Key events
Nile Rodgers and Chic have taken to the Pyramid stage, and the security guards have made up a nice coordinated dance set to the iconic Le Freak!
Black Uhuru reviewed
Jason Okundaye
When Black Uhuru last performed at Glastonbury in 1989, the frontman was Junior Reid who had replaced singer Michael Rose as lead vocalist in the mid-1980s. Black Uhuru would undergo several reincarnations between then and now, evidenced by the fact that it’s Andrew Bees who swaggers on to the West Holts stage today as lead vocalist, alongside Kaye Starh and Derrick “Duckie” Simpson. Neither Bees nor Starh were present when Black Uhuru won the first ever Grammy award for best reggae album in 1985, but they put on a set which spans five decades; their personnel might have shifted, but their sound has remained constant. And they look impossibly cool. Something I’ve noticed about Glastonbury is that it’s the older international Black acts who are able to project the fresh, snazzy and authoritative aura that other acts, legacy or otherwise, could only dream of.
It’s a classic smooth roots reggae set from Black Uhuru, featuring the deep basslines, long guitar riffs and layered vocals that are integral to the genre, as well as the consistent messages of peace, love and freedom (Uhuru is “freedom” in Swahili). They open with I Love King Selassie, a definitive Rastafarian track honouring the religion’s deep roots in Ethiopia, which is considered the promised land or Zion.
The set could easily thrive on the most vintage instincts of reggae – indeed, Plastic Smile and What Is Life? follow this model – but there are twists. Covers of Ray Charles’s Hit the Road Jack and Damian Marley’s Welcome to Jamrock are welcome moments of fun and familiarity, but they are heightened by the band, which doesn’t stick only to the mellower grooves of reggae: there are skank rhythms, driving basslines, staccato guitar chords and crashing percussion, leading to echos and reverbs which boomerang through the crowd. It is intolerably hot as the sun has broken through the clouds, but that does nothing to slow the audience who happily two step, bogle and rock, moving with riddim (some more on beat than others).
The band’s messages around love and social justice are certainly foundational to Glastonbury. Over the weekend, there have been questions about Glastonbury’s complicated political loyalties and how it negotiates being a hub of left-wing ideology and intellectualism, as well as having such institutional status that it airs on the state broadcaster. So there’s something about a band returning after four decades with a pacifying vision of unity that feels like a return to order and a call for calm: on Solidarity they sing that “everybody wants the same thing don’t they?… They want to see the game on Saturday.” Well, I don’t watch football, but I’m certainly longing to live in less divided times, and Black Uhuru’s music is a manifesto for the kind of world you’d want to inhabit – maybe I’ll start to look for it in Addis Ababa.
Royel Otis reviewed
Gwilym Mumford
There are few easier wins for acts at a music festival than smuggling a cover of a massive song into your set. No matter how shruggingly received the rest of your songs are, chuck in a quick burst of Love Shack and you’ll have the crowd eating out of your hand.
Royel Otis then have not one but two Exocet missiles in their arsenal as they arrive at the Park stage, having already released a pair of well-received covers (Murder on the Dancefloor and the Cranberries’ Linger). The Australian duo is rewarded here with a huge crowd stretching all the way to the hill at the back of the stage.
What’s more, that crowd isn’t just there for the covers: Royel Otis’s original songs go down a treat too. To my ear their frictionless indie chart pop seems more beige than hummus, but it’s undeniably well-designed to court audience singalongs. Sofa King, with its yelped chorus of “you’re so fucking gorgeous” gets a huge reaction here.
So do the covers, though it’s unclear why they have proved so popular. Murder on the Dancefloor is loyal to the original to the point of being unremarkable, and a stripped back Linger is pleasant but dull. No matter: both go down a storm with a crowd ready to cut loose on their final day at the festival.
Sir Rod has brought out Mick Hucknall, whose merit as a special guest has the Guardian team divided. Personally, I think their long-running bromance is beautiful.
Joy Crookes reviewed
Ben Beaumont-Thomas
A total generational schism here: while the boomers are doing that finger-pointing dance they do over at Rod Stewart, the Other stage has barely anyone over the age of 35, with a decent quotient of the festival’s gen Zs and millennials here to see 26-year-old south London singer-songwriter Joy Crookes, showcasing what are some seriously good new songs from forthcoming album Juniper.
Dressed in colourful floating panels of fabric, she is serenely chic stood out front of her eight-piece band. Like a few artists on this Glasto bill – Jorja Smith, Celeste – and others outside it such as Yazmin Lacey and Pip Millet, Crookes is part of a generation of young British women spreading their songcraft right across pop, jazz, hip-hop and beyond. Crookes even has a touch of slacker indie, playing a Mac DeMarco-ish guitar solo at one point, while Cut Like a Diamond has a UK garage shuffle and When You Were Mine has a reggaeton rhythm underpinning it.
