A divisive headliner is rapidly becoming a Glastonbury tradition, and Kanye West outdoes even Metallica last year when it comes to inspiring extreme reactions. During Welsh rock band Catfish and the Bottlemen’s Friday afternoon set, frontman Van McCann asks, sincerely, if people are looking forward to the rapper’s performance, and the boos drown out the cheers. Before Kanye takes the stage, there is a genuine crackle of jeopardy.
As is often the case, having something to prove makes for a more powerful entrance. Kanye doesn’t have the temperament to address the backlash playfully like Metallica and Jay Z did, but surely there’s some significance in the choice of opener: Stronger, with its Nietzschean sentiment, “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.”
Standing alone on the huge bare stage, blasted with yellow light, he gives himself nowhere to hide. Slow to address the crowd, let alone pander, he lets the music speak for him. He plays it hard and relentless for 40 minutes with tracks like Power’s stadium hip-hop and Black Skinhead’s militant stomp, as if nervous about losing the slightest momentum.
Nonetheless, the audience’s curiosity wanes when there’s so little to look at and no warmth from the insular figure on stage. He presumes too much knowledge of his work, and whatever advice he may have got from his friends Jay Z and Beyoncé about charming the unconverted doesn’t seem to have sunk in. When he finally slows down for Lost in the World, there’s just not enough goodwill in the bank even with surprise guest Justin Vernon, AKA Bon Iver, to keep him company. During the troughs, he is in effect performing to himself, and even highlights as strong as Jesus Walks and Touch the Sky, which he performs from a crane, can’t elevate this uncompromising set to a triumph when he won’t let the crowd in.
Reactionary festival-goers’ antipathy towards Kanye seems frankly bizarre, given that Glastonbury offers every kind of music under the sun. Earlier in the day, Kent punk duo Slaves fill the John Peel Tent to overflowing with a surly, sarcastic racket that’s thrillingly at odds with the sunny lunchtime ambience. Their toxic disaffection is shared by Nottingham misanthropes Sleaford Mods, which makes for a bracing, fly-in-the-ointment double bill.
Meanwhile, on the Other stage, the Mercury-winning trio Young Fathers find a different vein of intensity with a powerful fusion of hip-hop and art rock. At the Park, Kate Tempest is both a riveting high-velocity MC and an inspiring presence. On the Pyramid stage, Burt Bacharach’s songs are timeless, but they suffer from glutinous arrangements, generic singers and a curious lack of engagement that suggests that this might as well be a gig on a cruise ship.
Dressed like a troublemaker at a wedding (“this is my line of casual farmwear”), LA’s Father John Misty has the saturnine charisma of Nick Cave, the angular dance moves of Jarvis Cocker and such a sharp sense of humour that his jokes are almost as good as his songs. His musical palette extends from Elton John to the Stooges, all of it streaked with pathos and the blackest humour. It’s a knockout performance.
Pharrell Williams resembles a yacht-dwelling international lothario, flanked by a multiracial dance troupe. His solo material, mostly airy funk-pop about how much he likes girls, is the weak link but his heavier NERD songs fire up the vast crowd and the hits that he produced for the likes of Gwen Stefani and Snoop Dogg are almost a potted history of noughties pop. Given that he’s been involved in three of the biggest songs of this decade – Happy, Get Lucky and Blurred Lines – he can’t lose.
On Friday, Catfish and the Bottlemen celebrate their speedy rise. Seemingly influenced by everyone from Oasis to Oasis, they’ve tapped into Britain’s inexhaustible demand for brash, stirring, uncomplicated indie-rock and Van McCann is endearingly enthusiastic, like a Gallagher puppy, even if his fanbase’s Campaign for Real Rock values are depressing.
Friday is particularly good for underrepresented genres. R&B monarch Mary J Blige is slick and commanding on the Pyramid stage and hits another level when the weather turns against her. The hammering rain during her breathtakingly intense performance of No More Drama feels like a spectacular special effect. Blige concludes the song on her knees and takes in the explosive ovation that follows with a tear running down her cheek. “You made me cry,” she says, genuinely overwhelmed. “Thank you so much.”
Motörhead frontman Lemmy, this year’s heavy metal ambassador, is like Stonehenge: he’s been around for ever and he never changes. Today, though, he seems muted and distant behind his mirrored shades and the band fall short of the brutalist velocity for which they’re famous. On the West Holts stage, hip-hop duo Run the Jewels have no such problems, delivering ferocity, fun and charm in equal measure.
Dave Grohl’s broken leg has nixed Foo Fighters’ headlining slot, elevated Florence + the Machine to the top of the bill and forced a last-minute appearance by the Libertines. The latter sound slightly anaemic and adrift on a big stage, while their songs of wasted youth feel increasingly nostalgic. When Pete Doherty and Carl Barât lean in to share a microphone these days, they look less like rakish blood brothers and more like Alas Smith and Jones. Despite the large crowd, the show is more a celebration of their past than their present.
There is no sense that Florence Welch, a rare female headliner, doesn’t belong at the top. She is a tireless trouper, throwing herself around the stage like the Lady of Shalott reborn as a children’s TV presenter and working the crowd like she has thousands of best friends. As her critics often complain, she only has one gear – relentless drama – but it’s the right one for the Pyramid stage after dark.
Back at West Holts, Caribou and Hot Chip are a natural pairing: clever bands who come at dance music sideways and strike its bittersweet heart. They both manage to express emotional complexity while retaining the communal glee of a rave. For the last song of the night, the two bands merge to perform a dazzling double cover version of Bruce Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark and LCD Soundsystem’s All My Friends.
Yet even that dream collaboration is low-key next to the finale of Mark Ronson’s all-star set on the Other stage, when the mega-hit Uptown Funk is performed by an intergenerational supergroup featuring Mary J Blige, Grandmaster Flash and George Clinton. It’s a joyous, once-in-a-lifetime coalition of the kind that could only happen at Glastonbury. A starker contrast with Kanye’s steely solitude could hardly be imagined.
