Glastonbury 2000 certainly isn't what you'd call a conventional festival. Overlooked by a spiritual tor, awash with world-avoiding hippy scum and chancing scouser selling booze, fags, and E's, as well as trying to break into your mud drenched tent, this, truly is, the beginning of the summer. Avoiding my quota of such, and looking for decent food amongst the 1000's of market stalls, is no small task, but one I can tackle. Especially in my festival outfit. To avoid contamination, by anything, I have arrived, and been kitted in ever since Thursday lunchtime, in a military, one piece, Tyvek, chemical warfare outfit. Waterproof, mud proof, particle proof, splash proof, and most importantly - for this is Glastonbury- acid proof, I begin to wage war on the slacker in the most slack fashion possible.

Friday is a strange day, with stranger to come... the first band, I managed to see, are A PERFECT CIRCLE.. America industrial supergroup that manage to combine the worst elements of Led Zeppelin and Rush and make it strangely listenable.. and then LIVE... the year 2000's answer to the Grateful Dead, without the songs..FU MANCHU meanwhile, remind me of driving in an open top convertible along Californian highways in 1971, something I have never done.

The major band of the day are Tommy Lee's METHODS OF MAYHEM. Tommy is more famous for a dodgy video of him fucking his then-wife than any record he's made. And deservedly so. This band are a triumph of rhythmic moronicism over talent. Tommy espouses the wonders of public nakedness, whilst his Faux-red-inidian Rapping buddy offers no more than random shouts of muthafugga and crowdsurfing. This is the year 2000 in full effect. The overall effect is excerbated by, not lessened, by the absence of illegal drugs, and Stephen Perkins, of the worlds ex-greatest ever band, on drums, who seems content to play spudrock for dollars. Naturally, when the drum duet between him and Tommy Lee, Perkins wipes the floor with glam rocks greatest ever Thundergod, and nary even a mention of the, umm, metal classix Dr.Feelgood or Girls Girls Girls

So where are we now? Oh yeah, The BLUETONES. Rocks least offensive alternative act are so bland, it almost offends. They even end with theme tune from thirty-year-old TV show. From where I'm standing the reaction is so enthusastic I can hear hair growing and dandruff falling

Next up? CYPRESS HILL. I'm not a fan, at the start of their set, of their one-dimensonal stoner hip hop, but by the end, I'm convinced they are the shape of future rock. Especially when they manage to bring on their very own, heavier-than-god, metal backing band and resemble the amazing FNM vs. Boo Yaa Tribe material from 1993, all crunching, crushing metal riffs and gangstah rapping indeed,.

Five minutes in the presence of ROBERT PLANT and I know the man has to make a ambient album, with his voice as the only instrument, super powerful, backing super dull songs and other, unadventurous songs..

As for the UTAH SAINTS, 1993's model return in the y2k form for their first ever show in five years ... and what a show it is. No first night nerves, no hesitation. The Utahs are running on full speed tonight... offering a set of their unique brand of stadium trance and techno. Love Song fits like a familiar glove, all pulsating, energetic sleek synth lines and vocals, before the supercharged, superpowered Power To The Beats emerges. Bookended, by vitriolic, vital Chuck D samples... Power To The People.. and Power To The Beats!, is a ultra-Utah trrack.. Linear, all-conquering basslines, minimal, tranceish synths, and DJ Tim's familiar, long missed, awesome scratches make this a dead cert single.. even though it's been a week to the hour since I last heard it it still strikes me as an awesome, collosal song.

Next up, WCYDFM? appears.Jaz, obviously humbled with appearing in front of some 10,000 people, opts to ponder... wander... nervously in front of the masses... but the famjilar samples of Annie Lennox, extended, looped, pitched whip the capacity crowd to a small frenxy.. before the track takes off, with all the grace, and power, of a 747 and transforms one of the biggest Tents in Europe into a mass of sweat and adrenalin. Sometimes, this stuff, this feeling of being strong, like music, is beyond words... beyond language... beyond anything but feeling.

Morning Sun is next. I can't remember much about it... except that it sounds, at first strike, like the rest of the newer material, sleek, slinky, streamlined, and a lot of other things, all starting with an "S". Jez bounces across the stage like a man possessed, seemingly overjoyed that the sounds that he and Tim have made in their respective bedrooms (Planet Utah indeed), seem to be so well received. And onto Funky Music... Edwin Starr... a marvellous presence graces Glastonbury with his very own star,... and offers us some legendary vocals... 'let me hear you say... Glastonbury!... we like the sound of.. Glastonbury!' with Edwin, again, losing the plot but making the song somewhere in the middle thereof.

I can't remember Punk Club. I think, since they were late on, this song was hastily replaced by Something Good. And my god, was it good. Irresistable rhythms and heavenly chords. And last, the long last classic Rock. Rock Your Body, Rock Your Body, to an inescapable mantra courtesy of AC/DC's Brian Douglas... and then it's all over.

