Glasto 2002 - Sunday, Other Stage : Air, Elbow, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club...

French space monkeys Air step forward in an attempt to out-prog Roger Waters. Descending from outer space, they spend over an hour staring intensely, smiling obliquely and playing instrumental soundtracks to New Wave films that will never exist.

It’s dull fare. Where they need to calm spirits and send us all home thinking warm, spaced thoughts, they instead send us towards sleep. 'Playgroud Love' threatens briefly to stir some interest and a recamped, slowed down 'Sexy Boy' is almost sexy. But it’s not enough. Slumber beckons. And there's dozens succumbing. Perhaps that was the plan all along.



Black Rebel Motorcycle Club stride onstage and a funny thing happens - they sound good. In fact, they sound like Orbital. It appears they've toughed up, left their coffee table jazz funk at home and decided to go for the jugular. Several thousand Sunday revellers, coming up on the last of their weekend pills, are delighted. Over-sized footballs, beach balls and an inflatable shark start to pass around and folk start 'Shaking That Ass' with merry abandon.


But then they take it a bridge too far. They bring on a very veteran Richie Havens to show people he has no voice left. And then they slide back into coffee table jazz funk soup. Life is just too short.


Belle And Sebastian, oddly, don't flatter to deceive. Although they appear born to play at Glastonbury, with a commune of members and songs about picking flowers, they decide to rock things up.


Frontman Stuart Murdoch cuts a dash in a dark mod-ish suit and good shoes, 'Wandering Along' calls for full-on crowd participation (well... for some salsa hand clapping) and they close with a cover of Thin Lizzy's 'The Boys Are Back In Town'. Which they just about pull off.


Manchester’s Elbow have just got back from a mammoth American tour with just about any band who’d have them, in an attempt to crack the States on the first attempt.


Which probably explains why Guy Garvey’s outfit seem so happy to be back home. And so they should because they’re welcomed as heroes. Today we find them in relaxed form and effortlessly run through the highlights of their debut album, ‘Asleep In The Back’. ‘Any Day Now’ fades into ‘Red’, while ‘Powder Blue’ is a contender for song of the festival. Isaac Hayes on the Pyramid Stage had the crowds, but Elbow, against the odds, have the soul.


march onstage like three dark-hearted glowering outlaws. All in black, hair fantastically big and twisted, they immediately dampen down the samba mood that has followed Brazil’s World Cup win.


It clouds over, the wind gets up – there are no smiles, no words, just intense, rumbling retro rock 'n' roll. ‘Spread Your Love’ is vicious, think Gary Glitter shooting up with Lou Reed. ‘Love Burns’ is cantankerous and mighty.


If you haven’t signed up already, maybe it’s time to join the club.




What do you call Emo in a field? E-moo. Boom boom. After the pensioners reunion which was New Model Army, it’s good to see some youth back in the proceedings. This afternoon, Sum 41 split the vote in two – those who can handle their three-cord pop tunes this early in the afternoon are treated to a punky showcase from a group still miles away from fulfilling their massive potential, those who can’t (or who have just seen NMA), walk away and miss out. Shame on them.


The last time New Model Army walked on a Glastonbury stage was 17 years ago. Did you miss them? Nope, not many people here did either. They look old. They sound tired. Unfortunately they don’t have a place in modern music, and even at this festival where pretty much anything goes, their set is a complete waste of time for everybody under 30.


As the first true sun of the day strikes the Other Stage, in stark contrast the dark grinding vibes of experience a touch of weird intense claustrophobia. While a few more tunes wouldn’t go amiss – Som’s dramatic oeuvre wins through.


-style beery singalongs and [a][/a]’s punk-pop is, in reality, the true start to the day. Loud, catchy but ultimately pretty silly – they do their job admirably but are forgotten almost as soon as they’ve left.


Simon Kaye’s doddering solo folkisms may be tolerated in the Green Field, but for fuck’s sake he has no place on a large stage. Except perhaps as target practice.