Glastonbury 2025 – Festival Review

Glastonbury Festival
Worthy Farm, Somerset
25th-29th June 2025

There’s no festival commitment quite like Glastonbury, but would it once again live up to the weight of expectation as 200,000 people descended on Worthy Farm? Louder Than War’s Tom Parry was on hand to breathe in the vibes, with photographs by Jack Flynn. 

At the first glimpse of the festival site over a hedgerow somewhere between Shepton Mallet and Pilton, I feel a familiar sense of unbounded excitement, mixed in with a weird trepidation. It’s actually a physical manifestation – child-like butterflies in the pit of the stomach. A sensation I can honestly say I don’t get from any other event, regardless of how good the line-up is. 

This is to be my 24th Glastonbury Festival. I’ve been attending under many different guises since 1990 when I was still at school and it was a very different entity, so I should be blasé about arriving through the twisting lanes of the Somerset countryside by now. I could even be cynical having watched it grow from a ramshackle, anarchic, effectively free gathering (for fence-jumpers, as I was a few times) into the colossus it has become. But I’m not, despite everything. I can’t deny the iron grip that the annual Worthy Farm pilgrimage has. Without it – and I have missed the last couple – the calendar seems unbalanced. 

People who have never been understandably ask why. After all it is just another music festival in a rural location – there are so many these days. But Glastonbury is different. It demands total commitment. You get out of it what you put in. There are 200,000 different Glastonbury experiences, and none of them are exactly the same. Above all, you’re a participant, not just a member of the audience. Contrived though it may sound, you contribute through the energy you give out. That’s what makes this monstrously gigantic event special, not just the artists on offer. It drains you completely, but it also leaves you revived, reinvigorated and, even though you’re physically and mentally exhausted, ready to take on the second half of the year. 

By Thursday afternoon, I am fully immersed. The site is resplendent, a miracle Brigadoon city emerging from the Vale of Avalon dairy pastures. So much is as it has always been – the Permaculture area, the Somerset Cider Bus and the Iona Community tent are where I last left them – but much is different too. 

For example, the number of people looking at the phone app for directions and artists is notable. What this does is create queues where there might never have been queues before. I wonder whether first-time bucket-listers and influencers need to get the video content to put up on their socials, and so miss out on the joy of the spontaneous, which was the pattern all of my first Glastonburys followed. One in, one out at Strummerville right up the hill. Unheard-of for what used to be quite an obscure spot. The Silver Hayes field is incredibly congested. Anticipation builds until the first DJ set, and then once the beat drops you know it will be there pulsating in the background all the way through until 5am Monday. 

The first act for me is Seize The Day, festival stalwarts who have played at every one since 1997 and epitomise the true spirit of the festival going back to the convoy days in the 1980s. They also have the best old-school marketing tactics; stickers announcing their various performances are always pasted to the doors on the long-drop toilets. Their audience in the Small World Stage tent is composed mostly of greying veterans who nod knowingly and sway to their earnest, strident folk-protest songs. Seize The Day are reassuringly unchanged by progress, still doing the fiery jig which has been their fare here for as long as I’ve been going. An essential Glastonbury ritual given due deference.

Friday

Supergrass open the Pyramid Stage on Friday with a perfect blend of fizzy euphoria. The bands that work best here give that little bit extra, realising that just going through the motions is not enough, and Supergrass definitely offer an additional helping of energy in a set crammed with adored Britpop hits from the ’90s. They play with vigour, and look like they’re loving every second. It evidently means a lot to them, being back on the stage which they played 30 years before. “I just love this view,” says singer Gaz Coombes, sounding completely sincere. The set is more than just a nostalgic run-through; it is the appropriate kick that gets the main festival going. We’re off.

From there, I head to the Woodsies Stage for Fat Dog, a band with a reputation for incendiary live performances. They do not disappoint. The tent is crammed. Looking around, I see that this group has attracted pretty much every age. Once Fat Dog get going, it’s clear why. The band produces a boisterous squall of sound which barely relents for a second. They are bold, brash and relentless. Wearing a white suit and a Stetson, singer Joe Love comes across like a Deep South preacher, and he seems to provoke an almost religious fervour. They capture the moment, the rising spirits of a sun-kissed Friday afternoon, with soaring saxophone, sinewy bass and insistent rhythms. Love leans into the crowd, grabbing sunglasses, holding hands, losing his hat, and imploring adoring fans to give more. It’s a barnstormer of a set. I’m a convert.