So what did we get? Intro ,Love Song ,Power To The Beats ,What Can You Do For Me? ,Morning Sun ,Lost Vagueness ,Funky Music (featuring a live appearance from Edwin Starr) ,Punk Club Something Good ,Rock

And then running across a burning field in sunset, I manage to get catch most of The The. Matt and Co. seem to be mining a bizarre field tonight - looking less for the more populist material of old and instead heading for introspective, acoustic material more suited to backrooms and bedsits than sundrenched fields. And whilst some of it - the punk-rock Infected, the awesome, improvised, organic Global Eyes, Weatherbelle, appear to be appreciated - though not necessarily enjoyed - judging from the comatose crowd. Whilst Matt appears to enjoy himself, flirting heavily with the crowd, and drummer Earl is a mass of arms, legs and sticks, The The's strength appears more insular, within themselves, than aimed at anyone else.. but my god, what songs they have. Infected, Heartland, True Happiness This Way Lies, and the most poignant, beautiful song of the weekend... Love Is Stronger Than Death.. that shows anything can survive the demise of the simple, physical body. The crowd swells... waiting for the weekends most important draw.. everybody's favourite techno thrashmetal blues house vegan... MOBY!

At this stage it rapidly becomes apparent that Moby is everybody's favourite. In fact, I spend most of Sunday dodging people who are convinced that I AM Moby. He taps into the collective unconsciousness of the masses, with the slightly exhausted anger of Machete, the apathetic beauty of Porcelain, the stupid dumb rock of James Bond, which tonight, like every night, is melded into a kick-ass medley with PE's Bring The Noise and his Say It's All Mine from his neglected, classic Animal Rights, and the futuristic, techno rock of Go. As "007" swoops in, the site is lit up by a bizarre massive smokebomb thrown from a wanker in the audience.

Meanwhile, the spell of Natural Blues and the beautiful Why Does My Heart? Are broken with the incessant, unrelenting rhythms of Ah Ah, and the ravetastic Bring Back My Happiness. From exhausted heartbreak to estastic dancing in minutes... and the unstoppable Moby continues. He flits from guitar, To vocals, to bongos, to his keyboard, and back to yelling "ROCKYOURBODYROCK YOURBODYYEAHCOMEON!" within 20 seconds for Bodyrock's frentic start to his frantic, infectious pogoing of the downright dirty Honey, the most beautiful rave song ever written, Feeling So Real, and finally, for the predictable encore of 1000.

Finally NINE INCH NAILS, play to a less than capacity crowd due to the Stadium techno of the empty CHEMICAL BROTHERS in the other field. NIN appear late, on full 100% hate, and play a bizarrely retrospective set, with just three songs from 1999's Fragile album in the 16 song set, which bristles with post-adolescent loathing of everything In some respects Trent appears completely in connection with the year 2000, offering a timeless critque of society that is that is wrapped up in introspective self-hatred and misanthropy it is heard to tell if he hates just himself, or everything in the entire universe. As a release, an exorcism though, it truly is essential in purifying the souls of the disaffected masses.

SATURDAY

Thankfully I manage to catch forgettable minutes of most all bands until I get to ELASTICA, a set of funky, punky, spunky material, with 20 songs squeezed into 60 minutes with fag breaks included. New keyboardist Mew bellydances sexily throughout the set, a brand spanking new congo player adds depth and colour to some of the newer songs, and crowdsurfing is ago ago. The most bizarre sight of the weekend is when a dancing tap jigs across stage during the penultimate trio of early, silly songs such as Stutter and Waking Up.  

Then onto the PET SHOP BOYS, who, despite having a castrated set of 80 minutes manage to seduce every single person in the field with their infectious brand of camp electro pop and irony. Hits essential to the human condition re casually tossed off, with the class of the rulers, Neil Tennant's infectious enthusaism,. And Chris' bizarre comical dancing during the entrancing Paninaro.; Best moment? Cerys Mathhews joins for an inaudible rendition of What Have I Done To Deserve This? And Chris can't help but smile...

I Don't Know What You Want, Suburbia, Can You Forgive Her, Left To My Own Devices, Se A Vida E, Drunk, Rent, Paninaro, Young offender, New York City Boy, Positive Role Model, What Have I Done?, It's A Sin, I Will Survive, West End Girls, Go West.

I manage to sleepwalk though, through the loved, but dreary sounds of TRAVIS, and the bizarrely empty stadium techno of LEFTFIELD, who despite making some of the best records of the past decade, manage to produce a live show as exciting as watching paint dry.

SUNDAY

HAPPY MONDAYS. Are a joke band, a apathetic, unconstituted mess of a band that seem to exist solely to make money and remix old hits for festival crowds. At least, unlike most reformed bands, they have the guts to admit they never like each other anymore or want to record material again... instead, showing their ugly heads for as many summers as they can. In fact, a fistfight between Shaun an his brother meant that the band had to draft in a very short notice replacement from John Squire's old group THE SEAHORSES.. In the meantime, Shaun quits the group on stage and leaves.. Bez appears to be the very own Bozo Skeleton of Lard's folklore, and I go crowdsurfing for fun...

DAVID BOWIE is the final and biggest act of the festival. Playing just about every hit anyone has ever heard of.. Ashes to Ashes, Absolute Beginners, Rebel Rebel, Heroes, Let's Dance, he manages to silence his critics and stun his fans by reprising material he promised never to perform again a decade ago.

Ok, it's too late to carry on, except to apologise to anyone I offended... and the bizarre incident where I lost the keys to the tent I was borrowing and had to cut my way into as I needed sleep...

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