Reviews / Glastonbury Festival
Review: Glastonbury 2025 – ‘Peace, love, real talk and Idris Elba’
I can’t believe it’s over.
I’m told I say this every year as we pack up and prepare to beat a hasty retreat – as much as is possible with 200,000 people all attempting the same thing at the same time.
It’s just too hard to comprehend an event so long anticipated and so thoroughly lived for every second of its five days could be over, and in the snap of a finger. Sending us back, fluffy and bleary-eyed, to confront the ‘real world’. Whatever that may mean.
is needed now More than ever
Glastonbury is a feast for the senses – there’s so much on it triggers my medical grade FOMO, the only solution being to get thoroughly stuck in – photo: Ursula Billington
Thankfully the task at hand is to look back, not forward. Big phew. After full immersion in the weekend’s magic, I am not ready to face this reality of which they speak. Not quite yet.
Attempting to compress this festival-of-festivals’ sprawling magnificence into a one-pager, I’m calling on the power of the ‘moment’, aka ‘the Sugababes effect’.
It feels, more than ever, like the thing people are searching for: it’s one reason Kneecap are on everyone’s lips; it’s why hundreds of thousands endure the slow crawl to a spot on a hill half a mile away to gaze adoringly at a speck on a postage-stamp screen.
Lifeguards hail visitors to Glastonbury-on-Sea, the pier where robot karaoke is on offer – photo: Ursula Billington
But those moments take many different forms and are found in the most unexpected places. They’re personal and unique or collective and shared. They are Glastonbury, and Glastonbury, somehow, is so much more than a sum of these moments.
Landing hard
From camp this town of which we become citizens stretches out before us so that, trimmed with lights, the site – stretching the distance of St Werburgh’s to beyond Broadmead at around 900 acres – twinkles flirtily for as far as the eye can see.
When darkness falls, the first flames burst as the Arcadia dragonfly flares monstrously and the laser light show of the Levels punctures the horizon.
Shangri-La, the heart of the notorious naughty corner, is at its best in the sun on day one, with space to dance and breathe, Shantel & Bucovina Club’s Balkan beats an upbeat soundtrack to bounce to.
The area’s got a new feel this year, the confining walls and arches that squeeze the crowds removed and a surprising new prettiness with outlandish Alice in Wonderland flowers and wafty gossamer installations towering above it all – photo: Simon Alexander
We enter the Temple for O.B.F. just as the first strident notes of Dubkasm’s Victory hit the air. The sight of an amphitheatre of people with arms aloft, singing along to Digistep’s iconic (sorry Ed) sax line sets the heart ablaze: this Bristol anthem is the best welcome to the weekend we could have hoped for, an exquisite festival moment.
The Temple: an immersive surround-sound amphitheatre with huge icon centrepiece – photo: Ursula Billington
O.B.F.’s heavyhitters inspire ubiquitous skankface from the ecstatic bass fans and we dance, cocooned in this temple of dub.
It’s starting to feel alot like Glastonbury.
Activism
Caroline Lucas makes a rousing appearance on the Pyramid Stage. A genocide is happening in Gaza she says. That’s categorical. And why is the government spending money on nuclear weapons instead of welfare?
“It’s easy to feel lonely” in this wild world but “we just have to look around here to see we are not alone, we are many and we can make a difference.” Right on.
Signs of protest and defiance abound – alongside this image calling out Elon Musk were similar images of Mark Zuckerberg, described as a ‘spreader of dangerous lies’ and Jeff Bezos, ‘tax avoider’ – photo: Ursula Billington
She is not the first or last this weekend to call to “free, free Palestine,” with the crowd responding resoundingly in kind every time. When Kneecap do the same, one man calls ‘and Ukraine’ in the country’s native language.
A Greenpeace crew member tells me the area is designed to hammer the power of protest home. “We want to introduce its importance to people who might never otherwise think twice about it,” he says.
The Greenpeace area celebrates the power of protest, the huge tree at its heart screaming about environmental destruction (yes, that is Idris Elba. DJing. In a tree) – photo: Amy Blue
That’s Glastonbury: there are signs of hope, love and peace everywhere you turn. Activism abounds, it’s a place to dream a better world, to feel safe for a bit. To live it up and emerge reenergised to take up the fight on the other side. After a wash, and a big old sleep.