Sometimes there are touches that sound a little overfamiliar: the tripping piano rhythm of Carmen is pretty reminiscent of the one in Frank Ocean’s Super Rich Kids, and while everyone is in raptures for Feet Don’t Fail Me Now, I find its sturdy chorus line to lack real originality and magic.
But for the most part, she strips pop back to first principles in such a confident and classic way, such as the simple waltzing guitar figure and timeless vocal line on Don’t Let Me Down. Even better is a new song, Forever, dedicated by Crookes here to the people of Palestine (keffiyehs are also twined around the band’s mic stands). It’s a heartbreak ballad with a melody floating down and around like a falling sycamore leaf: “Remember that we traded love and that’s forever,” she sings, but there’s a fascinating uncertainty. Is she going to carry fond memories forward, or be haunted by them, or perhaps a bit of both? Crookes gets right to the heart of the contradictions and complexities of love.
Her innately melancholic voice is a little reminiscent of Amy Winehouse, both timbrally and in how she seems to very slightly wince at hurtful words or difficult feelings. And like Winehouse, you can imagine a very broad church of fans developing for her.
The Libertines reviewed
Shaad D’Souza
Loving the party? Living poorly in east London? Being a drunken layabout? These are all ideas that I relate to deeply, and based on the crowd gathered at the Pyramid stage to watch The Libertines on Sunday afternoon, it’s safe to assume that a lot of the festival crowd can relate too, especially after a few days of drinking warm beer and shrivelling in the sun.
There’s a truly multi-generational spread present in the audience: kids are being held on shoulders, and there’s a large contingent of teens and twentysomethings dressed in appropriately 2000s-y garb – studded belts, draped scarves, too much jewellery, too-large hats.
There’s an absolutely massive volume of Libertines nostalgia online – there was a point during Tumblr’s peak when you couldn’t scroll for 10 minutes without seeing a photo of Pete Doherty hanging out at the Dolphin, or slipping through mud at Glastonbury with Kate Moss, a nostalgia machine since taken up by Instagram accounts like @cigarettes – and you can definitely see that playing out in the set, both in terms of the audience present and the setlist: the bulk of the material played comes from Up the Bracket and The Libertines, and they play a few songs from the band’s most recent album All Quiet on the Eastern Esplanade, but nothing from the band’s underrated 2015 album Anthems for Doomed Youth. No matter: the group are in fine form throughout the set, even chucking a few bars of Do Ya Think I’m Sexy? during The Good Old Days. For the indie sleaze contingent in the audience, this is its own kind of Legends Slot.
The sun finally decided to shine as Rod launched into Maggie May, the official song of the summer every year for the past 54 years.
His mandolin player gets a nice spotlight during the song’s solo; full credit to Rod, very few headline-level rock acts have women in their touring bands, and Rod’s split appears to be about 50/50.
Sir Rod is gracing Worthy Farm with his famously trenchant political commentary: “There’s been a lot about the Middle East recently, quite rightly so, and I want to draw your attention to the Ukraine with this next song, it’s called the Love Train! Get on board the Love Train!”
Rod Stewart up next!
Shaad D’Souza
Hi all! Shaad here, taking over for Elle for the afternoon. In terms of liveblog shifts, I definitely got the short straw – I wish I could go down to the Pyramid Stage and get Rodded with everyone else – but it’s a sacrifice I don’t mind making for you lovely readers at home. Maggie May is, without a doubt, my song of the summer – as it is every summer – and I’m willing to bet I’ll be able to hear the crowd screaming along from The Guardian’s sad, dank portacabin.
There’s definitely been the rumblings of opposition to Sir Rod’s set throughout the weekend – even before he expressed support for Nigel Farage the other day, I saw stickers around that featured his face and read “Not My Legend”. But you wouldn’t know that based on the crowd at the Pyramid right now – it looks absolutely enormous.
Shaboozey reviewed
Safi Bugel
When the Guardian’s Alexis Petridis interviewed Shaboozey last year, the Virginia artist wanted to double check whether his breakout hit A Bar Song (Tipsy) was also big in the UK. “Big” might have even been an understatement: it broke into the Top 10 of the UK singles chart and became ubiquitous online.
A year on, the appeal holds, and not just for said song. A packed-out crowd have gathered at Glasto’s second-biggest stage sing and wave along for almost the entirety of his set.
As the self-styled “boot-cut kid”, Shaboozey’s music bridges country and hip-hop, with a touch of pop. He sings about four-wheel drives, “pretty ladies” and “getting faded” on whiskey, sometimes in his deep, auto-tune-accentuated drawl and other times via quick, punchy bars.
