“I’m sorry, Jay-Z?” said Noel Gallagher in April. “I’m not having hip hop at Glastonbury. No way man. It’s wrong.”

He might have wondered if these words might come back to haunt him, but odds are he didn’t envisage quite how literally. When Jay-Z took to the stage, it was to a tape of Gallagher’s interview spliced with a bizarro collage of celebrities and politicians, followed by the Brooklyn hip hop kingpin miming with comic disinterest to Oasis’ Wonderwall. From a charismatic MC of such lyrical dexterity, this rebuke was withering.

The Gallagher diss duly dispatched, the show began with a rocked-up version of 2003’s 99 Problems. By the third track, I Know, he had the huge crowd, many of whom were probably there out of curiosity, eating out of his hand.

Backed by a live band with a brass section, with samples graded for an audience unused to hip hop (think Estelle’s American Boy, Rihanna’s Umbrella, AC/DC’s Back In Black and Amy Winehouse’s Rehab), he played a dynamic, fast-moving mix of rap and futurist R&B, reflecting on wealth and fame, injustice in America, fine women and, inevitably, how awesome Jay-Z is, with spectacular screen projections to match.

With big shoutalongs for Hard Knock Life, Beware Of The Boys and the Linkin Park collaboration Encore, and pauses for such audience participation japes as hollering and synchronized flag waving, he finished with 2001’s U2-sampling Heart Of The City.

“So they said you guys didn’t want me here tonight…” he smiled, having proven conclusively that he did, after all, belong here. Rather than going against a tradition of guitar music as Noel alleged, it showed how much this festival excels when it gives people music they didn’t know they wanted. Glastonbury 2008? Jay-Z killed it. Ian Harrison



Possibly the most international musician on the planet, Manu Chao is his very own punky reggae party, mixing salsa beats with dubby melodies and a high energy sunsplash performance. Lyrics that mix crowd-baiting revolution and paeans to “cows and milk” (sung in his native Galician tongue, naturally), the wild card of the afternoon’s Pyramid acts is a joyful triumph.
Rumours of Amy Winehouse’s death initially appear to be greatly exaggerated, but there’s no smoke without fire. What starts strongly as she canters through Sam Cooke’s Cupid and Back To Black gradually descends into a bizarre set that includes manslaughtered Specials covers (A Message To You, Rudy and You’re Wondering Now) for which she can barely remember the lyrics, and an extended supper club jazz jam with much soloing from a band that deserves a better singer. Endless rambling about hubby “Blakey” and an increasing resemblance to Dorien from Birds Of A Feather do not make for a scintillating set, and the crowd who flooded into the field to see her slowly dribble away. Andy Fyfe

Crowded House under blazing blue skies draw a gargantuan audience, and the Kiwi guitar-popsters deliver the perfect daytime festival set. Distant Sun and an achingly tender Fall At Your Feet are greeted like old friends, while master tunesmith Neil Finn also proves to be a canny performer.

He bookends the communal glory of Don’t Dream It’s Over with a hilarious running gag about the stony-faced security staff, before instigating a field-long Mexican wave for the never more apt Weather With You.

Next up is veteran CND activist Bruce Kent, whose impassioned speech about the ongoing global struggle for nuclear disarmament is a timely reminder of Glastonbury’s countercultural roots. It also provides an uncomfortable contrast with military toff turned insipid balladeer James Blunt, who somehow reduces the Slade classic Coz I Luv You to wine-bar muzak.


Jack White’s experimental sideburns notwithstanding, The Raconteurs’ diamond-sharp hard rock is a barnburning joy. Waistcoated drummer Patrick Keeler detonates Broken Boy Soldiers with Keith Moon-esque skill, while Brendan Benson’s soulful vocals elevate their cover of R&B chestnut Rich Kid Blues. White’s astonishing, in-the-red axe solo on Zep-heavy finale Blue Veins even gets its own round of applause!



Unlikely opening act Shakin’ Stevens lived up to his name, looking wracked with nerves and mumbling something about not having the right mic early in his set. The 60-year-old took the opportunity to showcase a fair bit of ropey new material, omitting hits such as Green Door – a shame for the bloke who’d brought a real green door along. Still, covers of T-Rex’s Laser Love, Pink’s Trouble and a triumphant This Ole’ House got the crowd rocking.

Martha Wainwright (pictured) proved a more rounded performer, delivering a set that spanned from country rock to torch song Stormy Weather. Arriving in a kimono-style robe, she strolled on stage as if she were walking into her living room, endearingly referring to the Pyramid Stage as “downtown Glastonbury”. An unlikely guest – beatboxer Schlo-Mo – supplied low-key beats for slow-burning track This Life.

Like Wainwright, Seasick Steve has become a fixture around these parts in recent years, and there’s no better place to enjoy his lo-fi, hard-knocks blues. He, too, introduced a hip hop flavour (it must be the Jay-Z effect), scratching a rhythm on his homemade instrument, the one-stringed diddley bow. Later, he serenaded a girl from audience with love song My Name Is Steve, which was dedicated to “all the girls at Glastonbury.” After a charming 50 minutes in his company, most of them were converted. Dan Stubbs