With an artist as protean as Goldfrapp you’re never quite sure which incarnation is going to turn up. Luckily, Glastonbury punters are treated to an assortment of the duo’s many differing facets. From the electro-perv we heard on Black Cherry to the eerie, cinematic sweep of Utopia and witchy Kate Bush-isms of this year’s Seventh Tree, Alison Goldfrapp and Will Gregory concoct an intoxicating soup of styles and sounds complete with pagan costume and pole dancers.

For a 73-year-old former novelist who spent three years in a Buddhist monastery Leonard Cohen is surprisingly chipper. Looking dapper in pinstripes and a trilby he serenades the audience with a selection from his literary songbook including Famous Blue Raincoat, Bird On A Wire, Suzanne and Hallelujah.

Despite having once asserted that there was “more chance of getting all four Beatles back together”, Richard Ashcroft leads a recently reformed The Verve onstage for their first ever Glastonbury headline slot a full 13 years since their last appearance here; and from the opening bars of This Is Music it is clear Ashcroft is relishing every moment.

Unsurprisingly, though, it is the tracks from 1997’s multi-million selling Urban Hymns that inspire the most cheering and chucking of lager. The Drugs Don’t Work, Lucky Man, Bittersweet Symphony all send the punters off singing and smiling into the night, providing a fitting end to a sometimes surprising yet undeniably classic Glastonbury Festival. See you next year…
Chris Catchpole




Skinny as a tent pole and with tattoos worse than Amy’s, Brian Jonestown Massacre singer Anton Newcombe looks how we feel. Their skuzzy, tedious Velvet Underground rock is tough going, but Newcombe eventually connects with the audience when he quips that “Noel Gallagher can eat my crumpet”.

John Mayer’s tattoos are more expensive and his festival etiquette more sociable. He hits the sleepy mood of the afternoon perfectly with a cover of George Harrison’s My Sweet Lord. Nice, but hardly an ‘I was there’ moment.

What Jay-Z is to hip hop Neil Diamond is to easy listening. During Woodstock he was singing anti-pot songs, in the punk years he was a middle-aged man in diamante jumpsuits, but finally he has found his rock’n’roll mojo. When the sound packs in during Crunchy Granola Suite he shows his showbiz class by keeping the crowd and band clapping along in perfect time, and for fabulous Glasto sing-alongs nothing can top the closing Sweet Caroline. Good times never felt so good. Wah-wah-wah. Johnny Dee



Resplendent in a red satin ballgown, it’s clear that Martina Topley Bird and her band are a classy outfit. Sure enough, the elegant sounds of her three solo albums provide a smooth start to the day. While her voice is as distinctive as ever, some songs lack the edge that gives her collaborative work (with the likes of Tricky and Gorillaz) its bite. So it’s refreshing when, at the close of her set, she straps on an electric guitar, fuzzed-up to the max, and wishes Glastonbury “a fucking brilliant day”.

One can’t help but feel that the folks under 40 gathered to watch Gilbert O’Sullivan would benefit from a little introduction to, well, who the hell he is. But such is the charm of O’Sullivan’s piano pop songs that the picnicking throng are soon nodding along to such ’70s hits as Alone Again Naturally. A lovingly arranged string quartet up the charm ante a step further, and by his final song, O’Sullivan is dancing on his grand piano, getting the crowd to sing, “You’re a bad dog baby”. Nice work. Sophie Harris