Flags of our Glasto

I haven't quite made my decision on the great Glastonbury flags debate, but I agree it's an issue - and not a simple one, oh no. It seems to me that a complex rule set should be brought in to make everyone's Glastonbury Pyramid Stage experience safer and more enjoyable - especially mine.

The over-numerous high-pole flags and banners should probably be restricted:

1) Unless I find them useful for navigation purposes. I need to be found in the heaving maelstrom by a simple text message to friends and family: pyramid stage rhs under inflatable giraffe and left of che guevara is enough to pinpoint my location almost exactly.

2) When they block my view of the band. Obviously.

3) When they are about sport. I have nothing against Premier League football clubs, Formula One racing teams or the Chipping Sodbury Tiddlywink 3rd XV - but I don't want to be distracted by these irrelevant enthusiasms when I am grooving to Bruce Springsteen.

4) Unless the are funny. Golf Sale This Way works. I Love Sausages doesn't.

5) If it takes an Iwo Jima-like multi-person effort to erect and guy ropes to keep it up, it's too big.

6) Peace, Love, Smiley Faces - I accept a smattering these can help with the vibe. Some refugee from Sid's mutant toy collection in Toy Story on a stick won't.

Of course, once you start banning flags, what next? How much should they legislate? A Glastonbury rulebook:

Rule 13c: Audience members may only sit on fellow audience member's shoulders if i) female and ii) willing to remove T shirt and and wave over head like demented rodeo rider for one short interval on each shoulder-mounting instance.

It's the little things which make a home...

Avid music festival goer, I still demand my creature comforts. Whatever the allure of the music, I will only attend if I can be assured that my 3S requirements are met. I need a warm, dry and comfortable place to sleep, a daily hot shower, and somewhere relatively private, pleasant and secure in order to... ah... sh... read a magazine and contemplate the day.

In cases where a luxury caravan, say, was not available, The Brown Corporation have released a potential solution for one's festival movements. I have no connection with the company, have never tested it, but from the heart of my bottom, I recommend it.

The Devil's Right Hand

I almost met Steve Earle, once.

It was in the Acoustic Tent at Glastonbury in 2005 - he had wowed us Friday evening, headlining that same tent in solo mode, and earlier that day we had caught Allison Moorer's set. When she came on to duet with him, we learned that they were engaged, and she would become wife number six... or is it seven, it's not easy to recall, since he married one twice, and anyway, it mostly happened when he was inebriated, i.e. incessantly between the ages of 14 and 40.

Anyway, Sunday afternoon, the festival winding down and the mud depleting any remaining energy, I went to see Patty Griffin in the same Acoustic Tent. She was marvellous, but unusually poorly attended. It seemed like the crowd consisted of just me... and Steve and Allison. He was pretty rock n' roll, with shirtsleeves rolled up right over his biceps, and his wallet attached to his jeans with a long robust chain, enough to deter anyone from trying to pinch either. And they were standing right next to me.

As Patty finished her set, I brayed for an encore and was just about to give Steve a friendly nudge (I figured that he would agree with me that he, Allison and Patty were all pretty damn fine at this singer/songwriter stuff), when I turned to see them walking off hand-in-hand towards backstage. Missed my chance.

I just finished reading Hardcore Troubadour: The Life and Near Death of Steve Earle by Lauren St John, and that missed chance weighs more heavily.

If Steve Earle weren't a living, breathing person, he'd be a character in a blues song -- a raucous ballad about a gifted rebel who drank too much, lost most of his women in a blizzard of crack and cocaine addiction, and always came out on the wrong side of the law. Somewhere in the midst of all this, he also managed to weld rock to country, the Beatles to Springsteen, and bluegrass to punk, establishing himself among the most thoroughly original and politically astute musicians of his generation. Granted unrestricted access to Steve and his family and friends, Lauren St John has given us a sometimes shocking, often moving, and completely unvarnished biography of one of America's most talismanic sons.

You can tell that St John worked for The Sunday Times and also writes biographies of professional golfers - I'm not sure that amongst the wild and hoary epithets I have for Steve Earle's life, him being hit for six would figure. Nevertheless, she does a great job. Ironically, I now like Steve the person less, but respect his music more.

Which leads me to introduce the first of a series of Axiomatic Things I've Learned At Gigs (ATILAGs):

There is no live music set which cannot be improved by a guest appearance from Steve Earle.

viz. Sharon Shannon, Allison Moorer and The Waterboys at this summer's Cambridge Folk Festival, where a hirsute Steve made another Friday night for me.

In the lottery, we got a caravan with a burly chassis

Tense moments indeed, as we logged on yesterday morning at 9am to get our Glastonbury tickets, in the select company of about 250,000 other online souls. Friend Jim, legendary gig-goer and now a hero yet again, managed to get our allocation at about 10am. Cheers all round! 135,000 were sold in less than two hours, from the 400,000 who had pre-registered.

Chris immediately booked our caravan. I trust we will get our usual slot in the cardigan and slippers corner.

Now, who can give me an accurate weather forecast for Shepton Mallet in 12 weeks time? That's when Shirley Bassey will be amongst this year's acts.