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Do mainstream festivals like Glastonbury still hold their original spirit - or have they become something more polished, a mirror of the very systems they once stood against?
Do mainstream festivals like Glastonbury still hold their original spirit - or have they become something more polished, a mirror of the very systems they once stood against?
7th July 2025
by LILLY HEYM
Festivals to me are about people. The energy of strangers choosing to be part of something together, the unspoken unity in dancing together to the same beat. It’s the small, human moments; gestures, silly and sincere, create the connection of a magical feeling for me.
So, walking into Glastonbury this year I asked myself. What does the crowd reflect? Where does Glastonbury stand today? Does it still hold its original spirit?
ALL PHOTO CREDITS - LILLY HEYM
Glastonbury festival, one of the most renowned music and performing arts festivals, comes from humble roots, founded in 1970 by farmer Michael Eavis. As the 1960s counterculture gave rise to new forms of expression, Glastonbury emerged alongside a growing movement that combined music with political meaning.
This is important to note, as the roots of Glastonbury were formed at a time when music signified change. Dancing and coming together in fields, not just for entertainment but for connection and a shared vision, was seen as a social movement; one might even call it a form of cultural resistance.
This movement was largely made up of young people disillusioned with mainstream politics, drawn instead to ideas of peace, environmentalism, anti-capitalism, and fighting for nuclear disarmament. They weren’t just festival goers in the sense that modern punters are, they were seekers, activists, and artists, trying to create a different kind of world, with Glastonbury acting as a spatial and spiritual conduit.
It's clear that this year’s Glastonbury wasn’t just about music, it became a powerful platform for political expression and collective solidarity, echoing its radical 1970s roots. Political messages were everywhere: from the graffiti walls to toilet doors, the festival was alive with urgent calls for peace and justice. Trailers labelled “Hell” instead of “Shell” criticised corporate environmental harm, while many artists took time out of their sets to call for change.
The Greenpeace area stood as a reminder of nonviolent resistance. Palestinian solidarity was visible throughout the site: flags, murals and art spread as a genuine collective voice. Artists like Kneecap, Bob Vylan, and Amy Taylor boldly called out political leaders, sparking nationwide debate. Voicing support, these moments weren’t divisive; they united audiences in shared purpose, with applause echoing beyond performance, proving Glastonbury remains a stage where music and activism meet.
So, does Glastonbury still carry its original spirit, or has it drifted from its roots?
To answer this question, I also wanted to ask the people of Glastonbury themselves whether they still felt the festival held its roots. That question led me to an unexpected and touching conversation in the Green Futures Field. I met a man whose trailer has been parked there since the 1970s. He knew Michael Eavis personally and spoke about him with deep respect. His trailer, hand-painted with his favourite song lyrics, including Otis Redding’s Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay, became the backdrop to a shared moment of connection between us.
For him, the soul of Glastonbury hasn’t disappeared. His creative corner had endured, and people still stopped by to engage, reflect, and be a part of it. Being welcomed back to the same spot for over 50 years seemed to represent the lasting heartbeat of the festival’s grassroots spirit.
Then the conversation took a turn. We laughed about how festival caravans like his, covered in art and eccentric ideas, are welcomed here, yet in everyday life, similar communities are often stigmatised and ostracised. The upper classes might stumble into these trailers at Glastonbury seeking a fortune reading, a clown to startle them, or an elf to sing them a song, but outside the festival gates, these same communities are often marginalised or dismissed.
What’s welcomed as quirky entertainment here is frequently condemned as anti-social elsewhere. He joked that the BBC probably wouldn’t broadcast footage of these caravans because they’re still seen as a bit too ‘anti-establishment.’ And maybe that’s the point? The Green Fields still house the bits of Glastonbury that haven’t been polished for commercial prowess.
By Sunday, Glastonbury had fully cast its spell. Festival-goers became citizens of this temporary city and were deep in the magic. People stumbled joyfully between fields, faces sun-kissed and glitter-drenched, dressed in everything from sequin bodysuits to full clown couture, bumble bees, wings, tutus, and alien antennae. The air buzzed with that special kind of Sunday delirium. Only a festival can bring a mix of exhaustion and euphoria, where the surreal starts to feel totally normal.
Glastonbury ends for some with the last headline act and flashy fireworks. Organised private shuttles with hot showers waiting at the end. It's a more seamless experience, one that prioritises ease over chaos, comfort over mud, and structure over spontaneity. Whether you're there for a barefoot pilgrimage or a premium package, it still offers a moment out of ordinary life.
For me the Prodigy kicked off the night with a collective surrender to the moment, thousands of us letting go of the outside world and becoming part of something larger, stranger, and gloriously human. It was electric and (I dare to say) one of the best sets I’ve seen in my life. From there, it was one final lap around the ‘naughty corner,’ soaking in every squelchy bass line before ending up in Temple. Altern 8’s closing set was the perfect farewell: a nostalgic, high-energy journey through old-school rave anthems that hit every note I could’ve wished for.
For many, Glastonbury ends in the sacred and strange space of the Stone Circle. There’s no programme here, no schedule to follow, but always a show. It’s not commercial nor would it ever be able to be broadcast on the BBC. Yet, it’s often the most honest, human, and hilarious part of the festival. Here, we danced to the running acid house beats until my feet gave out. It felt like Glastonbury’s final exhale: wild, weird, and quietly profound.
As I left the deeply soulful city of tents and dreams. For all its scale and history, Glastonbury still is living and breathing with vast amounts of creativity not perfected, but continually shaped by everyone who shows up, year after year.
In the end, maybe Glastonbury is still a mirror. Of the world we live in, and the world we hope for. Of the fight between capitalism and connection: between mass culture and micro moments. And while the main stage may echo with pop polish, somewhere, in the glow of a fire pit, in the bassline of a back-alley sound system, or in important speeches followed by loud applause, the original dream still flickers.
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