They’re older, but that’s OK!” Bill, a 22-year-old from Bristol, is telling me his thoughts on Guns N’ Roses, this year’s Saturday night headliner at Glastonbury Festival, and a band potentially more ancient than the Sphinx. Bill, though, is unbothered. “You gotta have something for everyone, you know what I mean?” He’s en route to see his fave anyway. “Everyone’s seeing Fred Again, mate.” I nod politely.
No one can accuse this year’s Glastonbury of being the most cutting edge of events. Arctic Monkeys, Friday’s headliner, have long been in their elder statesmen era, while Elton John, headlining Sunday, is a genius but one who was probably at his peak in 1973. This is also just one more stop on his farewell tour (although he has promised an entirely different set), and nothing screams dance-floor mood-killer faster than imminent retirement. But as I make my way through throngs upon throngs of teenagers spilling through Worthy Farm as if Lord of the Flies met up with The Belles of St Trinian’s and everyone was wearing Day-Glo sunglasses, I realise this is a place built on specific kinds of nostalgia anyway. The age of the headliners is irrelevant when you’re on the ground.