Which makes the next artist’s show seem somewhat perfunctory. Burning Spear is one of those names; a reggae tour de force since the early ’70s, someone I feel I should see live at least once. But what should be the ideal soundtrack as the heat mounts just plods sedately along after the first few songs. There is no sense of a set building towards a peak. The musicians are extremely competent, but Burning Spear just carries on so the songs merge without distinction. It’s not that watching Burning Spear is bad; it’s just that it’s not great, which is exactly what his billing on the Pyramid demands, especially in these exceptional conditions. I stroll away from the show without any real emotional reaction – a pleasant but unenthralling hour.

I catch a few numbers by English Teacher on the Park Stage, but not enough to really form a view, a perennial problem at an event with more than 90 stages. You miss far more than you see. Thank goodness I am perfectly positioned just in front of the stage for the next band though.

The Osees are utterly sublime, a band so completely captivating that I would have happily watched them play for another two sets. They are one of the most well-drilled, meticulously precise bands playing right now, and yet ecstatically, electrifyingly free-ranging too, a brilliant fusion of precisely rehearsed rage and what looks like completely wild spontaneity. This is one of the best sets of the festival for me. The two drummers positioned front of stage are locked in together with superhuman composure, streams of sweat pouring down from the intensity of the slick, mesmerising, furious rhythms. John Dwyer, in his signature outfit of vest and cut-off shorts, is frenetic and deranged as he attacks his guitar, brandishing it like a weapon. Why aren’t Osees headlining the Pyramid?

The day’s main stage live music action for me finishes with Busta Rhymes, an artist I would probably not pay to see in an arena, but am eager to view just because he’s at Glastonbury. In all honesty, it’s a jarring appearance, with Busta coming across as rambling and smutty while hyping up his own legendary status between songs. The quickfire rapping only really gets going towards the end. 

Four Tet and Fatboy Slim follow later. Both deliver, as the fields are turned into an all-night utopia, a place quite unlike anywhere else. 

Saturday

Hard to imagine a more idyllic start than Yann Tierson. And hard to imagine someone understanding their role so succinctly. “I’m going to play some piano quietly while you’re having breakfast, and then some dancier material when the drugs kick in,” he jests. What an astonishing musician. One of those little-seen moments of amazing clarity and beauty scattered around the site which most ticketholders will inevitably miss, but life-enhancing for those who have chosen to be there, or just stumbled across it by accident.

As the heat becomes stifling, I wander up to the Acoustic Stage, past the post-apocalyptic sculptures of Car Henge, and hordes of people who have made an exceptional effort with outfits in weather that calls out for the simplicity of shorts and T-shirt.

Inside the cavernous marquee Irish singer-songwriter Oisin Leech is casting a spell. There is something earthy and pure about his sincere, thought-provoking material, sung with soul and gently deceptive. The tent is not packed out, but those there are grateful for what they hear, in one of the most stirring and authentic Glastonbury venues. Oisin and his band are clearly grateful to be a part of this shared history. As ever, there is so much else going on in the Theatre and Cabaret Fields that it seems a shame not to be stopping. So many acts contributing in different ways, all just as essential.

None of them, of course, will receive anything like the hype that precedes Kneecap’s West Holts Stage appearance. They attract one of the biggest crowds ever seen on this stage. There is a bearpit atmosphere. Extra security is positioned and additional metal barriers are installed over fears of overcrowding.

The reception is resounding, a billowing roar followed by a tongue-in-cheek video addressing their recent run-ins. I worry that Kneecap might not be up to the task, cowered by Mo Chara’s court appearance, and the intense media glare they now receive. Far from it. They proceed to deliver a robust, punchy set that more than lives up to the expectations of the masses. Between songs they are witty, and clearly not willing to budge on their position. But what of the actual material? It’s laser-guided, ferocious and, let’s be honest, great fun for the most part. Nothing is taken for granted. The hype alone is not enough to carry a set receiving this much attention. And they know that. Whatever happens next for Kneecap, their moment under the microscope at Glastonbury is something that will live long in the memory.

