The hottest ticket at this year’s Glastonbury is a sweaty bacchanal presided over by pop’s foremost scientist. Charli XCX, who has spent the past 12 years crafting scuzzy, confessional bangers about sex, cars, cheating and all the messy stuff, arrives on the Tron-like Levels stage in a puff of toxic green smoke — the colour of the lo-fi cover art for Brat, her just-released new album and the sound of this summer for anyone with a vape habit and a history of self-loathing.
Dressed in a puffer jacket and cream body suit and hidden behind dark, don’t-look-me-in-the-eye sunglasses, she spins through a DJ set that pulls from Brat, modern dance-pop, and club classics such as CeCe Peniston’s “Finally”. Robyn shows up. So, too, does Shygirl. There are lasers, screams, keys, nonsense. Charli salutes mean girls, party girls, girlie girls. Everyone here is aware they are in the presence of a superstar.
