Orbital - Other Stage

Being keener to handle Percy Plant tonight than this, I was considerably apprehensive about Orbital. Dance culture and particularly the trance-cum-head music comprised of beeps, beats and swirling waves of acid-fuelled euphoria normally bores me to tears. It's always seemed like the sort of soundtrack to the end of a crap student party and I suppose that's why I've just ignored their genre up until now. A rave virgin, me, and I couldn't really give a monkeys to be honest if it means having to find something appealing in a load of masturbatory technobabble that can only be enjoyed stoned. "Think of it like watching a movie and letting the soundscape build in layers" I was told and it seems to be good advice as effectively, that's exactly what it is. A rich scenic tapestry of impossibly complex and infectious swirling visions, with a sublime soundtrack of heartachingly beautiful and at times terrifying series of mini-climaxes. These two black-suited fellas with lights on their heads (who look like the Sand People from Star Wars from a distance) are making rock and roll theatre without the rock and roll and it's truly an astonishing experience. Watching Orbital for the first time is like being massaged by sound and vision. You start stiff and apprehensive, hoping that your masseur will be gentle and sensual and as the knots of tension are teased effortlessly into submission with soft and graceful strokes, you emit a sign of pleasure that's almost sexual, but more of an arousal of the heart. The crowd love each other, the crowd love Orbital and Orbital love to show just how damn good they really are. They tease us effortlessly and affectionately, so impossibly clever and tongue-in-cheek it takes your breath away and as they mix in samples of Bon Jovi's "You Give Love A Bad Name" and even snatches of Belinda Carlisle, it's almost as if there's something dangerous and subversive going on. It's such a huge piece of electronic landscaping that writing from a non-dance orientated viewpoint seems as futile as trying to describe colours to a blind man and it is of course a lot easier to be able to enjoy Orbital when not surrounded by thousands of people, allowing them to act as the theme to your chilled headspace. But this isn't your headspace tonight, or mine. It's theirs and my God, what a show. They're here to show Glastonbury and the world how far they've come in the last decade and it's a lot further than the M25 that spawned their name. Somewhere along the timeline they've even picked up Dr Who and are Orbitalising (if that's a word) his theme. And you know what? It makes perfect sense for them to do this. This happy vibe couldn't be bummed out even if the daleks landed. What's it like for a rocker like me? Well imagine if Floyd made music with Radiohead and were not allowed to use any other instruments than computers and samples. You'd still end up with nothing like it. It's a uniquely quirky vision and when "Satan" opens the fires of hell and makes them look sparkly and inviting, it's as if extraterrestrial technology is being used to synthesise an interpretation of gothic heavy rock. Wave after wave of crashing, spitting almost classically mad sound, the thick aroma of smoke and sweat, and countless bodies totally in time to the ever mutating beat. It's a truly beautiful experience that even now, 12 hours after the event, leaves one feeling inarticulate and humble. Back at the campsites, both on site and backstage, the word is Orbital. Nobody mentions the Stereophonics and all the chilled out people know who's been to see Orbital and who hasn't as it's written on their smug contented faces. And Percy? I'm not sure that I give a toss any more. Being keener to handle Percy Plant tonight than this, I was considerably apprehensive about Orbital. Dance culture and particularly the trance-cum-head music comprised of beeps, beats and swirling waves of acid-fuelled euphoria normally bores me to tears. It's always seemed like the sort of soundtrack to the end of a crap student party and I suppose that's why I've just ignored their genre up until now. A rave virgin, me, and I couldn't really give a monkeys to be honest if it means having to find something appealing in a load of masturbatory technobabble that can only be enjoyed stoned.

Words: Paul Mills Picture: Lovell Fuller