin and end with listing the famous people I met.

By the way, Phill Jupitus is a lovely, kind and funny man. He's great.

I got a free Johnny Clash (not a mistype) 45 from Billy Bragg for donating to Jail Guitar Doors (a great cause, google for it). Have to say I expected neither vinyl records or a raffle when I turned up at the Leftfield Stage on Sunday morning, yet got both.

I spent quite a lot of Friday in the Greenfields and Healing Field on Friday to avoid hanging around the Glade tent, so I spent more money on tarot, palm reading and astrology than I was expecting (or was wise) but it was pretty cool.

Sick of the smell of marijuana smoke, by the way. Fortunately, I didn't work the Dance Village, so didn't have to put up with coked up, ketamine-fuelled DJs, cos I would've just walked away.

The Who seemed really fuckin' lacklustre to me, as if they're just treading musical water and bored, and they're so much better than that - Real Good Looking Boy proved that. Please, my darlings, remember why you do music!

Also sick of hearing people excuse these guys for being a bit shit by saying "oh, they're getting on". THEY'RE NOT THAT FUCKING OLD! I don't expect them to be leaping around. I don't expect Iggy Pop to still be perfectly skinny (and trust me, he aint, but the hair's beautiful). What I DEMAND is that these GIANTS OF MUSICIANS DO THEIR JOBS TO THE BEST OF THEIR ASTOUNDING ABILITIES! Are you telling me that Pete Townshend is no longer able to create decent music because of his age? Keith Richards too, for that matter?

I've got a mental list of bands I need to see before they die. I saw the Not-Doors in 2003 and left pretty much in murderous tears. I saw the remainder of Thin Lizzy in a couple of guises and they were good but not great. I saw the Rolling Stones at the Isle of Wight and Keith Richards was doing his best Bert Weedon in a coma impression. I've now more or less completed the list with the Who, and I left them to it during the encore, and walked back to my tent behind the stage feeling like I wanted to slit my wrists or find a spare TARDIS and fuck off back to 1974.

Glastonbury must've been a sight to see back then. I'd give my right kidney to be at the Isle of Wight in 1970 when my dear Doors were there with Jimi.

I wanted Jim Morrison, and I got Pete Doherty. I wanted The Who and got The What? I wanted... I wanted greatness and instead I got the Killers and the Arctic Monkeys. I'm sure that's good enough for some people, but it's not good enough for me.

It's like... Amy Winehouse is a good singer, especially compared to everyone around at the moment. But put the girl in a room with La Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday or Peggy Lee and she's.... not very much, actually. All these bands at the moment are OK, but they're not great. I didn't see a single act this weekend that made my heart thump or my soul soar.

It is WRONG that the best things I saw all weekend were comedians and Tony Benn. That the music was the least of my weekend proves only that Glastonbury is now the Disneyworld of music festivals - expensive, too big, crushed under its own self-importance and populated with mindless, vacant people. I love Disneyworld, but I'm not sure I respect it. I liked Glastonbury, but I didn't love it and I can't respect it.

It's now something people go to because they're now middle aged and didn't go when they were young, or they go to so they can say 'I went to Glasto, don't you know?' That's OK, but cancel my subscription to the resurrection.
apolla: (Jimmy M)

So, Pete Doherty got busted at Oslo Airport. So, Pete Doherty's been cutting himself.

Will NOBODY save him, even if it's from himself?

You know, I'm something of an expert in these matters. I've studied the spiral downwards. I've just spent the last couple of days listening to the entire Thin Lizzy catalogue in order on my iPod. I've seen the toll the fast-burn death took on the face and eyes and body and soul of Jim Morrison. I've seen the slow-burn death in Elvis. I've seen the one in between in Philip Lynott. The rock and roll graveyard is full of cretins, morons, tragic clowns, tragic heroes, junkies, wankers, bastards, wifebeaters, demons and evil fuckers.

You would think we would've learned by now. What have we learned though? That a nasty publicity-seeking missile of a junkie with, at best, mediocre skills would be on our front pages while the decent musicians languish in anonymity?

Mind you, I find it just as offensive that right-wing bigots still try to demonise the rock element to get votes and support.

If Pete Doherty wants to survive (and let's face it, he doesn't seem to), he needs to fuck off. He needs to disappear. You cannot save yourself while you're in the spotlight. If he wants to live, he must give up his infamy and the attention of the guttersnipe press. He must have the courage to step away. He must have the courage to live without his pharmaceutical crutches.

He must have the courage to dismiss the liggers, hangers-on and parasites who flock to boys like him, and dismiss them for good. These are people who care nothing for him as a person but care about the money and reflected glory hanging around him brings. He must be strong and tell them to fuck off.