Today he shows off that range. Highway, Amen and Good News are straight-up Americana ballads, while tracks such as Drink Don’t Need No Mix have a trap-like swing. Midway through, he even performs a rousing cover of Bob Dylan’s Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door before, naturally, closing on the fan favourite A Bar Song (Tipsy).
It’s a pretty cheesy affair. Most of Shaboozey’s material fits solidly in the category of “stomp clap hey!”; bro-y craft-beer songs with earnest sentiments and big chanty crescendos that recall bands like the Lumineers and Mumford and Sons. Meanwhile, the screens on the side of the stage are sepia-toned, AI-rendered desert landscapes (he shouts out the agriculture in the UK, as any textbook country star should).
Admittedly, though, this is a question of taste and preference: thousands of people here are visibly overjoyed. And indeed, whether the music is actually good or not, Shaboozey’s schtick is perfect for a Sunday afternoon festival slot: anthemic and uplifting.
I’m handing over the reins to my colleague Shaad D’Souza for the next few hours so that I can high-tail it to Rod, but thanks for following along – there’s plenty still to come.
Abel Selaocoe reviewed
Ammar Kalia
For South African cellist and composer Abel Selaocoe, the body is an instrument as much as the cello he has spent his life playing. He blends the throat singing and instinctive vocalisations of his Soweto heritage with a distinct approach to his cello, using it as a percussion instrument as much as a vehicle for deeply felt classical repertoire. Selaocoe’s Sunday afternoon set is a full-body barrage of enlivening sounds, rousing a bleary-eyed West Holts crowd to attention.
Backed by his 11-piece Bantu Ensemble, featuring an extensive strings section, vocalists and two drummers, Selaocoe launches into the guttural singing and vocal power of Qhawe, instructing his strings section into dynamic drops and builds while pacing across the stage.
There is plenty of audience participation as Selaocoe leads the crowd through a polyrhythmic clapping exercise and several singalongs, but it’s when he eventually turns back towards the Ensemble and finds an improvisational groove that the set truly excels. Moving through bowed romantic phrases to sharp bursts of throat singing, body percussion and string-plucking, Selaocoe’s technical ability mixed with the power of his emotive intent is joyous to behold.
Reaching a close with the balladry of Lerato, he leaves the audience in a moment of peaceful introspection. It’s a very Glastonbury Sunday moment – harem pant-wearing hungover groups lolling on the grass, both energised and also moved to buy a fresh pint and face the final day of festivities head on.
Into my last 20 minutes of being the blog boss, and I can’t lie, I’m eager to get out of here to get along to Sir Rod Stewart. Mandolin Wind rules, Young Turks rules, Sailing rules (should you be in a particular mood).
I can take or leave the comedy-sexy numbers (they’re supposed to be funny, right?) but I trust that he’s got enough hits to keep the Pyramid stage entertained.
What remains unclear is whether Sir Rod will pick up on his controversial remarks to the Times yesterday, which resulted in the headline: “We’ve got to give Nigel Farage a chance,. (All he is saying, is…)
In the interview, Stewart expresses his concern about the potholes blighting Britain’s roads: “As I travel in Italy, Germany, nowhere else is as bad. Starmer has promised to spend millions on it … We shall see.”
Asked to comment on British politics, he gives this:
It’s hard for me because I’m extremely wealthy, and I deserve to be, so a lot of it doesn’t really touch me. But that doesn’t mean I’m out of touch. For instance, I’ve read about Starmer cutting off the fishing in Scotland and giving it back to the EU. That hasn’t made him popular. We’re fed up with the Tories. We’ve got to give Farage a chance. He’s coming across well. What options have we got? I know some of his family, I know his brother, and I quite like him.”
Setting aside all the other arguments against Farage and Reform UK, I’m not quite that “I quite like his brother” is a reason to vote for anyone. But we shall see if he attempts to expand on his stance on stage, perhaps as a stirring prelude to Hot Legs.
Kate Nash just joined Sprints on stage at Woodsies and led the tent in a big singalong of her classic Foundations. She’s looking and sounding great.
The Libertines are presently on the Pyramid stage, and they’ve brought a bit of home with them, performing in front of a projection of the Albion Rooms, the band’s own hotel/studio/bar in Margate.
Doherty has a copy of the Glastonbury Free Press in the front pocket of his waistcoat – make it the Guardian next time, Pete!
They’re sounding good (“surprisingly un-shambolic” is one colleague’s off-the-cuff account) and the Pyramid field is full. I understand that Taskmaster host himself Greg Davies is among the crowd, having brought his own portable stool.