The physicists might not have noticed, but – ever so slightly - the world shifted on its axis last week. Upon return from its regular pre-match briefing with Michael Eavis down at Worthy Farm, Rock Desk turned its attention to the music inbox. Having first reassured a number of concerned parties that, no, it really wasn’t in need of a 10” hammer to plesure its gril, it discovered an altogether more unlikely email from Mendip District Council.
Now, you’ll recall that MDC are the body responsible for licensing Glastonbury Festival. And that, not so long ago, Eavis was taking them to court, claiming that councillors were trying to block the event because he had “rattled a few right-wing cages” with his CND involvement. As recently as 2003 – despite no police objections – MDC rejected his license application, partly on the grounds of ‘the cost of the festival to the public purse’.
Après le lofty disdain… ‘The Glastonbury Festival helps put our wonderful district on the map’, beams the missive sent from the desk of MDC leader, Cllr Ken Maddock. ‘Wherever I go people don't usually know where Mendip is, but as soon as I tell them we are the district council responsible for licensing the Glastonbury Festival, then their eyes light up in recognition’. Indeed, so proud is Cllr Maddock of the event, that - with backing from a government tourism quango - he’s inviting fellow local bigwigs from across country to see first-hand just what a jolly good thing a festival on one’s doorstep can be. All of which means that the Friday line up is now set to include Arctic Monkeys, Rufus Wainwright, Amy Winehouse, Charlotte Meller from the Local Authorities Coordinators Of Regulatory Services, and councillors representing the City of York, Essex County Council and North Cornwall District Council.
Eavis has played his hand well, and played it long. Improvements in ticketing distribution and security have been key in assuaging villagers’ fears. Nobody mentions the fence anymore. Well, nobody save Eavis himself, who smiles as he notes it “snaking beautifully across the countryside” from his farmhouse base. Pilton residents have long been given free entry to the festival. This year, those not wishing to attend have been offered £150 for their ticket; one family of five has opted to take the £750 and head off for a summer break.
In return for his smoothing of both logistical operations and village relations, Eavis has been richly rewarded. Partly with the pleasure of hosting Cllr Maddock and chums, of course, but mainly by the passing of a four-year license – with annual renewal headaches now going the way of loitering touts and free milk – and a capacity extended to 177,500. Glastonbury, finally, is a respectable institution, even in the eyes of its nearest neighbours.
With the last corner of a long journey apparently turned, it’s perhaps little wonder that we find Eavis in a sentimental mood. “When I was a kid I used to build camps in the woods here. I was so excited. It’s exactly the same feeling I have now, and that was 60 years ago. Isn’t it strange? We used to generate electric with a bicycle, little light bulbs all over the place. It’s the same thing now, except the light bulbs are bigger. And 400 generators rather than just one bicycle dynamo.”
We’re sitting at a table in the site’s premier chill-out zone: a converted barn just across the back garden from the main house, all low sofas, high beams, and walls of deepened Suffolk pink. An anthology of Dylan lyrics and a print of John Peel bookend the neatly arranged line of bronzed, raised middle fingers denoting a succession of NME awards. A large, informal photographic collage of friends and family stands opposite a black-and-white print taken at the inaugural event in 1970. Still, not all is calm. Irish singer Lisa Hannigan dropped out this morning; Stephen Fretwell’s name stands bold on a sheet of paper next to Eavis’ phone. First, though, he needs to run the plan past the manager of the acoustic stage. “They won’t necessarily be pushed about by me, although I do try. That’ll be my first call when you’ve gone.”
Before we retired here, it was also the subject of the last call back in the office. Following last year’s time out, does the 71-year old Eavis really need to be throwing himself back into the festival maelstrom? “It’s a good thing to come back into, because the farm is very stagnant on its own. Certainly the farm staff appreciate the break, and so do the villagers. In an agricultural sense the fallow year charges up the soil and the land. And myself and the crew come back full of energy and it keeps the magic alive. Otherwise it’s just Reading or Castle Donington or something, which just isn’t the same. We don’t have to do it; the money that comes in is not essential to anyone. We’ve got another life here.”
On the drive down, there was a venture capitalist on the radio recommending that people should buy into festivals: high risk, but high return. “I suppose for some people maybe it would work,” says Eavis, sceptically, “but it’s not the way that we do it. There are no shares and no capital involved, and so we go from hand to mouth every year. We sell all the tickets, spend most of it back onsite, and give away 10% to charity. In theory that should give them £2m. Beyond that there are no real profits involved. We get paid for the land use, all the farmers get rent for the land. Shares and profit wouldn’t work at Glastonbury, they’d spoil the whole ethos. But then we’re different, aren’t we? We’ve got old fashioned principles. That’s why we’re so popular, I suppose. People trust us. I had four letters of complaint last time, after all that water round the railway line and people out in canoes. The public are so good to us, and we’re totally beholden to that trust.
“Although we earn a lot, it does go out so fast. Police are £1m, security is £1m, fence is £1m, flood stuff’s £1m – that’s £4m gone straight away on four items. That’s before you’ve even started paying for the infrastructure onsite. We’ve put in a new water main that’s four or five miles long, and extra flood relief. Altogether we’re talking about £1m extra expenditure, but it’s permanent stuff – it’ll certainly be there for 10 years, so it’s a good investment. And I still want to get £2m out of it at the end.”
Besides the free recycled toilet rolls and the campaign to sign up a 100,000 revellers to a 16-step method of reducing environmental impact, Eavis is keen to talk about bio-fuel. “Industrial fat, it’s called. Someone has made a business out of catching all that fat, refining it, and turning it into diesel fuel. So we’re buying everything and using it everywhere we can. I had the buyer here yesterday, and said ‘just buy it all – we need it’.”
Musically speaking, he’s also pretty darn keen on Joss Stone, set to play the relatively small environs of the Leftfield Tent backed by James Brown’s former band. “She’s gone all political now, dyed her hair purple. So I thought the tent would be the perfect place for her. She can whinge and complain as much as she likes, and they’ll love her for it.”
Eavis is, of course, as media-savvy as they come. His projected image of the farmer thrilled to have all of these wonderful musicians gathering on his land might be a fair one, but the machinations behind Stone’s confirmation – revealed in tones of apparent surprise – speak of someone altogether more knowing. “I read through the list of released names last week and asked ‘Where the hell is Joss Stone?’ So I said that to someone in the press yesterday, and this morning Joss Stone’s people said ‘because you lifted the embargo yourself we’ll have to go with it’. It was just a chatty piece on the radio but it got out, you see?”
400,000 people pre-registered for this year’s festival, on a system intended to limit buyers to a maximum of four tickets. In the event, says Eavis, “once they’d pre-registered they could just click and carry on, and I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing.” It is, though, just the one glitch waiting to be ironed out; the introduction of photo ID has, it seems, worked a treat. “There’s no re-sale going on, which is such a relief. It’s that profit thing again: it cuts out those buying cheap, selling dear, and being proud of it. It really annoyed me. People thought I was going too far with it, and said ‘it doesn’t matter because we’ve sold out’, but it went against the spirit of the festival.”
Back out near the farm’s perimeter, beneath a cloudless blue sky, stand a fleet of empty caravans. They’re temporary home to the hired hands now moving towards a most unusual crop: row upon row of the criss-crossed wire frames that will form the inner fencing; all laid out, ready for the planting. “Perfect weather,” says Eavis. “All the heavy stuff’s coming in, the generators and staging, all the big tops, so we really need the fields dry. Better now than during the festival for us, so we’re all jumping about and it’s all go.”