A tunnel from one field to the next loops recordings of people discussing the realities of climate change – photo: Ursula Billington
And there’s a real sense this year that things need to be said: whether by Loyle Carner, overcome with emotion, railing against Farage; or the more expected outbursts from the overtly political acts. Each sentiment is welcomed by a crowd ready and waiting for real talk, and action.
Glastonbury’s school of hip hop
Hip hop continues to rule with swagger over Pilton, with 2025 no exception – from Doechii’s masterclass to Busta Rhymes’ 00’s timewarp and family friendly Other Stage headliner Loyle Carner.
Doechii’s show – 45 fierce, raunchy and slickly choreographed minutes – showcases the breadth and range of styles hip hop encompasses.
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Her Broadway-style theatrical presentation (complete with massive turntable set and not one but two onstage slides) matches New York rap veteran Busta Rhymes’ show for entertainment value, his bringing costume changes, hype energy and visuals – though the dragons fire-bombing London and booty-shaking ladies are painfully obviously AI-created which is more than a little nauseating.
Olly Murs has just dropped a ska tune written by AI, a pal later tells me. Desperate times.
Most thought Busta Rhymes’ set, with tracks dating all the way back to 1992, was wildly entertaining but some found it uncomfortable – photo: Ursula Billington
Still, at Busta there are dope backing dancers, live scratching, crotch-grabbing, a Seven Nation Army sample and Mariah Carey and Janet Jackson pop up on screen to blow kisses and drawl “Glaston-berrrrry, we love you”.
Every other song is dedicated to ‘the ladies’, with Busta and Spliff Star promising seedily to “continue to be of service”. Later a friend tells me she had to leave. “I realised this was what was wrong with the ‘00s,” she says. “This is why it was so hard to be a girl.”
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Loyle Carner’s soulful sentimentality is heartfelt and spirited with excellent musicianship but the crowd is inexplicably thin on the ground. “Fuck Nigel Farage,” he says, and really means it, before apologising. Will he be among the handful of this year’s artists investigated for hate speech?
Kneecap’s open-hearted support of Palestine and love for the packed-out crowd along with their heavy brand of ravey Celtic hip hop is offset by repeated vocalised contempt for Keir Starmer, while punk-rap duo Bob Vylan get in all kinds of trouble for anger directed at Israel’s military machine.
Taking a minute
Sometimes it can feel like the endless mass of people is always walking in the opposite direction and the sun shines directly in your eyes no matter which way you turn.
A punter screwing up a can and chucking it nonchalantly onto a growing pile of trash can provoke a flash of white-hot rage (“People are c*nts,” shrugs a friend) and the growing mass of lobster-pink bodies starts to make you wince.
At this point, it is necessary to take some time out.
Glastonbury makes huge efforts to encourage crowds to ‘leave no trace’, and the hundreds of litter pickers and recycling crew are incredibly hard working, but some people just can’t be told – photo: Ursula Billington
The Tiny Tea Tent is the best place to sit and watch the world, with soothing herbal in hand. On a sofa I meet Greg who spends 45 minutes explaining why Ezra Collective (who later put on a killer show to a huge crowd on the Other Stage) is “the best band this country has produced since Idles”, how they are same same but different: “it’s joy through joy or joy through the catharsis of beating yourself up”. Simple.
We reminisce about Pulp’s secret Park Stage gig in 2011, agreeing it was hands down the best festival show ever seen – but will they play Pyramid this year? Turns out the rumours are true though I was elsewhere, but I’m sure Greg was down the front.
On another breather round a campfire I discuss the very nature of the festival with a friend, by way of this review. Should I focus on the sheer humanity on display, the creativity and activism, the incredible positivity and unadulterated joy we experience on the ground day after day, every year without fail?
Or is it about drawing attention to the corporate rot that’s seeping in, the baked in hypocrisy, the enforced sales of coca cola at the onsite bars and use of Allianz insurance?
Is Glastonbury a playground for the rich, a huge profit-driven machine? Or is it the intention, the people, the happenings, the moments? From the inside, it’s thankfully still impossible to think anything other than the latter.
