How about that perfect Glastonbury, when it starts with rain and looks like doom, so the lightweight mooks decide to stay home with the BBC on rotation, so there’s more space for the brave and the wild and demented; and the camaraderie starts quick, as you battle on-site and abandon bent wheels, and put your tent up in mud, and smile at all the accents, and the scally bants of your neighbours, and offer a can, because Jeeesus we’ve earnt it, and Thursday’s sunrise is like redemption as it burns up the mist and the mud turns bouncy and it’s only starting and the rest is gravy, kids going feral, up for whatever… so where shall we go and who shall we see, and what time is it on, but, first things first, let’s check in at the Beat Hotel and get our bearings, yeah? That bar like a motel with the big massive carpet and bartenders with sass and all the world’s DJs in bathrobes and slippers, playing like it’s their living room, exclusive to everyone, this year: Jamie xx, Troxler, Tennis, Marco, Avery, Cardini, Mosco and a bunch more besides, from ten in the morning to three in the a.m. dependable as coffee – the Beat Hotel, that big sign like a road trip, where they sit on the steps, ten on the phone waiting for a mate, another thirty bouncing on their toes about to go inside, feeling their thrill come up, watching the crowd turn sparkly, a few lageritas, shots, mojitos and the rest, then check out the festival, go see some bands without names, forget the ones on your list, meet some girls from Doncaster, those Irish boys with the cow joke, balloon-like sunset at the stone circle, a brush with Block 9, tonight there’s something at John Peel, oh missed it that was yesterday, but have you seen the amazing fire spider, what about that grime busker, why not come back to my hotel room – because always and everywhere, the Beat Hotel is before, after or in-between – a Glastonbury landmark halfway from the Pyramid to the rest of the world, say Ho-tel, Mo-tel, Holiday Inn… it’s the meet-up, the greet-up, the base-camp, the end-up. Where? Nah mate, that’s miles away, come meet me at the Beat Hotel, we’ll take it from there.
– Frank B