When I heard we were playing at Glastonbury this year, I planned on spending at least one night there and soaking up some of the atmosphere on-site. Dipping in and out of the world’s largest greenfield festival suits me – large crowds tend to wear me down after a while and Glastonbury is just a monster – and this plan had worked very nicely for the past couple of years. Fate (or viral gastroenteritis, to be unnecessarily specific), sadly, had other plans for me. I spent most of the past week a bit too ill to do anything useful (besides re-watching the first series of True Detective, which is clearly never a waste of anyone’s time), and ended up being probably the only 100% sober visitor to Worthy Farm this year, driving down in time for our gig and then leaving immediately after for the desolate, empty embrace of the nearest Premier Inn.

As a result I didn’t really get to spend any (quality) time at the festival, unless you count our set as deserving of that label (for the record, I had a great time and it really lifted me out my slump). Most of my experience of this year’s festival was therefore via the BBC and various online musings (Twitter, the Guardian, the usual suspects really). I began to find the general pattern of online conversation and debate about Glastonbury rather tiring and cynical, and mistakenly began to transfer that ennui towards the festival itself.

I’d been in this situation before and, this time, I knew not to fall into the trap. Back in 2005 I went along for my first (and, to-date, only) time as a punter. I had a good time, but really had to work hard for it. Waking up on the Friday morning to find a previously non-existent river running through the middle of our tent was not a pleasant experience. By midday, said tent was under 6 inches of water, all my clothes were soaked through (as was my sleeping bag) and my friend and I were forced to set off back to the car for some emergency drying. Later that night we bought one of the last remaining inflatable mattresses in a far-flung corner of the site and carried it above our heads, for what seemed like an hour, back towards our sodden tent, all while drunken idiots thought it’d be hilarious to try and slap it out of our hands into the nearest muddy ditch. It felt more like a military operation than a joyous musical celebration, but we did what any sane person would do under the circumstances - drink far, far too much cider and try to have a good time. By Brian Wilson’s set on the Sunday afternoon the sun had come out and everything seemed great; by the time we left on the Monday morning I think I’d genuinely persuaded myself that I’d had fun. I think I might have, in fact.

However, it was all a bit too much for me. Too big, too many people, too far to walk through too much mud to get to the next show and so on. I spent the next few years going back to Bestival (now also far too big, and I’m far too old for it), then moved on to the delights of End of the Road. Every year Glastonbury came back on the TV courtesy of the BBC; Jo Whiley said every single act was ‘amazing’ (they definitely weren’t), my social media feeds would be full of boring people droning on about what a great time they were having at the festival (if you’re having such a great time get off your bloody phone, I grumped), the Guardian would descend further into endless, unwitting middle-class self-parody, the (pointless) speculation over the weather forecast seemed to start a week earlier every year, the latest non-controversy over whichever bland / not-bland-enough headliners they’d plumped for would rear its boring head and drive anyone with half a brain mad – in short, every year I felt more and more certain that I’d never go back. Once was enough – I’d done it, had a good time, but it wasn’t for me. (Of course I’d jump at the chance to play there, but then I’m a vain and callow ‘performer’ so that goes without saying.)

By 2013 I’d made my mind up firmly – I didn’t really like it. I was more than happy to join in the general cynicism of those who didn’t attend, muting or even deleting the more persistent social media gloaters amongst my friends and generally trying to shut out the Glastonbury noise. When we were booked to play the William’s Green Stage that year, although I was very happy about ticking off one of my musical ambitions (for reference, they were / are: release an EP, do a tour, play Glastonbury, play a gig in Berlin, play a gig in New York, play at Brixton Academy), I can’t say I was unusually excited. The fact it took us 3 hours to get from the entrance to the stage via an extraordinarily slow and dim-witted security team didn’t help – it was more fuel, in fact, for my ‘it’s too big / too much of a nightmare’ theory. Right up to the point where we went on stage – about five minutes late, as per usual for us and our technical ‘issues’ – I was resolutely grumpy about the whole thing. Glastonbury’s rubbish. I prefer smaller festivals. I would not be shaken. Then we played our first song.

I can’t really describe the crowd reaction that day – it was something beyond words. The sheer noise of it, for one, was like being physically assaulted, like having someone punch you in the stomach. More than that, though, was the warmth and – dare I say it – love that emanated from the crowd. I’d never felt such a feeling on stage before, such an all-encompassing warmth of feeling and genuine goodwill from everyone present. I was looking at Wrigglesworth between songs and saying ‘what’s going on?!’ It was genuinely shocking. And it was so far and above anything else we’d experienced, anywhere. It was inexplicable.

Afterwards I remember our booking agent coming over to me as I was packing away some of our kit behind the stage; I seem to remember feeling shell-shocked, but in the best possible way. I definitely didn’t make much sense, anyway. He said ‘great show’ or words to that effect and I think I just shook my head in answer and said ‘ridiculous’. I couldn’t really believe what had just happened.

