“What this moment is making me realise is that I probably am the best. I’m probably the best songwriter of my generation. A poet, that’s what I am. Generational wordsmith. I just wanted to remind you. The next couple of minutes. These lyrics, this poetry. I bleed for you.”
The sun is slipping behind Worthy Farm, and the air fizzes with anticipation. This is no ordinary Friday at Glastonbury. Healy’s words hang over the Pyramid like a gauntlet – half bravura, half uncomfortable truth. Subtlety has never been his thing; the lights don’t rise for modesty; they erupt for mastery.
And then – fans of high art and GCSE English rejoice – they tear into ‘Chocolate’.
No arguments, no counterpoints, no nuance required. The 1975 are, by some distance, the definitive British band of the last two decades, which makes their delayed elevation to headline status at the UK’s festival of note feel faintly absurd. Still, here they are at last, and they have no intention of idling through the privilege.
They look cleaner, sharper, more alert than they have in years, as though the controversies that engulfed 2022’s ‘Being Funny in a Foreign Language’ have been sluiced away. It’s shorthand for a band that told tabloid drama to sod off and rediscovered its core purpose.
Extravagance? Weaponised. Industry gossip claims they spent four times their fee on production, summoning a bespoke set‑up that yells statement, not vanity. Post‑‘BFIAFL’, this is All New The 1975 of 2025: polished, razor‑sharp, battle‑ready, parading their own Great British Songbook without a single wobble. Every detail matters. Matty’s machine‑gun patter, George Daniel’s seismic kick drum (more on that later – Ed), the choreography of songs that trace their legacy track by track. Gone is the chaos that once threatened to eat them alive; in its place, the set they were born to deliver.
That catalogue dwarfs their peers. From arena ragers ‘Give Yourself A Try’ and ‘The Sound’ to the quieter, deeper cuts ‘I Always Wanna Die (Sometimes)’ and ‘Be My Mistake’, they glide across moods and genres no other contemporary act can touch. Just when you think the emotional spectrum is exhausted, they yank out the Tumblr‑era tearjerker ‘Robbers’. “For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to say,” Healy confesses, cueing an eardrum‑skinning sing‑along that reminds the sceptics how disciples, not mere fans, have kept the flame burning. A heartbeat later, ‘People’ detonates like a Molotov: proof their gear‑shift from swooning communion to riot‑ready noise is second nature.
Stripped of the static, they’re in imperial form. ‘Happiness’ segues into ‘Too Shy’, ‘Love Me’ into ‘She’s American’, each switch acknowledging past eras – from ‘ABIIOR’ travelators to fleeting pauses of actual vulnerability. The melodrama? Muted. Uproar? Ignored. What’s left is unfiltered pop gold.
Mid‑set, Healy vows these shows will be politics‑free, favouring love and friendship over ideology. One track later, they plunge into ‘Love It If We Made It’, arguably the sharpest pop critique of the modern condition this side of Brexit. Seconds on, it’s ‘Sex’, cheerfully detailing back‑seat oral. Authenticity and artifice bleed together. Sincerity is scary, and The 1975 remain thrillingly ambivalent about which mask they’re wearing.
This is “The 1975, from the internet,” Healy announces near the close – a band insisting they’re not going anywhere and everything will be alright. They drop ‘About You’, a heart‑stopping confession in neon, its shoegaze swirl hanging over the valley like mist. It feels less like an ending than a breadcrumb: a hint that the next iteration is already loading.
And then the punch line. As they stride off, every LED glitches crimson, and the same single word that was emblazoned on Daniel’s drum skin flashes: “DOGS”. DOGS? What the fuck are DOGS? It’s the perfect full‑stop: inscrutable, mischievous, unmistakably 1975. They may have polished the exterior, but thank god the chaos underneath endures.
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