Glastonbury, Zelensky, and the Protest Voice of Gen Z

In 2019, Glastonbury could not have imagined that the next edition would arrive three years later, in a world already transformed.

When the festival returned in 2022, The Libertines opened on the Other Stage. In a gathering of more than 200,000 people — a site the size of hundreds of football pitches — the Other Stage is the second largest. Yet that afternoon, the real headliner was not the slightly faded band, but Volodymyr Zelensky. The war-worn president appeared on the giant screen. “Greetings, Glastonbury,” he said in a pre-recorded message, urging the crowd to pay attention to the truth of war.

Zelensky was everywhere. Flags bearing his face fluttered near Paul McCartney’s stage, at Kendrick Lamar’s set, even above the electronic tents. His portrait was taped inside toilet cubicles, staring at you while you crouched awkwardly. He addressed the crowd with sincerity: “Glastonbury is the greatest concentration of freedom these days.”

As someone who once grew up under rainbow flags and flirted with anarchism, I applauded — and felt conflicted. Even at Woodstock in 1969, before Janis Joplin performed, no sitting politician appeared in person. Yet the world had shifted. War had returned to Europe. Perhaps the moment required an anti-war icon. Music and politics have never truly been separate. Hippies, punks, emos, indie kids, metalheads — protest has always been part of the sound.

That same afternoon, the US Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, ruling that abortion was no longer a constitutional right. Suddenly, Glastonbury felt closer to its imagined utopia. Most teenagers who first fall in love with rock music carry some version of the “love and peace” dream. We picture Jimi Hendrix resurrected every summer, singing in the mud after rain. But perhaps the point of Woodstock in 1969 or Glastonbury in 1970 is not to recreate them, but to renew them through new illusions.

By Saturday, “Fuck the Supreme Court” had become a refrain across stages.

Billie Eilish, the youngest headliner in the festival’s history, dedicated “Your Power” to American women. Lorde declared, “Your bodies were destined to be controlled and objectified since before you were born. That horror is your birth right.”

If Lorde’s words felt measured, Olivia Rodrigo, Gen Z’s pop idol, was more direct. On the Other Stage, she and Lily Allen sang the blunt British anthem “Fuck You,” dedicating it to the five justices by name. Under her lead, more than a hundred thousand middle fingers rose in unison. The moment spread across the world. On BBC’s YouTube channel, the video drew more than twice the views of Paul McCartney’s virtual duet with John Lennon.

That evening, I stood at the Pyramid Stage, listening to Liam Gallagher revisit Oasis-era glory. When the opening chords of “Wonderwall” rang out, even a grandmother in sunglasses and a tie-dye shirt danced. The sunset brushed the transparent tip of the pyramid. Meanwhile, a friend at Olivia’s stage found herself surrounded by young British girls, radiant with energy.

For someone who once believed in looking backward — in nostalgia as refuge — I had long felt that music was no longer central. It seemed more like a lifestyle accessory, its sharp edge softened, its power diluted. I clung to memory.

But I realised I had hesitated too long. Every generation has its anger. The parallels with 1970 are striking: race, war, civil rights, women’s rights, environmental activism — the themes return. Today’s youth idols also speak through music.

The difference may be this: the 1960s dreamed of remaking the world. Today, it feels more like holding the world at bay, protecting a fragile utopia from decay.

On Sunday night, before Kendrick Lamar finished his set, I walked down from the hill. At the end of “Saviour,” under fireworks, he repeated, “Godspeed for women’s rights. They judge you, they judge Christ.” Again and again, louder each time. Then he stopped mid-line, dropped the microphone, and walked off stage.

In his video message, Zelensky ended with the words, “Freedom will always win.”

May every summer carry its banners like this.