The fact is – and I say this as a former non-believer, heretic, cynic, whatever you will – there is something uniquely special about the crowd at Glastonbury. Playing it three years in a row, in and amongst what must be around 300 other shows, has moved this from ‘theory’ in my head to solid mind-fact. If you don’t believe me, watch Lionel Richie’s reaction after playing ‘Dancing on the Ceiling’ on Sunday. He is visibly, profoundly, confusedly moved by the crowd, repeatedly saying ‘what the hell is going on?!’ and saying ‘outrageous’ over and over again. He can’t quite believe the reaction he’s getting from the crowd. I can only imagine what it must’ve felt like for him after so long in the music business and so many shows, but his reaction was entirely genuine and it was also, at its heart, entirely the same as mine in a small tent in 2013. Doubtless it’s been the reaction of hundreds of other acts over the years; Nile Rodgers, another veteran, last year telling the crowd he’d been waiting his whole life for a show like this – that’s the feeling. ‘What the hell is going on?!’

Afterwards, quizzed by Jo Whiley on his amazing (of course) set, Lionel Richie was genuinely humbled by the experience, saying: ‘That was as good as it gets. Even after all the years of me performing, when a crowd takes over like that… I couldn’t have rehearsed them better for any show on Earth. I’ve been to a lot of shows and that was organised chaos at its best… It was the perfect show.’ I don’t know what it says about my mental and emotional stability, but I was profoundly moved by both his show and his reaction. It was – and is – extraordinary to see.

Crowds are hard to explain. You can play a great show in a city one tour, then head back to be met by stony-faced silence; we’ve similarly had the reverse in many cases. If you could crack crowd science, socially engineering every crowd to contain exactly the right proportion of head-nodders, foot-tappers, hecklers, dancers and (for want of a better word) warmth-givers, you’d be a billionaire. I can’t explain it, but sometimes you just know that the crowd is with you 100%, that everything will be fine, that you’re amongst friends, that something special is happening, that tonight’s show is going to be a really fun one. Glastonbury is all that and then some. It has been for us on each of the three occasions we’ve played it, and fingers crossed it will be again in the future. It’s in the air, somehow; it might sound fatuous, or hippy-dippy, but believe me, it’s true.

More important than our experience as performers, though, is knowing what it feels like for the people who actually buy tickets and go along to be part of a crowd like that. That sense of togetherness, shared experience, shared joy is clearly what makes the festival such a repeatedly big draw. There are, of course, bound to be a few wrong ’uns amongst a crowd that large, but to be part of something so much bigger and somehow more real than you – well, that’s worth any ticket price. And it’s also exactly what can’t be captured by sitting at home watching it on the TV.

Needless to say, then, that the past few years has seen me totally re-evaluating the festival. ‘It’s too big’? Well it has to be, to be able to cater for so many different tastes. ‘It’s too mainstream’? Au contraire (bonjour) – it’s the only festival I know of to have its own counter-culture, centred around the thriving Shangri-La and Block 9 areas. ‘The headliners are dull’? Who cares! Complaining about the headliners is like moaning that Strictly Come Dancing is on BBC1 on a Saturday night. Get yourself over to BBC4 for some subtitled crime thrillers! Have some imagination! ‘The media coverage is vapid and irritating’? Some of it might well be – ignore it! Whoever thought that the best way to experience a festival would be to watch it on telly?! Turn it off, buy a ticket and head down to experience it for yourself. (Trust me, for someone like me to be advocating that – well, let’s just say it’s not entirely in character.) ‘It’s full of idiots’? Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t vouch for the mental acuity of each and every Glastonbury-goer, but something special happens when those people come together on that site. It is different from anywhere else I’ve ever been. No matter which element of it you detach and try to pull apart under the microscope, it remains far greater than the sum of its parts.

And that’s before you even get into the festival’s disavowal of big business and refusal to chase sheer, naked profit. Even with the steady trickle of occasional corporate sponsors (EE and their 4G can do one, in my opinion – festivals are for experiencing, not tweeting about), it’s rare to find a festival so large anywhere in the world that gives such prominent space to charities and has such a commendably anti-capitalist, anti-consumerist, anti-materialist, pro-green, shared-responsibility message. In fact I’d say it’s unique. For it to have survived into the twenty-first century and retained that spirit, all the while going from strength to strength as an artistic entity, is nothing short of a miracle.

Anyway. This has turned into a very long, waffly, self-indulgent post. I intend most of the stuff on this site to be similar, so you can only really blame yourself for reading it. My point is, and remains: for all of the guff talked about it, all the online inanity and ridiculous celebrity distractions, there is something inexplicably magic about Glastonbury. Those who’ve been there know what I’m talking about. If you find yourself sitting at home moaning about this, that or the other, as I almost began to this year, feeling sorry for myself and only experiencing it through the distorting prism of online snarkiness – don’t give in to that kind of cynicism and lazy ill-will. Do yourself a favour and just go one year. I dare you.

Before I sign off, I’d like to say a final thanks to everyone who came down to see us on Saturday night. That was one of my favourite shows ever.

Peace and vibes, man,

J. Willgoose, Esq.

PS – In case it’s not abundantly obvious, I’d like to make it clear to Ms Eavis that we’re very much available for 2016. Thanks!