Blogs

Glastonbury's final day starts with blazing sun, but cloud thankfully emerges along with a cooling breeze - good conditions in which to see Matthew E White on the West Holts stage.

What with the sun blazing dangerously down on Worthy Farm, everyone seems to be in a blissful mood at Glastonbury this afternoon. Extraneous, and in some cases, all clothing layers have been shed, and the Southwest's supply of UV facepaints has been decimated.

Stunning weather today (Saturday) at Glastonbury - though due to the lack of shade there are now thousands of people walking round with horrific sunburn, dazed from a combination of heat and cheap cider.

Compared to the number of people packed in to see The Lumineers and Foals on the Other Stage earlier today, headliners Portishead had a much smaller crowd - after all, they're up against Arctic Monkeys on the Pyramid Stage, and Geoff Barrow and co are hardly feelgood fodder for festivals.

At 2011's Glastonbury, Robyn Hitchcock performed all of Captain Beefheart's Clear Spot record - this year the former Soft Boy is toeing the line a little more, and appearing with his American supergroup of a backing band, The Venus 3.

So music at Glastonbury begins today, after Thursday's rain-soaked warm-up. Thankfully the sun is out, the mud is mostly gone, and the relieved party atmosphere is perfect for Goat at the West Holts Stage.

In among short stories from Annie Proulx, Ed Park and Dashiell Hammett in The New Yorker’s recent “Crimes & Misdemeanours” fiction special was, unexpectedly, new material by Cormac McCarthy.

Last week started on an absolute high when Neil Young & Crazy Horse’s Alchemy tour rocked up to London’s 02 Arena, turbulence in its wake, some of the crowds they had recently played to evidently unhappy with aspects of the band’s current set, notably the long jams around the songs they are playing from last year’s Psychedelic Pill, especially “Walk Like A Giant” and the extended feedback cacophony of its final 10 minutes, which was spectacularly brutal. Audiences in Birmingham and Newcastle had been from all accounts clearly agitated.

Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale his finite variety, though he does seem fractionally more concerned about his trousers falling down these days. The ungodly miracle of Iggy Pop, 66 years old, remains one of the most bizarre and compelling spectacles in rock’n’roll; more bizarre and compelling, perhaps, with every year that goes by.

If, at this late date, you still need proof Neil Young is not a man to be trusted, something akin to that arrives about two and a quarter hours into his show at London’s O2 Arena.