Glastonbury has gone from being a scrappy, patchouli-scented music festival in the 1970s to a full-blown, well-oiled corporate event. What started as a countercultural gathering where £1 got you entry and free milk has become a global phenomenon that feels more like a Netflix production than a muddy utopia of music lovers. And the BBC? They’ve been both its biggest cheerleader and, arguably, its slickest marketing machine.
Yesterday iconic rocker Neil Young, who last performed at Glastonbury in 2009 withdrew from negotiations to perform this years claiming the festival is ‘not the way I remember it being’ after BBC ‘wanted us to do a lot of things in a way we were not interested in’ (The Guardian) Today, he has agreed to play, but the issue he has highlighted remains.
How and why has it changed so much, has the commercialism diminished the integrity of the festival turning it from a niche festival to a brand.
Back in 1970, Glastonbury drew 1,500 attendees. Today, it’s 200,000 strong, with ticket lotteries more stressful than applying for a mortgage. Those £1 tickets (about £15 now with inflation) have been replaced by £340 wristbands, and instead of free milk, you’ll need a small savings plan for a quinoa bowl or oat latte. Add in luxury glamping zones with private chefs, and the festival has traded its egalitarian roots for VIP zones and Instagrammable experiences.
The BBC plays a big role in this transformation. Their coverage is so comprehensive it feels like they’re broadcasting the Olympics of Mud. Endless live streams, sweeping drone shots, and presenters dressed in “festival chic” have turned Glastonbury into a national event rather than a music festival. Their focus on high-production value coverage—complete with celebrity interviews and overhyped Pyramid Stage headliners—has helped cement Glastonbury’s shift from counterculture to the mainstream.
This week, Neil Young—never one to hold back—chimed in, calling the festival out for becoming too big, too corporate, and, in his words, a “mass-marketing extravaganza.” Coming from a legendary artist who embodies the countercultural spirit Glastonbury once stood for, it feels like a stinging reminder of just how far the festival has drifted from its roots.
Sure, the BBC’s wall-to-wall coverage makes it accessible to those at home (who can experience it with supermarket hummus and dry socks), but it also feeds into the commercialisation. Sponsors love the global exposure, and the BBC’s glittering portrayal drives FOMO to new heights. Meanwhile, the smaller stages and quirky acts that embody Glastonbury’s original spirit are overshadowed by headline-grabbing megastars and corporate zones.
So while Glastonbury is still a celebration of music, art, and community, its soul feels a little shinier—and a little more corporate—than it used to. Thanks to the BBC and its marketing machine, the festival has gone from a muddy haven for the free-spirited to a branded cultural mega-event. Neil Young might not be wrong when he laments the rise of its mass-market vibe—you can still find the patchouli crowd, but they’re probably stuck behind someone taking a selfie in designer wellies.
The Rights of Fans. 