Chris Brauer Media Project [BLOG]

A bit late but a great story nonetheless. Featured in New Musical Express (NME) festival special this tale is 24 hours on site at Glastonbury musical festival 2005.

On the back of dusty dry summer heat came torrential downpour. It might have been expected, depending on who you asked. Prior to the festival, a website was set-up to record all of the weather forecasts and the end result on Wednesday, June 22 was that noone was really sure. What was sure was that a thuderstorm was brewing but the question was if it would hit the Glastonbury site. Many approached the turnstiles wearing sandals in the simmering countryside, wellies held high, ready to splash through whatever bog should prevail.

Thursday, June 23 was the most spectacular of days. The thorngs had come early populating all the popular campsites, with 50,000 arriving on Wednesday. Our arrival at 11:30am by the 8am National Express from London was informed by XXXs drawn across huge swaths of the camping space as full. Particularly Pennart's Hill and the areas around the Greenfields and big stages. We had the added complication of having to buy a tent because the borrowed tent I unraveled the evening before (in the time honored tradition of setting up your tent in advance so you can look like a tentmaster man on the actual day in camping street credibility) had turned out to be assaulted by mildew with several holes, rendered useless. In the process of buying a new tent I stumbled across a small open space, just big enough to fit our three man (sleeps two, or three midgets), in a perfect location on Pennart's Hill, surrounded by friendly people. To set up camp at this location would turn out to be a fateful decision that would kick off one of the most dramatic 24 hours of my life.

The morning skies of Friday, June 24 held ominous and theatrical coloring and movement, a dark and brooding premonition as Glastonbury went to sleep (or not) with glorious anticipation at the kick-off of the festival and the days to come. It was a restless night as my old friend Carmen Storey and I set up camp at what seemed a perfect location, on a slight slope and not obviously a water collection point. A wider angle view would have yielded a different perspective as you saw that two hills shaped a valley in which our tent stood, and in which a river was soon to flow. A big thunderstorm roared in at around 2am. The thunder clapped above and the sky took on sheet of fire, further diluted through the canvas tent skin. I woke up every hour or so to hear the rain barraging the tent and listen to the fireworks from convection of humid warm air. I drifted in and out of slumber until 5am on Friday morning. Start the clock.

5am: Wake up from a big thunder clap to find rain dripping on the outside of the fly, slowly forming a tiny pool on the edge of the tent. It looks like we are all right as the storm has been raging for hours.

6:30am: I wake to a still dry tent to hear a couple passing the edge of our campsite.
“We’re kind of in the eye of it right now I think. I think the worst is yet to come.”
I hope not I think to myself.

8am: Boy was I wrong! Wake up this time to find the porch of our tent filling with flowing water, over a foot high and seeping in from all sides. Every time I try and step out on to the porch the water seeps over on to the sleeping bags in the tent. We are freaking out! After a few moments of confusion we assemble to get the bags out of the tent and find some fellow campers waiting under a gazebo watching the carnage, but eager to help. Our valley has become a river and the scene is like a confused bombsite with pockets of frenzied action and other tents sitting quiet, filling with water. It was the first but not the last time a Glastonbury camper helped us out as rain clattered the site but comradery reined over the weekend. We sheltered with our bags under the friendly neighborhood gazebo as the skies raged overhead.

9am: The rain is not letting up but I decide to survey the wreckage of our "Bass Camp" tent (it was either that or the "Hippy Hut" when buying on-site and I liked the Bass on the side). The tent sat crumpled in a flowing river of water breaking through the valley. There was no stink or discoloration of the rainwater as it pooled. Dismantling the tent a friendly face appeared out of nowhere to offer a hand. He had a cool girlfriend that took shelter with Carmen as we rebuilt the tent in the rain (it is one of the unfortunate consequences of the frenzied action that I can not remember any names or contact information for those who helped us through this day but if they read this they know who they are and I salute you with every ounce of my humanity). Emptying out the inner tent found Stella cans, plastic pop bottles, a lump of coal, Carmen's glasses and my book. Incredibly we had salvaged EVERYTHING from the wreckage. My cell phone stopped working and my alarm clock (that's what you get for bringing an alarm clock to Glastonbury) batteries were soaked. The intent was to get the structure up for when the deluge stopped. Working together we got it upright on higher ground and set out for the day to formulate a plan of action.