I'm sure there are people who have tried to help him, people who love him. I'm sure there are a great many people who love him but have been pushed beyond a point where they will endure his 'antics'.

If Pete Doherty marks out his spot in the graveyard of the inglorious dead, I will feel great contempt for him for the rest of eternity. It is the people who love us that are hurt first and who hurt the longest, and there are people who I'm sure love him a great deal.

But if he has courage and respect for himself and the people who love him, if he gives up the measure of fame he has been granted for a higher purpose (ie, not dying), then I will find oceans of respect for him.

Any rock star can die. Any rock star can join the live fast, die young club. Surely the greater achievement is to live? To live and be and take the unbearable pain and undying heights of life.

I'd do anything to have Jim Morrison and Philip Lynott alive and well, to have this Saturday's concert in Dublin be some great homecoming instead of a tribute, but I don't get to make that choice. Pete still has something of a choice. It's not an easy one, but it is a choice. Eric Clapton survived, the rest of Thin Lizzy survived. Aerosmith and Velvet Revolver survived. They're still a minority really, but they did survive.

Is there nobody that will help Pete to take the road less travelled?

apolla: (Jimmy M)

So, Pete Doherty got busted at Oslo Airport. So, Pete Doherty's been cutting himself.

Will NOBODY save him, even if it's from himself?

You know, I'm something of an expert in these matters. I've studied the spiral downwards. I've just spent the last couple of days listening to the entire Thin Lizzy catalogue in order on my iPod. I've seen the toll the fast-burn death took on the face and eyes and body and soul of Jim Morrison. I've seen the slow-burn death in Elvis. I've seen the one in between in Philip Lynott. The rock and roll graveyard is full of cretins, morons, tragic clowns, tragic heroes, junkies, wankers, bastards, wifebeaters, demons and evil fuckers.

You would think we would've learned by now. What have we learned though? That a nasty publicity-seeking missile of a junkie with, at best, mediocre skills would be on our front pages while the decent musicians languish in anonymity?

Mind you, I find it just as offensive that right-wing bigots still try to demonise the rock element to get votes and support.

If Pete Doherty wants to survive (and let's face it, he doesn't seem to), he needs to fuck off. He needs to disappear. You cannot save yourself while you're in the spotlight. If he wants to live, he must give up his infamy and the attention of the guttersnipe press. He must have the courage to step away. He must have the courage to live without his pharmaceutical crutches.

He must have the courage to dismiss the liggers, hangers-on and parasites who flock to boys like him, and dismiss them for good. These are people who care nothing for him as a person but care about the money and reflected glory hanging around him brings. He must be strong and tell them to fuck off.

I'm sure there are people who have tried to help him, people who love him. I'm sure there are a great many people who love him but have been pushed beyond a point where they will endure his 'antics'.

If Pete Doherty marks out his spot in the graveyard of the inglorious dead, I will feel great contempt for him for the rest of eternity. It is the people who love us that are hurt first and who hurt the longest, and there are people who I'm sure love him a great deal.

But if he has courage and respect for himself and the people who love him, if he gives up the measure of fame he has been granted for a higher purpose (ie, not dying), then I will find oceans of respect for him.

Any rock star can die. Any rock star can join the live fast, die young club. Surely the greater achievement is to live? To live and be and take the unbearable pain and undying heights of life.

I'd do anything to have Jim Morrison and Philip Lynott alive and well, to have this Saturday's concert in Dublin be some great homecoming instead of a tribute, but I don't get to make that choice. Pete still has something of a choice. It's not an easy one, but it is a choice. Eric Clapton survived, the rest of Thin Lizzy survived. Aerosmith and Velvet Revolver survived. They're still a minority really, but they did survive.

Is there nobody that will help Pete to take the road less travelled?

Grrrr

Saturday, 2 July 2005 20:43
apolla: (Default)

Pete Doherty needs to watch out, because if I should happen upon him, I will beat the shit out of him.

Jim Morrison never glorified his problems. Philip Lynott never wore his heroin addiction as a badge of honour. Both left a decent (but IMO incomplete) body of work behind before just leaving a body.

Pete Doherty pisses on the legends of the glorious rock dead every time he gets up and 'performs'. Someone drag him off before I do. He has no place at something like Live 8.

How fucking dare he.

Grrrr

Saturday, 2 July 2005 20:43
apolla: (Default)

Pete Doherty needs to watch out, because if I should happen upon him, I will beat the shit out of him.

Jim Morrison never glorified his problems. Philip Lynott never wore his heroin addiction as a badge of honour. Both left a decent (but IMO incomplete) body of work behind before just leaving a body.

Pete Doherty pisses on the legends of the glorious rock dead every time he gets up and 'performs'. Someone drag him off before I do. He has no place at something like Live 8.

How fucking dare he.

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