Asha Puthli live review: a euphoric set at Glastonbury 2024
Glastonbury Festival holds a reputation and atmosphere that dwarfs virtually ever other live music event around the globe. For decades, Worthy Farm has played host to a plethora of utterly iconic artists. This year, despite some fleeting criticism of the line-up, the festival has reaffirmed its commitment to offering a live music experience unlike any other. Today, the standard was set early doors, by the groundbreaking singer-songwriter Asha Puthli.
Admittedly, upon waking up, shivering, in my tent this morning, I yearned for a lie-in. The fatigue of walking upwards of 25,000 steps per day, encountering endless clouds of dust and bare-footed hippies, had certainly taken its toll on me. However, the allure of seeing such an esteemed vocalist in the flesh was simply too much to pass up, and so my pasty white legs and blistered feet took me to the West Holt stage, where I waited in anticipation for Puthli to emerge from the fog and flashing lights.
Puthli is undoubtedly one of the most gifted and prominent vocalists to ever arise from India, having enjoyed a long and illustrious career mingling with the likes of Andy Warhol, Ornette Coleman, and Mick Rock among countless others. These days, the vocalist is somewhat reclusive. In fact, this Friday afternoon set at Worthy Farm is only the second performance Puthli has given in the past five years. As such, there was a strange feeling of intrigue within the crowd, as the audience tried to guess what the Bombay-born singer might be like in real life.
“I have to say, it’s fucking cold,” she said upon entering the stage, before launching into a ‘greatest hits’ setlist that would put anybody else on this year’s line-up to shame. It became immediately evident that, despite her time away from the music industry, Puthli’s vocal talents have never waned. Performing in the same key as she sang back in her youth, her voice seemed to cut through the atmosphere, blocking out the hustle and bustle of festival life in a shroud of ethereal charm. The faraway DJ sets, the chitter-chatter among the crowd; it all seemed to disappear as soon as Puthli began to sing, as though she was addressing you personally.
Interestingly, despite the notoriety of her career and talents, Puthli’s set was distinctly unpretentious. While many artists, even on the smaller stages, have been awash with the kind of understandable arrogance that comes part-and-parcel with playing Glastonbury, Puthli seemed determined to connect with the crowd both within her performance and during the interludes. “It has taken me nearly 80 years to get here,” she exclaimed, early on in the set, “I was at the original Woodstock 1969, and seeing your love, freedom and energy reminds me of when I was 20”.
That quote set the tone for the rest of her set, which saw Puthli perform a variety of her best-loved tracks, including ‘Space Talk’ and a cover of J.J. Cale’s ‘Right Down Here’; which she recalled singing to drag queen pioneer Holly Woodlawn back during her days at Warhol’s Factory. Of course, Puthli’s ethereal voice was the highlight of the set – and may even be an early contender for highlight of the festival – but her backing band were equally as impressive, and her anecdotes were a feast for cultural fiends too.
According to the singer, she has only been with the band for about a month – since her performances in Australia back in June – yet you would be forgiven for thinking they had been performing together for decades; regularly riffing off of each other to create a spontaneous and organic feeling.
At this point, on Friday afternoon, it is far too early to make a call on the stand-out moments of this year’s Glastonbury, but, truthfully, I cannot imagine many artists coming close to matching the energy and rarified euphoria that Asha Puthli offered. So, the only issue is: where do we go from here? Once you have witnessed such vocal mastery, how can you hope to top that, with Coldplay singing ‘Yellow’ for the millionth time? I don’t think so. Certainly not with the manufactured pop of Seventeen that’s now rumbling around the press tent, disgruntling bearded writers.
