Taking bets before Glastonbury on which of the Saturday headliners would be late on, maybe very late on, and cause a stink, most of the money would have been on Guns N’ Roses, not Lana Del Rey. But here we are at the Other Stage, the clock ticking towards 30 minutes after her scheduled 10.30pm appearance and there’s no sign. The natives are getting restless and some already sloping off to experience something more, well, actually on.
Thirty minutes, of course, would have been regarded as merely politely late back in the day, when New Order would tantalise fans before finally, unapologetically sauntering on, or Guns N’ Roses, the masters of the art, were in their ’90s prime. But this is 2023, and Glastonbury is a precision-tooled machine, and the consumer is king.
When Del Rey emerges at last, her arrival is spectacular, as a palacial stage set is unveiled, featuring gossamer cocoons from which a troupe of lithe dancers emerge, somewhat after Spinal Tap. And here she is, gliding on in funereal black until her top layer is removed by her dancers and suddenly she’s all in white, as if primed for a hen night in Redcar.
For a while, it’s breathtaking. Material from Del Rey’s current album, Did You Know That There’s A Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd, shines – A&W’s musical bildungsroman is an instant statement of Del Rey’s unique quiet storm. The Grants’ reflections on the dead and the life you lead feels almost too exposed.
There’s a building sense, however, of the show not fitting together as seamlessly as it should, and Del Rey looks like something’s bothering her. Eventually, she decides something needs to be said about the lateness thing. Inevitably, it’s tin-eared: “Sorry I was late, but this hair takes so fucking long to do…”
If it’s a joke, it’s a brave one. If it’s the actual reason for her tardiness it’s both impressively candid and at the same time, a (presumably unintended) extra poke in the eye for this already very patient crowd.
It’s evident from things she says between songs that she’s finally realising that there’s a midnight cut-off time that the main stages that Glastonbury must observe. What does she do? Pick up the pace? Impossible – everything is too choreographed. But she’s already fretting about the songs she won’t be able to play. Muddling through is the only option. She delivers a queenly commandment to her team: “Squad, do.”
Somehow, the anxiety seems to stoke some of the second half’s best music. Blue Jeans feels as apocalyptic as it is understated, Norman Fucking Rockwell has an intensity that verges on the trippy – very Glastonbury. Like Del Rey herself, this is music of subtle movements, slow and mid tempos fitting lyrics that combine devastating ennui with squashed-down pain and rage. Del Rey does not exert herself – it’s part of a persona that embraces the art that she be minimal in her acknowledgment of the world – but the drama is all in the songs.
She’s moving towards a key moment, the tune that announced her back in 2011 – Video Games – when the guillotine comes down. Power off. She begs for more time but there’s no dice. A man comes on to whisper in her ear – delivering the reality – but there’s a period where she and her squad don’t leave the stage, even as the fans disperse. The screens deliver information about what’s happening elsewhere on the Glastonbury site – that seems unnecessary. You can’t help but feel for her as much as for the fans, short-changed except in the respect of the hour of mostly stunning music they’ve heard.
Del Rey is not renowned for her live performances. A combination of insecurity and diva tics and bad luck, plus an aesthetic that plays well with super-fans but leaves the uncommitted wondering why she doesn’t have a few fast ones, get in the way of what’s thought of as a good gig. What damage this one does to her reputation, or career, remains to be seen. Thus far (11am, Sunday morning), there’s no official statement by Del Rey, or Glastonbury or – ideally – the two in consort. Finding a face-saving formula might not be entirely deserved, but it would be kind.
One thing is for sure: this is a show that no-one who witnessed it will forget in a hurry.
Our Friday Glastonbury 2023 reviews: the Arctic Monkeys is here. Foo Fighters is here. And our review of Friday at Glastonbury: Sparks, The Hives, Alabaster DePlume and Mozart Estate is here.
ur Saturday Glastonbury 2023 reviews: Guns N' Roses is here. The Pretenders is here. Generation Sex is here.
Join us back here tomorrow for all the action from Sunday, including Elton John and much more.
And catch up with our expedition to the wilder corners of Glastonbury on Thursday here.
Photograph: Andrew Allcock