- Seeing as it's almost mandatory these days to start any review of a UK festival with a lengthy prelude lamenting this summer's spate of closures and poor sales, let's get it out of the way—Glade, as far as we could make out, was not one of the festie slump's victims. Patronised as ever by a sizable crustie-count, Glade's sponsor-free, counter-cultural principles remain a solid pull with a loyal following, much like a purely dance-focused version of its alma mater, Glastonbury.
Aside from oft-heard gripes about the low sound levels—a perennial complaint at all outdoor UK dance events—it's fair to say that for those of us with an aversion to the psy-trance core of Glade's programming policy, there's plenty to enjoy. Surgeon and Ben Sims do their Frequency 7 thing on the Friday night, but the aforementioned lack of volume hinders the pair's pressure-cooker beats, rendering it all somewhat flat. Slam befall a similar fate, although Mr C's crisp selection of rolling tech-house booms out in the Sancho Panza tent, much to the delight of the assembled throng.
Walking through the site on Saturday afternoon to the ever-present whoosh of Nitrous balloons, it feels like Glade proper has kicked in, with the odorous hum of the main tent testament to the festival's omnipresent sense of hedonism. No one seems to care, though, and Billy Nasty quickly transforms the scattered casualties into a whooping mass, spinning upfront minimal hits alongside gnarlier stompers. James Holden—who last appeared at Glade way back when he played 'real' trance, as opposed to the trendy variety—is every bit the effete emo-techno ambassador, his long fringe flailing keenly with each whooshing pad and grand melodic drop. We hop over to catch Lee Burridge at Sancho Panza, and for a while, his driving, flawlessly-blended set sounds ace. But towards the end, the soundsystem starts crackling uncontrollably, and no one seems to be interested in sorting it out. Eventually it becomes unbearable, and we figure if we want to hear distortion done properly, we might as well go and see Autechre.
While a few moaners have intimated of late that Autechre's recent run of live shows have been uncomfortably cold and, dare it be whispered, something of a disappointment, the same was certainly not true tonight. Impossibly intricate algorithms endlessly unraveled into vast walls of noise, swelling relentlessly while somehow maintaining a constant, indiscernible pulse. As always, Ae's true greatness lies in their confounding unpredictability—a kind of madness made coherent by a higher form of machine-like intelligence. Perhaps it also helps that the audience in the Overkill tent is made up of far fewer joyless fanboys than a normal Autechre gig. Whatever the reason, the crowd go insane, making the performance an undoubted highlight of not just this year's festival, but any Glade, ever.
Back at the main tent, Dubfire, Paul Woolford, and Claude VonStroke keep spirits high with pumping stadium techno and a couple of inevitable anthems ("Who's Afraid of Detroit" for VonStroke, "LFO" for Woolly), but it's Jeff Mills who rips hardest, dropping Suburban Knight's "The Art of Stalking" to rapturous response amid a searing 909 jam. It's certainly the best set we've seen from him in a few years, and the numerous Mills acolytes we speak to agree.
Quiet Village (sans Matt Edwards, who's busy raving it up at Benicassim apparently) opens proceedings on Sunday afternoon, but he's all but drowned out by the echoes of dub, trance, and who knows what from the adjacent tents. Fortunately, Ulrich Schnauss suffers no such indignity, his MBV-like dramatics quickly locking the bleary-eyed crowd into a lush, deeply emotive set. He may have a whiff of overcooked operatics about him, sonically speaking, but Schnauss's knack for a gorgeous harmony easily supersedes the occasional undercurrent of prog indulgence. From here, we wobble around listlessly for most of the afternoon, eventually settling in for The Orb's typically trippy finale.
While so many dance events are falling afoul of poor organization, poor finances, or poor weather, it's heartening to see in Glade a summer institution that not only shows little sign of abating, but also seems to be getting better and better each year. You can say what you want about Glade's reputation for pseudo-anarchists, trustafarians and chai tea—they certainly know how to throw a festival. Hopefully next time, the revolution will be a little less quiet.