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Glastonbury Day Three: Old People and Major Lazer

In defence of all the old crusties at Glastonbury (except for the Rolling Stones).

It's easy to forget how insanely big the Glastonbury site is. From the Cabaret and Circus fields in the South East up to the acres of Green Fields at the top of the hill, it's bigger than seven Disneylands. What's more incredible, is that pretty much every one of Glastonbury's hundreds of stages has a decent-sized, fully engaged crowd. I saw a panel discussion featuring Green MP Caroline Lucas on the nuances of British energy policy in the Green Future fields. There were 40 or so people in there, clapping at complex points around the proliferation of nuclear energy. Down at Silver Hayes are mid-40s ravers in bindis and boob tubes, going HAM in the early afternoon, their greasy ponytails bouncing along to some of the worst trance you've ever heard. And over on the Leftfield I happened across Billy Bragg playing to a packed tent of long-time activists. You couldn't have brought together a less cool crowd of people if you tried - at V Festival they'd all be asked to stand at the back in case you could see their faces in the long shots. But their dedication and enthusiasm was moving, singing along to every word of every song, cheering at impassioned calls to arms to "stop the Tories and those yellow bastards tearing this country apart."

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Lots of people have a go at Glastonbury's ageing population, painting the picture of embarrassing old hippies cramping the festival's youthful spirit. But everyone here has their place, and without all the old crusties, Glastonbury would just be the same as every other shit-tip festival: a miserable excuse to take ketamine and pay Chase and Status' mortgage.

But anyway, back to the bands - and the standout performance of Glastonbury so far goes to Major Lazer. If you've seen them before you'll know they leave no stops unpulled. Diplo, ever the rave dad, stands atop a giant soundsystem while below him all carnage breaks loose. There's mosh pits, fist pumps, mass palancing. They get in giant inflatable balls and run over the crowd. Diplo keeps throwing out props from behind the decks like Timmy Mallet on 2CB. At one point they ask everyone to take their shirts off, and throw them in the air. Thousands fly into the sky, while their topless former-owners wind and grind below. They really had the crowd eating out their hands. If Jillionare asked everyone to the fist the person next to them everyone would have done it.

Major Lazer's onstage Instagram selfie

And then to the Rolling Stones, who were just objectively and demonstrably shit. You'd think, when you've written a handful of the greatest songs in rock'n'roll history, it wouldn't be that hard to put on a show for what many are estimating was the biggest Pyramid Stage crowd ever, at least 100,000 people. But from the start, the show feels self-indulgent and uninspired, long wig-out sections and saxophone breaks that leave everyone cold. Songs that nobody actually likes run on for 10 or 15 minutes. At one point I go for a shit, take a five year law degree and train as a master Itamae and Ronnie Wood is still plucking away at a half-arsed bit of improv in "Doom and Gloom".

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Eventually it all gets too painful and I leg it over to Public Enemy. Chuck D has clearly spent a few hours getting into the vibe at the field of Avalon because in between dropping "Don't Believe The Hype" and "Fight The Power" he waxes lyrical about the history of hip-hop at the festival, from De La Soul to Jay-Z, and how Glastonbury and the UK is the antithesis to the commercial rap world of the US. Set highlights include some blow-your-mind turntablism from DJ Lord around "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and that song from the Paralympics which everyone get really excited about before realising they don't know the words.

I head on to Lost Vagueness, Block 9 and The Common where the blackouts start to kick in. Block 9 has outdone itself again this year, its hotel and crashed tube train joined by a massive construction that looks like the opening credits of Futurama. We see Mosca and the London Underground club before heading over to new venue, the Temple, a kind of Mayan Colosseum, where every pew is filled with dancing lunatics. It is a different universe from the activists sitting in the Green Field earlier in the day: hundreds of mashed ravers, no one older than 22, gurning and dabbing and rolling their heads around until the sunrise shines right through the space at the top.

And then, as everyone starts to traipse home through the tipi field, there are all the old hippies, inviting freezing teenagers in for a cup of tea and a sit around the fire. There's room for everyone in this fuck-offily huge festival, but it's at its best when worlds rub up against each other.

There''ll be loads more Glastonbury coverage on Noisey over the next week so keep checking back.