10am: We are sitting in a cafe in the Kids Field that we spotted the day before. It is an incredible multi-tier wooden structure purposely built for the festival. The food and vibe are fantastic as the rain lets up and we start thinking about how we can dry out our things and get involved in the festivities. Everyone is reading about the festival and chatting over coffee.

10:30am: BOOM! More bloody thunder. Suddenly the best option looks like buying sleeping bags and crashing in the chill out area of the dance tents, also spotted the night before. What happens if it doesn't stop raining? Although the staff are supportive and helpful no-one has any information about the scale of the flooding. One woman tells her friend about watching lightning strike the acoustic tent and hearing screams. We worry about our stuff at the Gazebo. The power is said to be cut at the Pyramid Stage. Stories are circulating about the flooding of the family fields and everyone feels bad. This was a real low point.

12pm: The sky changes shape as if divided on a flag, the disruptive forces moving out, and grey-blue skies moving in. Rain will fall later a few times in the day but the storm is over. We return to our camp to find more help in drying out our things on the top of our tent and the gazebo.

3:30pm: Sweet satisfaction with the first pear cider of the day and great Canadian band Hot Hot Heat from my hometown of Victoria, BC on the Other stage. I've seen them play tiny cramped venues in our little city on the beautiful west coast of Vancouver Island and laughed when Steve Bays (lead singer and keyboard player) said he wasn't used to being 40 feet from his audience. It suddenly looked as if, against the odds, everything was going to be OK. Refugees from the storm were circulating everywhere on the camp but anyone looking for help could find it from staff or campers alike. The sun was filtering through and a consensus emerged that the dramatic devastation was being addressed. Nobody said it on a bull horn or anything like that, but the feeling was in the air. Electricity was back on across the site, the BBC (the rumor was that their equipment was low to the ground and got swamped) was broadcasting and Glastobury had survived the tsunami. But the mud was really starting to form.

4:30pm: Head back to camp to retrieve our drying clothes and bags. We delude ourselves into believing that they are going to dry out completely and store them in the tent. Basically back to business as usual. Remarkable really and know that others haven't been as lucky.

6:00pm: Wander back through the Green Fields. Here the people seem almost ecstatic to be mingling with the elements. Last night we could hear them cheering through the night as the lightning painted the sky. At the time we were pissed off: "Don't ask for it!" But in retrospect and looking at the muddy faces of passers-by it suddenly seem very much in the spirit of resilience and determination to have fun that defines the festival. At one point a naked man comes running out on to the walkway, jumping around in front of bemused people, painted head-to-toe in grey. Carmen points out that even his sex has been touched up. As he whirls off to another space a small child holding her mom's hand inquires: "Who was that?".
"That?" the mom replies, thinking on the spot. "That was the grey ghost."
The girl nods her head with a twinkling smile and the two of them continue on their way to wherever.

6:25pm: Pete Doherty finally takes the stage with Babyshambles (the only late arrival we witnessed through the entire tightly scheduled festival) and would later read that the set was a "shamble", but didn't feel that way. Kate Moss dances feverently near the front of the crowd as Docherty oozes rock star and that is part of what we are coming to see. Even if we can't understand a word he says.

8pm: Start moving across the campsite through the Dance Tents. Passing the John Peels stage we overhear two girls debating the next move:
"Pete and Kate are getting married at Lost Vagueness."
"What else is going on?"
"Some guy is planning an anti-rain dance at the Stones."
"Let's go watch that."
Arrive at Pyramid stage to see the Doves put on an assured and complete performance. They have so many great songs to pack into one and a half hours that the crowd really starts to get into it and the rain seems already a distant memory, though we expect a reminder when returned to our damp tent. For now it is all about the music. I feel the giddiness of a teenager worshipping pop idols about catching the White Stripes in action later.

9:30pm: First, somewhat surprisingly, we are treated to a masterclass in 2005 guitar pop song as The Killers take the crowd through rising renditions, thankfully opening with their anthemic if already tired single to later showcase the range of their catchy repertoire. This band is often critically viewed as boring and manufactured. But on this night they kind of remind me of The Cure, Bowie, and Talking Heads. And the crowd loves it.

11:00pm: For critics and campers alike the appearance of the White Stripe duo is anticipated as one of the moments of the 2005 festival. And they don't disappoint.
An Austrian couple behind us reflect on the big sounds coming from the stage: "There are just two of them?"
Jack Gillis growls into the microphone and Meg White pounds the drums with such vigor it seems they've got their own Seven Nation Army on stage.

