Glastonbury Festival @ Pilton, Somerset

And, in the words of those most gnarled veteran festival-dudes, the Grateful Dead, “what a long strange trip it’s been!”

Every year Glasto aficionados hold forth over how that year’s event fits in with the festival’s historic sweep. How did the bands stack up? What were the seminal moments? How was the ‘vibe’?

Well, if you were there... or even if you caught any of the proceedings on the telly, net or radio, you’ll be fully aware that, yes, this was a vintage year.

WAS IT THE BEST?

Quite probably.

Well, how could it not be?

The line-up was uniformly stellar with an eye-popping set of headliners. The site was even better laid out than usual, with the quirky leftfield attractions of the alternative nocturnal post-apocalyptic Trash City, Arcadia and Shangri-La ‘villages’, bubbling and fizzing more than ever before.

The crowd was smilier and chattier, and, yes, the weather was, for the most part, fabulous.

SO WHAT?

You can’t over state the importance of an appearance by the sun at a festival. You can put a brave face on rain, but, no matter how good the bands, you’re always going to be cold, wet, and, in the case of Glastonbury, muddy. And because you can’t sit down, that means being tired… no, exhausted.

And after a morning of rain on the Friday, it looked like we were in for a wet one. As predicted the mud returned and the wellies came on. Only for the sun to brazen itout and dry the whole lot up. Leaving us to lounge around on parched grass and baked earth, suffering not from trench foot but sunburn. Pure joy!

Festival organsiser Michael Eavis was delighted. Catching up with him backstage, he told me, in that lovely warm Somerset burr, that he had been “terribly worried” earlier in the week. “But isn’t it fantastic!” he grinned, beaming up at the faultless blue skies.

Michael had earlier announced it was to be his last Glastonbury as festival organiser, and that he would be handing over the reigns to daughter Emily – who cut her teeth on the luscious Park site – her own creation, no less. And what a weekend to bow out on.

Emily has a hard act to follow, as no doubt the blunt-speaking Michael will continue to remind her.

WHO WAS TALK OF THE FEST?

OF course, it was another Michael who dominated the start of the festival – Jackson.

Glasto is famous for its hoaxes and rumours. Ne’er a year goes by without someone announcing the passing of some celeb or member of the Royal Family, the resignation of a Prime Minister, or the appearance, on site, of some unfeasible band – who are doing a secret gig in some far-flung corner of the site.

So when people began shouting that ‘Jacko had died’ while wandering around the site on Thursday evening, the news met not shock or grief, but resigned amusement at the birth of another ludicrous tale in the Glastonbury bubble.

It was only when the calls and texts started appearing from the ‘outside world’ that the shocking truth began to emerge.

By breakfast the next morning, the first tributes emerged. Not shrines, or black armbands – but hastily printed T-shirts (‘I was at Glasto when Jacko died’ being about the only one decent enough to be repeatable on a family website!) and the ubiquitous flags (‘Moonwalk in peace’ was a nice one – with pictures of the King of Pop next to E.T.).

Artists played tributes – some more sincere than others. The first being from one of the openers Gabriella Cilmi, who wove a few lines of Billy jean into her set, while most interesting being a hip-hop Jacko medley by rapper Dizzee Rascal. Was it heartfelt or ironic? Only Dizzee knows. Oh, and Lady Gaga cried (all night in her trailer, apparently) and Lily Allen wore a long sequined glove. Hmmm.

RIGHT, SO WHAT ABOUT THE MUSIC?

WITH 12 principal stages and dozens of smaller ones, scattered about a vast and hilly site, you would need an army of reviewers to spread out, military-style, to give a half-decent picture of what made the weekend tick musically.

Alas, as a sole trader, I was in exactly the same boat as every other punter – starring like a headlight-dazzled rabbit into headlights of a tantalising programme which read like a Who’s Who, not only of contemporary, but classic and vintage rock and pop – from 17 year-old Cilmi, to 64-year-old Neil Young. And he wasn’t the oldest – by a long shot.

And then there’s the folk, jazz, dance (in all its guises), metal, and world – rai, reggae, tango, samba, gospel, avant garde… and everything else with a pulse or rhythm.

SO WHAT WERE THE HIGHLIGHTS?

The buzz was all about The Boss.

And BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN’s epic two-and-a-half hour headlining set on Saturday was certainly an occasion. Not least for those fans who had stumbled to stake their places at the pit barrier at 4am! Yes, while everyone else was tucked up in their tent, or seeing in the sunrise from the Stone Circle, these hardy devotees were draping stars and stripes over the barrier – with just staggering drunks, seagulls and assorted litter pickers for company, for at least six hours.

Still, they weren’t disappointed when the great man bounded on to the stage at 10pm – ripping into an exhausting set touching on most of the hits, and lots of samey-sounding album tracks, each a hymn to the American working man/ trucker/ traveller/ lover/ blue-collar hero. Born to Run was pure adrenaline, and Dancing in the Dark was fun, but the rest, I have to admit, was hard work… and I have to confess to enjoying a strategic lie down, 30 minutes in. Sacrilege? To some, certainly.

Still, at 59, you can’t fault him for his full-on energy, barely pausing between tracks and leaving his backing band standing – though me, sleeping.

ANYONE ELSE?

Better, to my mind, was NEIL YOUNG, who ripped through a joyous set on Friday night, which evoked all the glory of his Crazy Horse days, and embellished with dreamy guitar solos, which while beautiful, stopped well short of self-indulgent.

Heart of Gold and Down by the River were sublime sing-along moments from the front of the stage to the top of the hill… while Rockin’’ in the Free World was electrifying; and never ending – being stretched out by about four false finishes.

