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“I’m fit, have a full head of hair and can run 100 metres in 18 seconds at the jolly old age of 79,” Rod Stewart announced when his Glastonbury booking was revealed last year. He filled the so-called “legends slot”, the cosy Sunday afternoon showpiece on the Pyramid stage when an old-school household name serenades a big crowd of lazing festivalgoers as the last day meanders towards the last night.
The singer, who is now 80, had grumbled beforehand about the “tea time” label (“That sounds like pipe and slippers, doesn’t it?”) and the wallet-lightening cost of the show. He has said that it will cost him £300,000 as he had to fly his band over from the US. But all was bonhomie on the day. The sun shone. Rod’s full head of hair was buoyantly coiffed and there was not a drop of tea in sight. Instead vendors circulated the hordes with trays of alcoholic shots: three for a tenner.
Opening track “Tonight I’m Yours (Don’t Hurt Me)” showed that Rod meant business. “I just wanna make love to you for 24 hours or more,” he rasped as his sizeable band set about playing vigorously chugging rock music. Cue spluttering from those sipping their shots. This was certainly not teatime fare.
The singer’s celebrated voice was less buoyant than his blonde hair; in fact, it was quite ragged. However, he looked resplendent. An elaborately patterned blue jacket with wide white lapels gave him the look of a showbiz captain of the fleet, skippering the Pyramid stage as though it were a supersized cruise ship.
His singing, conducted with arms flung wide or hands on hips, got smoother as the 90-minute set unfolded. “Maggie May” was chintzily orchestrated but nonetheless touching, while “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” boogied daftly. The storm in a teacup caused by a pre-festival interview in which Rod bigged up Nigel Farage — which prompted Kneecap to direct some abuse his way in their set the previous day — was defused by The O’Jays’ “Love Train”, a chirpy Philly soul anthem about world peace.
There were two outfit changes, first into a bright pink suit, then a bright green one. The pauses were filled by three female backing singers belting soul classics. “Well done, girls,” Rod said on returning. At one point, the festival’s 89-year-old co-founder, Michael Eavis, was brought on stage in a wheelchair by his daughter, Emily Eavis, who now runs Glastonbury. “Used to be a good footballer but he took a dodgy tackle,” quipped Rod.
He ended with a guest appearance from his Faces bandmate Ronnie Wood, tearing out slide guitar riffs on “Stay with Me”. Evergreen trouper Lulu joined them both for a Royal Variety-style performance of “Hot Legs”. Then came “Sailing”, with Rod in an actual nautical skipper’s hat. The homeland of Somerset cheddar had just played host to a veritable smorgasbord of flavourful cheese.
At the other end of the age spectrum, Olivia Rodrigo was tasked with closing the festival as the Pyramid stage’s final headliner. The 22-year-old Californian is a pop A-lister, having graduated from the Disney TV talent factory that churns out so many US stars. With just two albums to her name, she risked overstretching her material in the vast setting with its 120,000 capacity. But she rose to the challenge with an effervescent performance.
The singer wore a white lace corset and clompy black boots; there was a costume change later into sparkly Union Jack shorts. Her black hair was coiffed to an even more faultless degree of glossiness than Rod’s. But the image of all-American perfection that she presented had a knowing element, even to the point of satire. That was the message of “All-American Bitch”, one of the pop-punk tracks that fizzed and pogoed throughout her setlist.
Backing was provided by a female rock band, all tattoos and power chords. Zippy tracks such as “Obsessed” were given the armour plating of big riffs and drumming. Ballads such as “Drivers License” inspired singalongs. Rodrigo herself sang her high-school tales of break-ups and infatuation with character and animation. Both music and vocals were fully live, without audible use of backing tracks.
She pulled off a Glastonbury coup with a special guest. “Who is it?” someone near me gasped as the singer advertised the forthcoming arrival of this mystery figure. “It’s Ed Sheeran,” someone else cried: Sheeran had indeed been brought out the previous day by Rodrigo at a London concert. But then, to a mixture of astonishment, delight and puzzlement, The Cure’s Robert Smith shambled on, a figurehead of rock-heritage Glasto.
The pair duetted on two Cure tracks, “Friday I’m in Love” and “Just Like Heaven”. Rodrigo beamed at her 66-year-old guest, her smile framed by immaculate red lipstick. He looked bashfully back at her, his own mouth smeared by messy red lipstick, his signature look. At least one middle-aged onlooker in the audience felt himself well up at this unexpected mirror image of Glastonbury festivals from past and present.
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