“Maybe you should write about all the butterflies,” she says. For some reason, they are abundant.
Reggae
There’s a special place for reggae here, and when the sun’s out those laidback offbeats reach their pinnacle of perfection.
Classy roots legends Burning Spear tick all the boxes on the Pyramid Stage while equally statesmanlike Third World are a slick ray of musical sunshine with on point vocal harmonies, grizzled and grinning guitarist Cat Coore leading the charge from a chair.
Active since the 70s, Third World plied a sun-baked crowd with smooth classics like Now That We’ve Found Love and (the rather apt) 96 Degrees in the Shade – photo: Ursula Billington
Future dub duo Omega Nebula sound huge over the impeccable Glade sound system and inject some much-needed positivity for anyone flagging on a Sunday afternoon.
“It’s never too late to do what you want to do, be what you want to be,” shouts the glorious Adjua, glowing as she and Dean bounce back and forth, infectiously high on life.
Omega Nebula’s energy is infectious, probably the reason they’re on the bill of pretty much every UK festival and many further afield in 2025 – photo: Simon Alexander
At the Open Arms, one of the vast array of bars that act as unofficial venues alongside what is already hundreds of official stages pumping out all genres at all hours, King David Horns catch a crowd with their punchy instrumental reggae.
Later Dave himself tells me their act, a live walkabout band with mobility scooter rig that pops up and plays in unexpected places, is “one of the last remaining elements of spontaneity” at the festival: “You never know what you’re going to get from us”.
King David Horns played seven gigs over the weekend, most of which were guerilla style; last year, it was 14 – photo: Ursula Billington
Shout out to my ladies
With her understated brand of tongue-in-cheek indie-pop, Anna Erhard is effortlessly cool.
Katy J Pearson, sporting a pair of trousers enormous enough to win the admiration of Blackadder’s Prince George, is a relaxed, self-assured presence on the Park stage. Her sweet country-tinged sound is a balm for the soul.
Greentea Peng apologizes for sounding like Krusty the Clown – “We’ve been here since Wednesday,” she admits; “We’re fully in it, that Glastonbury spirit’.
It actually works in their favour, a thread of connection permeating the crowd as her rich, warm tones ebb from West Holts to envelop us, her green tracksuited band backing up with ultimate vibes. A standout set.
English Teacher stun on Park Stage with their surprisingly soulful sound, intricate lacy bass and cello interlocking, the stunning vocals of Lily Fontaine cruising above.
They close with some satisfyingly crunchy slammers; R&B and Daffodils are met by a happy crowd that take delight in yelling along.
The crowd was huge for the Mercury winners’ set at the beautifully adorned Park stage – photo: Simon Alexander
Even Alanis does not disappoint. Getting comfy in the enormous crowd just in time for Ironic is a real boon. Apologies to the haters and the pedants, but belting out that song along with tens of thousands of others is a real moment.
The crowd goes wild for the harmonica – the instrument’s never been more rock and roll – and for the pure vitriol of All I really Want and You Oughta Know. Morrisette doesn’t stop pacing. Her band is heavy; a blinding guitar solo screams out as a ray of light blazes down from behind a bank of clouds, hitting the Pyramid’s apex and lighting the stage up from within. Cosmic, man.
Comedy
With such a wealth of top class music on offer it’s hard to drag yourself away. But there’s so much else out there.
The Green Fields are jampacked with wooden sculptures, crafts, workshops of all weird and wonderful descriptions and, of course, music, poetry, dance and comedy – photo: Ursula Billington
In Green Futures – the festival’s haven, a throwback to traveller days gone by, a hodge podge of yurts and sculptures, of crafts, chai and campfires – I catch the last of Robin Ince’s three hour Nine Lessons for Solstice in the Laboratory’s tiny 20-man space.
He’s celebrating an audience member who’s built the field’s Bumblearium. Noone, least of all Ince, knows what that is. But he devotes a good five minutes incomparable comedy riffing to it nonetheless. I’m gutted not to have caught more.
