Many of his songs are appallingly sexist. So why is feminist Julie Bindel such a fan of Snoop Dogg's music – and what did she make of his set?

The crowd roars, the bass is so deep it hurts my chest. Snoop Dogg, resplendent in white singlet and a giant knuckleduster that spells out his name in diamonds, gyrates his way to the centre of the Pyramid stage. He has a voice like honey dripping on rose petals, he raps like a demon – and he pours out his bile all over women.

All around me, young female fans submit to his music, waving spliffs and splashing cider on their burning flesh. Singing along to lyrics peppered with derogatory words about women, they seem wholly unperturbed by Snoop's reputation as a former pimp who refers to women as bitches and hos. But oh, how charismatic he is on stage, with that split-second delivery and those easy, natural moves. No other music gets my blood flowing faster than hip-hop, and Snoop is the best of the bunch. Now, here comes the contradiction.

I have loved Snoop's music for almost 20 years and first saw him live in the mid-1990s, on stage in the US with other male rappers all playing macho, grabbing their crotches and showing off their pecs. Now I am at Glastonbury purely to see Snoop – and yet I have spent my adult life campaigning to end violence against women, in particular the abuse of women and children in prostitution. So just what am I doing here? And why do I love his music?

On the train to Glastonbury, the youngsters at my table asked each other which bands they were most looking forward to seeing. "Florence and the Machine," said one. "Vampire Weekend," said another. "Snoop Dogg," I mumbled. All their mouths dropped open at once. I am not most people's idea of a Snoop fan.

A former gang member from one of LA's most notorious neighbourhoods, Snoop Dogg (so named by gang members because his hairstyle resembled the ears of Snoopy from the Peanuts cartoon strip) has served time for drug dealing, been acquitted of the murder of a gang member, and made a series of pornographic films called Girls Gone Wild Doggy Style. The first feminist campaign I was involved in was against the abuse of women within the porn industry, back in 1979. But where many folk love Snoop because of his hate-filled Gangsta lyrics, I try to separate his fantastic voice, rhythm and timing from his verbal tirades against women.

The first album I bought was Doggystyle in 1993, followed by Tha Doggfather three years later. I realised the lyrics were pornographic and grotesque but so, I told myself, were many sung by white boys in tight jeans in the 1970s. After all, I used to sing along to Claire by Gilbert O'Sullivan, assuming it was about a man who had a major crush on a woman, only to discover later that he was singing about an uncle's love for his young niece. Tom Jones's Delilah was one of my favourite karaoke turns, until someone pointed out it was about a man who kills his girlfriend because she has "provoked" him by having an affair.

When I first heard Snoop's songs I hated the fact that so many were peppered with the "n" word, as well as the obligatory "bitch", "ho" and "motherfucker" – but I chose to ignore the lyrics. One day, my partner walked in when I was blasting out Snoop's Tha Last Meal ("Shootin' the breeze, with a cute Vietnamese/or was she Lebanese? I think she Chinese/It really don't matter cause they all on they knees") and asked me to turn it off. I put Snoop away and became a secret, occasional listener, dusting off Doggfather only when I was alone in the house.

At Glastonbury, Snoop appears to be choosing his songs carefully. When he introduces Beautiful ("Beautiful, I just want you to know, You're my favourite girl"), which he dedicates to "all the ladies in the house", it sounds so lacklustre that half the crowd stop dancing. Soon, though, he is back on form, but unfortunately with a rap in which he tells us that women are asking to be fucked. And yet I find myself shouting along with the crowd as Snoop demands: "What's my motherfucking name?" Why am I pandering to this man who has such apparent contempt for women, not to mention an ego bigger than his entire crowd's?

Well, I am not the only feminist who loves Snoop's music. Bridget Irving, defence lawyer and radical feminist, tells me she is jealous I am going to see him perform. "His music is brilliant," she says, "and he laughs about himself. But I hate all that woman-hating shite." Fellow Guardian writer and feminist Cath Elliott also admits that she "adores" Snoop's rapping. "You should ask him what his problem is with women," she says, "but his music is fabulous."

There is, indeed, nothing inherently sexist about hip-hop and rap. My passion for it began in the early 1980s, with the release of Wordy Rappinghood by the Tom Tom Club. The cutting-edge beat was such a breath of fresh air after the noise of punk and fluff of glam rock. By the time Salt-N-Pepa, an American hip-hop trio from New York, came on the scene in 1985, I was hooked – and many a feminist music lover lauded All Hail the Queen, by the wonderful Queen Latifah. Here were women singing about real life rather than slush, and giving the men a run for their money. Latifah's track Ladies First (with Monie Love) became a feminist anthem.

Very quickly, though, female rappers became marginalised and overtaken by the pure brutality of their male counter-parts. As with Hollywood, those who received the most attention in the hip-hop world were those who portrayed violence, hate and bloodshed. And so rap has become a musical genre by and for men; a boy's club in which they can abuse and degrade women.

At the Pyramid stage, things are hotting up. Snoop breaks into 1800 from his latest I can hear the odd "bitch" and "ho" but, thankfully, can't make out the rest of the lyrics. As I dance along, I pray he won't do the song Pimpin Aint EZ. He doesn't.

After the set, I ask some young women whether Snoop's lyrics put them off him. "I think he is being ironic," says Maria. "No way does he think that about women." "It's just his showing off," says Christina. "He is laughing at himself." Hannah, however, disagrees: "He hates women and thinks of us all as sluts and whores. It comes across very clearly." But all the women say they love his music.

In the UK, most rap and hip-hop is consumed by white people, but produced and performed by artists of African-Caribbean descent. Looking around the Glastonbury crowd, I can pick out only one black person among thousands. The racist stereotypes of black men as hyper-masculine misogynists and homophobes are exploited in the marketing of gangsta rap, leading to accusations that it is "worse" than other musical genres in its attitudes to women and gay people – ironic, considering some of the sentiments expressed in hard rock.

Snoop, though, has a reputation for pushing the boundaries even further than contemporaries such as Dizzee Rascal and P Diddy. But of all the deeply controversial gangsta rappers, he is also probably the most charming and has the best sense of humour. Maybe that's why he gets away with it.

Nevertheless, like Hannah, I really believe Snoop hates women. I will not spend another penny on his music until he has a Damascene conversion, admits he has been a misogynistic creep, and donates a percentage of his profits to end violence against women (I'm not holding my breath). He has given countless young men the permission to view women like he does – as worthless sex objects – and for that I despise the man behind the mic, no matter how good a musician he is.

With the show over, I leave the site: feet blistered, neck sunburned, badly dehydrated – but with Snoop's beats still resonating. At the exit, a young woman tells a security guard, "I am due on stage in 15 minutes, and have to dress as a dolphin first." Then at the station, waiting for the train back to London, I notice former Lib-Dem MP Lembit Opik, dressed like a homeboy, asleep in the waiting room. Glastonbury, it seems, allows us to display a side of ourselves that is usually kept under wraps.