2019年的Glastonbury大概想不到，下一届就是三年后再见，而三年后的世界，已经大变样了。

2022年回归的第一场演出由The Libertines开启，他们在Other Stage登场。在这个容纳21万人，约等于500多个足球场大的音乐节中，Other Stage是第二大舞台。但当天的主角远不是略显过气的The Libertines，而是泽连斯基——这个沧桑的政客出现在大屏幕，“「Greetings, Glastonbury」”，透过提前录制好的视频呼吁人们关注战争真相。

泽连斯基无处不在，成为了会场里的头号红人，印着他头像的旗帜飘在Paul McCartney、Kendrick Lamar甚至电音舞台现场，飘在小山一般的帐篷部落里；他的大头照被贴在厕所隔间里，盯着你艰难地半蹲如厕；他对在场乐迷无不诚恳：Glastonbury is the greatest concentration of freedom these days.

作为一个彩旗下的蛋兼无政府主义者，我鼓掌且五味杂陈。一方面，即便呼唤自由与反战的伍德斯托克，在1969年Janis Joplin演出前，不会有一位实体政客抛头露面；另一方面，暴雨已至，世界需要一个反战偶像，而音乐永远不应该与政治割席，嬉皮们朋克们Emo们Indie们金属们，抗争仍要继续。

当天下午，美国最高法院推翻「罗诉韦德案」，裁定女性堕胎并非宪法赋予的权利。从这开始，Glastonbury离想象中那个乌托邦更近了。我必须承认，每一个初识摇滚乐的青少年，大概都做过「爱与和平」的嬉皮梦，期待Jimi Hendrix在每一个夏天复活，在雨后的泥浆中歌唱跳舞。对于1969年的伍德斯托克、1970年的格拉斯顿伯里，可能最重要的不是去再现它，而是使用合适的幻想补充其内涵。

周六开始，“Fuck the Supreme Court“ 成了舞台上的主题。 音乐节历史上最年轻的headliner Billie Eilish把「Your Power」献给美国女性；Lorde念白Your bodies were destined to be controlled and objectified since before you were born. That horror is your birth right.

如果说Lorde的抗议发言显得文绉绉，Olivia Rodrigo，这位Gen Z流行甜心偶像，化身Tiktok时代的Joan Baez，和Lily Allen在Other Stage合唱家喻户晓的英国国歌「Fuck You」，献给五位大法官，并逐一念出他们的名字。在她的带领下，全场十万多只齐刷刷的中指好不壮观，刷屏全球。在Youtube BBC频道上传的所有现场视频中，这首演出被观看了240多万次，比Paul McCartney与John Lennon隔空对唱还多了一倍多的观看量。

当时我在标志性的主舞台Pyramid Stage，听着有缸追忆绿洲年华。英国国歌「Wonderwall」前奏响起时， 戴着墨镜穿着扎染衫的奶奶也手舞足蹈起来，落日光线开始摩挲透明的金字塔顶端；而同行在Olivia场的朋友，被英国年轻女孩们包围着，感受到青春活力与幸福。

对于曾经的「向后看原教旨主义者」我而言，即便人们依然热爱音乐，音乐似乎却不再居于核心，而变得更像是生活方式的附属品，它的激烈冲击力、抵抗内核和跨世代共鸣也日渐消弱。我沉溺于再回首，并相信回忆是最佳庇护所。

我耽搁得太久，明白得太晚，因为一代人终有一代人的愤怒。这和1970是个多么相似的轮回，种族问题、反战、民权/女权与环保运动依然激烈，当代的青年偶像们也在通过音乐发声。 我想唯一的不同在于，现在不是要把荒诞不经的想法赋予世界，60年代那股要革世界的命的劲没了，现在是要尽力抵御世界，以保护心中乌托邦免遭枯萎。

Glastonbury周日晚落幕时，我从看Kendrick Lamar表演的山头提前下山，听到了最具戏剧张力的一幕。「Saviour」结尾时，漫天烟花下他不断念着 “Godspeed for women's rights. They judge you, they judge Christ”，他一遍又一遍地重复着这句话，力度越来越大，最后到一半就断了，他把话筒甩到地上，径直走下舞台。

泽连斯基在视频中最后说「freedom always win」，愿每个夏天都旗帜鲜明。