Pulp, of course, are very familiar with being the centre of attention at Glastonbury, having been plunged into the maelstrom when they took over as stand-in Saturday headliners in 1995. Billed as Patchwork on the bill, their surprise appearance is no surprise to anyone, so the crowd is suitably massive. The perfect stage for the quintessential showman, as well as a Pulp line-up bolstered by far more backing musicians. The set proceeds slickly, but is it a spine-tingling best show of the festival? For me, not entirely. The old songs trigger a wave of joy and a mass singalong, but the slightly obscure Acrylic Afternoons is a deliberately obtuse choice. I can’t help but feel Jarvis Cocker is doing the whole thing with wry detachment. The highlight: when the Red Arrows fly over during Common People – the kind of thing that only happens at Glastonbury.

There’s barely time to catch my breath before joining the hordes ambling through the woodland paths to find Father John Misty for a smooth and rousing set. The band are bathed in red light; the singer himself sways and croons. It’s like being swept up and dropped off in a New York jazz club.

For me, seeing Neil Young with his new band The Chrome Hearts is unmissable. In the meantime, substantially more clearly have the same idea about Charli XCX on the Other Stage. What us Neil die-hards get is an oddly intimate performance, during which one of the most significant songwriters of all time goes about his business without fuss, and without any concession to the significance of being Saturday night headliner. There is barely any banter between songs, and certainly no glitter cannons, fireworks or special guests. The music speaks for itself without adornment. Neil Young can still cut it, both in the quieter acoustic numbers and the staggering feedback-drizzled guitar freak-outs like Fuckin’ Up and Rockin’ In The Free World – an anthem ever more appropriate. Those of us present at the Pyramid are privileged. So too, potentially, are those watching Charli XCX, but I walk away pleased with my contrary choice.

Sunday

There should probably come a point during Glastonbury when the glittering array of talent on offer just becomes too overwhelming. For me, that rarely happens. It’s the diversity that sustains interest throughout. I check out the new-ish Welsh band Melin Melyn, whose material might be patronisingly described as quirky. It is droll, but this is a serious band oozing talent. They make the show funny by introducing various characters and a fictional back story which just embellishes what is already an intriguing set of songs. They are self-deprecating and keenly aware of the privilege of being there, making the most of it. 

So too, later on, are the absolutely outstanding British funk-soul band Cymande, on the West Holts Stage. These are among the most assured musicians one could ever hope to watch, genuine top players, and their set is made even more scintillating by the obvious joy they exude after disbanding in the ’70s, only to reform many years later after their music was sampled in dozens of hip-hop tunes. They would never have imagined playing Glastonbury, let alone attracting such a substantial crowd.

I feel a certain obligation to see at least a part of Rod Stewart’s ‘tea-time legend’ slot on the Pyramid, even though, truth be told, I’ve never really been a fan. The sea of people up the hill is almost unbelievable, as though half the festival has shifted in this direction. It is undoubtedly a ‘moment’. The music, though, is not quite befitting. The cheesy show tunes might be ideal for a big bucks Vegas audience, but for me they don’t work in this far more imposing setting. I am sure thousands would disagree. Rod Stewart does exactly what I would have expected him to do, but a set entirely made up of scruffy Faces tracks, rather than just Stay With Me at the end with special guest Ronnie Wood, would have been far more raucous.

As for the rest of the festival, moments of serendipity and flickers of incredible musicianship abound during the last few sets before I finally roll up my sleeping bag.

There’s Goat on the West Holts: hypnotic polyrhythms, chanting and unexplained mysticism from one of the most intriguing outfits on the bill. The Orb’s hour on the Glade main stage dovetails sweetly with the Sunday evening vibe, encapsulating the early 90s when I first came to Glastonbury, when psychedelic electronica was in its infancy, peeking out rudely from market stalls and tunes like their Little Fluffy Clouds were creating a new template for the festival. A snippet of Wolf Alice, reconditioned and rollicking future headliners. To round off the day, and the weekend, a chaotic, rampaging, head-throttling set from The Prodigy, brings down the Other Stage with a bang. There is a nice tribute to their sadly departed member Keith Flint, who had embedded himself so indelibly into Glastonbury’s collective consciousness. 

And, barring a few final late night meanders, that’s it. In a bank of early-morning fog that lingers in the festival valley after sunrise on Monday morning, I join a quiet procession heading home – interspersed with the hardcore ravers still going strong even though the music has stopped. Like the 23 Glastonbury Festivals I attended before, this one has again provided something utterly unique; a window into a world which for five days a year is the most incredible place on the planet, and then gently but firmly closes its door. Leaving me with just enough life-affirming memories until the next time.

~

Words by Tom Parry. More writing by Tom on Louder Than War can be found at his author’s archive and his website is here.

Photographs © Jack Flynn, his website is here