All we know is this isn’t the Bumblearium – photo: Ursula Billington
Josie Long is a flapping delight in the Cabaret tent, upbraiding those irritating do-gooders who allow themselves two squares of dark chocolate of an evening – “Yes, what I enjoy most in the world is a sweet treat that’s chalky, brackish and sour” – and giving us all a break: “It’s troubled times – mums, pop a bump in your Purdeys”.
She’s been in the game so long that “all the crows that hated me are dead” which perhaps explains the refreshingly frank no-f*cks air she exudes.
Josie Long – really hates the current government, apparently – photo: Ursula Billington
She’s followed by Spencer Jones’ utterly absurd props work and the silly chatty nonsense of a lemon-slinging Lou Sanders. And both Taskmaster – with a stellar lineup that includes Sanders, James Acaster, Kerry Godliman, Richard Blackwood and, yes, Basil Brush – and the Horne Section draw mega crowds over the weekend.
Sunday Funday
A joyful festival tradition: after too many days hard partying, Sunday is the one to truly relax, hang loose. It’s all floppy PJ-style garms, lightly spiced fruit punches, lazy chats on the hill. A perfectly heady mix of reggae and psych matches the blazing heat.
Goat hold a tranced-out crowd in the palm of their hands, magnificent Nyege Nyege MC Yallah adding trippy otherworldly vocals to Nimerudi.
Goat, with wild costumes and trance-inducing rhythms, are a force of nature to be reckoned with – photo: Ursula Billington
The Brian Jonestown Massacre are on classic form, with satisfyingly sludgy ten-minute three-chord wonders, Joel’s stoic face as he bashes that tambourine, interminable breaks between songs and, at one point, a heated discussion that looks like it might turn into a fight.
Anton goes as far as to crack a joke – a typically down in the mouth wisecrack about how it’s sad all the trees are being cut down because soon there won’t be any more wooden tambourines. A stunt plane draws a love heart and wonky smiley face in the electric blue sky, and we feel seen.
It felt like unusual programming but, turns out, the BJM was just what we needed on a hazy Sunday afternoon – photo: Amy Blue
By the time night comes around it’s time to see the festival out in style. The Prodigy is a genius bit of programming, their set amassing a vast and buzzing crowd going wild right up to the back as they blast out heavyweight hit after hit (shout out to the man that asked we not “disturb” his bags in the middle of Smack My B*tch Up).
Dedicating the set to their “brother” Keith Flint, whose death led to the cancellation of their planned 2019 appearance, unites band and crowd further.
Flares blaze and a single firework falls as the first strains of Out of Space ring out, the chorus picked up and carried by a crowd blown away by the experience. One for the history books, for sure.
Something new
There’s a mass move to party out the end of the festival but we opt for a touch of class (wimps), heading to Glasto Latino for Cuban big band Alvarez Funk.
The sheer quantity and diversity of entertainment on offer at Glastonbury is overwhelming – making new discoveries is a big part of the fun – photo: Simon Alexander
Huge puppets flank the stage, frilly shirts abound and a curly-haired crooner masterfully manages his band as they play.
Imagine all the bands the Cat Empire were inspired by, but the real deal, and everyone in the tent is hooked, even those without an ounce of rhythm inspired to pull out some cod Latin dance steps.
With singalongs, synchronised moves and a relentlessly upbeat musical energy, it’s impossible not to feel a part of this show, this moment, this extravaganza that lands like an alien spaceship in Somerset to create a world like no other for one weekend each year.
The festival had an especially relaxed and upbeat feel this year – perhaps because thousands of fewer tickets were sold, making the site feel spacious; perhaps because of the sunshine; or maybe because crowds wanted to make the most of it before the year off in 2026 – photo: Ursula Billington
Shout out to the break crew, living in the field until mid-July, dismantling the town around their ears in 30 degree heat.
To the many (largely unpaid) musicians, the man carrying an enormous amp on his shoulder as I returned to my camp at 3am, the performers lugging synths and pedals, bass guitars and trombones back and forth as they mission from gig to gig.
To the litter-collecting heroes and the hundreds of recyclers: we salute you. You are Glastonbury.
Driving off the field, the Tor in our front window promises there’s magic in the real world too. We’re not ready to leave it behind, and we don’t have to. We carry it with us, wherever we’re headed.
Main image: Ursula Billington
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