12:00pm: Just in case we thought the day wasn't quite full enough of drama and excitement trust the witching hour to deal a new thunderclap into the mix. Carmen and I stand side by side on a nice ridge watching and listening, turning to each other to smile or comment on how great everything is and what a great day it is and what else could you want out of life. Suddenly she turns to me.
"I don't feel well. I need a glass of water."
Before I can respond she collapses into my arms, eyes rolled back in her head. For a small woman she weighs a ton. I call out her name but she doesn’t respond at all and she feels lifeless. The lights and sounds of the concert continue around us but a few have taken notice.
"Is she all right?"
"Carmen! Carmen! Can you hear me?"
"What's happening?"
"That girl passed out!"
I can't tell if she is breathing and with her mouth closed and her face growing paler I attempt a clumsy mouth-to-mouth, slipping in the mud to have her collapse on top of me. I've never seen her like this and can think of no obvious reason why she should be induced into such a state. Neither of us like chemicals and despite a steady stream of peach ciders and vodka red bulls we have not been overconsumptive. This is serious and I sober immediately.
"Can you help me?"
The Austrian man from before volunteers and grabs Carmen's legs while I carry her body. Scanning the masses it is obvious that we are going to have to seek emergency response on the edge of the crowd. We smash down into the pack hollering to clear the way. Again we slip in the mud and the three of us collapse. A guy in a Liverpool jersey (I'm an Arsenal fan but Liverpool second if there is such a thing. Now even more so.) helps us up and now three of us are carrying her still lifeless body through the crowd. People are stunned as we bustle through, the swaying ecstasy of a crowd in rapture suddenly broken.
"Not so fast. It is difficult moving backwards," the Austrian, a big man thank god, says as we thrust towards the tents on the edge of the crowd.
"Oh Shit!"
That's what I remember hearing from the people around, again and again. Oh shit! Man down at a place where all for one and one for all seems truly to exist. I am still yelling to Carmen as we move and suddenly her legs stir and she gurgles out something incomprehensible.
"She's conscious!" I yell to my moving men and they greet the news with smiles all around.
As we reach the edge of the clearing she is moving about and indicates she can stand. We stop and she bolts up looking at me with disoriented curiosity.
"Chris. I said I'd like a water. Can we get one?"
She obviously has no clue what has happened. A small crowd has gathered around us.
"She's all right?!"
"Wow. That was drama, man."
The Austrian's wife has caught up, following us all the way. I try to express me gratitude, disoriented myself.
"Wunderbar Osterrich," shaking his hand.
"And you Champion," to Liverpool.
Carmen is getting impatient so I try and snap her out of it.
"Hold on. Before anything else. You're Alive? You're Alive?"

In overcoming the greatest of obstacles in tent river floods and impossible mud we had fallen victim to the most obvious of dangers. Dehydration had set upon both of us at this point but her feinting reaction was the alert. When I propped her up against the main stage bar we lapped up bottled water like camels. The bartender offered a free steady supply: "Just chill out if you are in a bad way."

1am (Saturday): We start heading back to our campsite to relax and take in the overload of the day. En route we pause at the Glade to drink more water. It is one of my favorite spots at the festival. Fatboy Slim was on the decks and who else but Jack Gillis is propped up beside the DJ. The crowd is swaying to a surprisingly downbeat Norman Cook. A guy in a rasta hat stops right in front of me.
"There are only two things man that can do it. Two things!"
He is suddenly serious, holding two fingers in front of his face.
"One you can go up on the space shuttle," his eyes gazing skyward. "But that costs billions of pounds and that, and oooos got billions of pounds, right."
"But the second is you put out 125 quid and get on this four day spaceship ride. Best time in the world man. Best time in the world."

5am: Been waking through the night to check on our tent and Carmen. Everything seems to be back to perfect again. The beginnings of a radiant heat on the tent skin speak to sunnier days ahead. I can hardly believe what has gone on over the past 24 hours but feel part of something truly special. Glastonbury is a temporary city of 125,000 people where liberty and respect reign. In the year Michael Eavis tapped the grounds of his farm to supply the spring water that gave us life back, we could all look to bottle the feeling of this festival in our own lives.
Glastonbury 2005 Links:

BBC Glastonbury
eFestivals Glastonbury photo gallaries
Playlouder Glastonbury
Urban 75 Glastonbury

Labels: music, travel