In his aboriginal T-shirt and unkempt hair he looked every inch the counter culture icon - and displayed that legendary ‘edge’ while bashing his guitar – into the mic stand. And was it a mark of respect to the British crowd, but he finished on something quite unexpected. A white hot-white noise-rich cover of the Beatles’ Day in the Life. Ending on that dramatic cataclysmic blast.

Historic!

AND I HEAR HIS MATES WERE THERE...

YES, but strangeley separated by a full day was Young’s former sparring partners CROSBY, STILLS and NASH, who captivated a hypnotised crowd with their lilting harmonies and glorious melodies. With the sun high in the sky, and the crowd gently singing-along to classics like Marrakesh Express, Guinevere and Wooden Ships, it seemed life couldn’t get any better.

The three hippy amigos were given an unenviable slot sandwiched by the equally bombastic Dizzee Rascal and Kasabian, of all people. And while David, Stephen and Graham are anything BUT street, they pulled a vintage Glastonbury moment out of their hats. It was, simply beautiful, one of the loveliest sets this farm has ever experienced – and it left many a damp eye around the field – including two of my own.

They looked delighted at the reception they’d received. Who knows, perhaps they’d feared how their grassy horizontal country rock would go down. They left in no doubt that we loved them. And, for that, I felt proud.

SO A MELLOW VIBE THEN?

YES.. on that stage at least. And a similar vibe pervaded the set by Seattle’s FLEET FOXES (how I’d loved to have seen the two bands play together!).

And being the authors of this year’s best album so far, earned them a healthy crowd.

Tunes like White Winter Hymnal and Mykonos had the crowd gawping, but, dare I say, they still lack enough critical mass to fuel a festival set. Fortunately, time is on their side.

ANYONE MORE, WELL, MODERN?

OF COURSE. Flavours of the moment to electrify their respective sites included the ever-reliable, and utterly charming LILY ALLEN, who as a performer, and personality is both more entertaining, interesting and sexy than the embarrassing showwomanship of LADY GAGA, who’s elaborate faux-erotica, ludicrous posturing and terrible songscomes gives her the look of a Matalan-style Madanna. Poker Face? Yes, we’d all like to!

Other highlights were too numerous to mention – but included a supremely dark and slightly menacing, but throat-grabbingly, heart-stoppingly loud NICK CAVE & THE BAD SEEDS, a busy, dancy, pacey cowbell-studded set by FRIENDLY FIRES, a bombastic and ludicrously pompous blast of metal-dance from PENDULUM, a soothing, heart-warming and strangely proficient set by Oxford’s STORNOWAY (strange, because they’d never even been to the festival before – let alone played there), and a gorgeously lilting session of feel-good Algerian rai-pop from a grinning KHALED.

Oh yes, and THE LOW ANTHEM, kicked ass – though with a gently slippered foot, soothing, lulling and enchanting with their low-fi Americana.

AND THE BEST?

THE true super stars of the weekend were a pair of popular beat combos from Leicester and one from Essex.

Yep. Midland lads KASABIAN have been around for a few years now, chipping away at the charts, and slowly building up a fanbase that almost resembled Springsteen’s in its loyalty.

Strutting frontman Tom Meighan is the consummate rockstar – outdoing even Liam Gallagher. Infact, it was clear from this ground-scorching performance that they are the new Oasis. No wonder Bruce picked them to support him. Little did he know, however, that they’d upstage him.

Cutt Off, Empire, Fire and Club Foot saw the band’s wall of indie-psych rock confronted by an immense choir from the crowd, as we sang back – turning Tom and guitarist/ songwriter Sergio Pizzorno’s smiles into huge cheesy grins. “This is the best festival in the world!” Tom yelled, lapping up the adoration.

They finished on a neck-pricking version of Candi Staton’s You’ve Got the Love before launching into classic LSF – which elicited yet more chanting from the crowd – the singing reverbing around the field long after the band left thestage. This was pure rock.

And the Essex boys? Well, talk about saving the best for last! BLUR were the band on everyone’s lips and the anticipation crackled in the air, as they sauntered on stage – as if it had been just yesterday they’d played their last major gig together, not 10 years ago.

Kicking off with She’s so High, frontman Damon Albarn needed no time to find his stride.

“There’s a lot of people here!” he said gazing out at the ocean of festival-goers- stretching to the far distance.

The hits followed fast and furious, with no time for fillers… Girls and Boys, Beetlebum, Out of Time, Coffe & TV, Tender, Country House – which received a rapturous response – Chemical World, and Sunday Sunday (with the crowd encouraged to join Damon in a spot of bonkers running-on-the spot).

And then the unexpected happened – with bespectacled pucker cockney geezer Phil Daniels swaggering on stage to reprieve his role as the voice of Park Life.

When the shocked applause died down, they belted on with End of a Century and To the End – a spinning Damon ending up collapsed on the stage – crying. Yes real tears. For a brief moment confusion reigned. His bandmates gawped. Was he joking? No. Was he going to carry on? Of course!

And in what style – with possibly their greatest ever tune This is a Low.

“I’m pleased we decided to do these gigs now,” he confided to the cheering crowd, following up with Advert and a whopping, rollicking, cranium crunching Song 2.

They made their second encore with For Tomorrow and The Universal – cue more crowd choral action… which echoed all the way to Shangri La and the deep dark woods beyond.

The festival may have been all but over, but all around were grins, hugs and bad attempts at the chorus to Song 2.

Bruce, take note! This is how to work a crowd, And Emily Eavis: good luck girl. You’re dad is gonna be a hard act to follow! Roll on 2010!