Other stage, 1pm
Fast-rising Nigerian singer Tems means business: until a few days ago, it was touch and go whether she’d be able to perform at Glasto all. “It’s special that I’m able to make this because for the last two weeks I’ve had vocal issues,” she tells the sizeable crowd, having already had to cancel a run of live dates. But now, she says, “I’m back.” No backing tracks here – she brings with her a slick full live band, who pack a punch and plump out her tales of heartache and empowerment, and performs in a figure-hugging red outfit and matching red eyeshadow. You wouldn’t know that she’d had setbacks – her voice is sublime and powerful, low in the register but capable of fluttering falsetto, as she rips into her emotional pop songs.
Tems is one of the many acts – but a rare woman – who is big in her home country and now gaining recognition worldwide, via co-signs from Justin Bieber, Adele and Drake, as the umbrella genre known as Afrobeats continues to dominate. You can see why Adele is a fan: Tems’ delivery is similarly from the gut, her style strong yet refined. Unlike many of her male peers (Davido, WizKid – sorry lads), she can really sing. And while she might get lumped in with Afrobeats, her style is far broader, pulling in jazz, rock and even a bit of gospel amid the syncopated beat and trill of highlife guitars.
Truthfully, I was half expecting shimmering bedroom intimacy but from a few minutes in it’s clear that as much as Tems has become celebrated for her heart-on-sleeve rawness, she can bring the party, too. The suns out, bums are twirling and the geezers in the crowd – one of the most diverse of the festival so far – are pulling their smoothest moves. Screaming fans know every word to her breakthrough track with WizKid, Essence, which she follows with her own song in a similarly classy style, Crazy Tings, where the guitarist comes to the front to shred. She is an elegant, waist-winding breath of fresh air and surely a huge star in the making. Rihanna had better watch her throne.
90s legends unite!
All weekend we’ve been asking festival-goers to tell us where at Glastonbury they’d take Paul McCartney to if they had the chance (he’s quite elusive, it turns out!). Here are Macca super-fans Lorraine, Ruth and Jo:
Ruth: It would have to be something fitting for a sir!
Lorraine: I’d take him for a nice cream tea, so I could chat to him about the early days – I would love that! I would even take him for two cream teas, that would make my day.
John Peel, 2.30pm
Black Midi’s ascent has been nothing short of astounding: here’s a band who’ve come out of playing tiny, grotty Brixton venues, whose unholy noise flies its freak flag high, whose freeform songs follow their own bananas set of no rules, always with a propensity to ping into a prog-metal breakdown, and who, with the exception of their masked brass player, dress like accountants on their lunch break.
And yet the quintet are Mercury nominated, three albums in (new one, Hellfire, is out next month) and playing to their biggest audience yet on West Holts this afternoon. The weirdos have won. They’ve grown since 2017 from trio into five-man skronk-off, a sound rooted in free jazz but which flips genre more quickly than you say “sprechgesang” (the slurring sing-speak so beloved by bands like Dry Cleaning and Midi’s Gen-Z Mark R Smith vocalist, Geordie Greep).
Even if you don’t understand Black Midi’s sonic maelstrom, funk-metal one minute, honky-tonk country-rock the next; even if it’s like looking the fridge alphabet upside down and back to front, their musicianship is so alarmingly impressive that it transcends oddball inaccessibility – you just sort of have to strap in and go where it takes you. And it will always take you somewhere, even if it’s to get another beer.
Their music might sound at first like it may fall apart but it’s densely orchestrated and even when they’re knowingly bolshy aren’t out of sync. Still, you get the impression that minds are being fried across the field: one track with a deranged brass freak out is so blistering that it elicits a “farking hell” from the dads nearby. You’ve got to hand it to them: they’ve totally created their own lane.
The closest they get to what you might call songs seems to be their newer material. There’s one where bassist Cameron Picton takes centre stage, acoustic guitar in hand, to sing a rollicking country number that sounds a bit like the Maccabees off their rockers. Or at the end when the endlessly charismatic Greep (guitarist), despite never taking his shades off, goes for a proper 70s Elvis-y belter on another new track, The Defence. They can do it, you see – they’re just better than that. “It’s the sort of music I expect to hear when I go through the gates of hell,” one onlooker whispers to another. And that’s exactly the way Black Midi want it.
Breakout Brit rapper AJ Tracey is getting underway on the Pyramid, backed by a very chunky-sounding live band.
Other stage, 2pm
Walking out onto the Other stage in a stunning luminous neon suit with CLIT ROCK emblazoned across the back, wearing a black club kid inflatable spiked headdress and elaborate Disney-villain emerald green eye makeup, Skunk Anansie’s legendary frontwoman Skin resurrects a tired Saturday afternoon crowd with her presence. After opening with Stoosh’s furious opener Yes It’ s Fucking Political, by the second song she has already climbed over the barrier and into the crowd. This is a much more welcome 90s throwback than the regrettable fluffy bucket hats that are now everywhere again.
We’re watching veteran performers here, who famously headlined the Pyramid in 1999, but they don’t look remotely tired. “We like to write brand new songs, otherwise we’d just be a 90s band trawling around the planet,” jokes Skin, before launching into their fresh track Can’t Take You Anywhere. “In this new world order we have people that we love who have opposing views to us, but at the same time you have to get over it, keep your views and love them anyway,” opines Skin, before clarifying: “If they’re anti abortion on the other hand, they can fuck off.”
These are songs with huge riffs and huge emotions, and Skin can still seemingly effortlessly carry them all with her soaring, powerful voice. The band don’t falter once, and though it’s Weak that predictably gets the crowd singing along enthusiastically as Skin holds her mic aloft, this set doesn’t lean too heavily on past hits. This is a band that has taken its rightful place in British rock history, but they still have something to say, and an inimitable voice to say it with. And once again: that OUTFIT. Candidate for best lewk of the fest, for sure.
Self Esteem becomes the latest artist to touch on Roe v Wade:
“This is a song called Three Four Five, for our sisters in America … fucking hell!” she says.
Laura Snapes reports that Self Esteem has just dedicated a song to Big Jeff Johns, renowned Bristol gig-goer and artist, who was recently hospitalised following a house fire. “I want to see you back out in the crowd soon,” she says.
Read more about Jeff here:
I’ve just flicked over to Self Esteem on the iPlayer and can confirm that the outfit is quite something. What a performance, too: she’s just had a massive ovation from the audience – after a pulsating performance of How Can I Help You – and it’s only midway through the set!
Shaad D’Souza is over at the Park stage where rapper Sampa the Great is performing and history is being made. “I’m standing on this stage with the first Zambian band to perform at Coachella,” she says. “The first Zambian band to perform at the Sydney Opera House … and the first Zambian band ever to perform at Glastonbury!”
