From the Portland show...today (June 6):

Soundcheck

Take You On A Cruise
A Time To Be So Small
Next Exit

Setlist

Next Exit
Slow Hands
NARC
Say Hello To The Angels
Public Pervert
Not Even Jail
Leif Erikson
Take You On A Cruise
Evil
PDA

Encore

NYC
Obstacle 1
Roland

aww..this is the cutest thing ever!

<- yes...that's a glowing face on Paul's guitar....the only time he had it on his guitar was (if my memory serves right) on a gig on Kentucky...can't recall the date..but I do remember that he lighted it up at the ending of 'Next Exit'..and then he put it on Carlos' amp

and..on Washington DC at the 9:30 Club gigs (on both 25th & 26th) this was on Carlos' amp:

beanie baby bat & Carlos' ashtray

:

there will be a live webcast of Interpol's performance at Glastonbury. The streaming will start next Saturday, 25 June 2005 at 7:50 pm London time...

The streaming will be on http://glastonbury.playlouder.com/

can't wait for it!!

oh, btw, it's time for another 'Pol-Play Contest!! Cmerepaul announced the 3rd one will start this friday (June 24) at 11 pm (London) Luckily it will be 5 pm here in Mexico, so I have plenty of time to check the questions (or whatever the format is this time...), answer it, and send my answers....

(if you have no idea of what is a 'Pol-Play Contest...visit http://www.mickelcurepol.com) 

holy ****!! in some minutes Interpol will be on stage at Glastonbury!!! the stream sound is really good..tho the quality of the image sucks for me, but ah...I can't wait for them to come out!!!! the nerves are killing me!!!

argh!!! *calms down a little..* ok, I just sent my answers to the 'Pol-Play...damn...even tho we had a 'supporting team' over the IMB I nearly collapsed a thousand times..!! cmerepaul lost all perspective and also her marbles...haha.. I definately need to go to the PPA ('Pol-Play Anonymous)...*nervous smile*

Are you stressed about solving 'Pol-Play contests?

Do you wonder if you've turned in your entry too early and are consequently consumed with dread and fear?

Do you wish you had support from fellow IMB members to cheer you on after exhaustion sets in ten hours into researching Interpol trivia?

Do you have dreams about ham, random photos of Paul, and crossword grids?

Are you contemplating getting ACCURACY > SPEED tattoed on your forehead?

Do you lie awake at night wondering, "What the EFF is cmerepaul talking about?"

Are you currently passed out at your computer?

Well, don't despair....join PPA ('Pol-Play Anonymous)!

At PPA we are full of team spirit and support each other at the task at hand. 
Feel the love. Viva la 'Pol-Play. We are here for you at PPA.
Don't give up!  Have a red bull. Pop some pills. Take a nap. Dance around to Roland.
Forget about the time, you have plenty of time. Go Team! 

ok, these are just some of the screen caps Hades took from the Glastonbury webcast:

-Dan-

-Sam-

-Paul-

-Carlos-

<- my new wallpaper..

oh, what would we do without Hades??

^ it seems I got too excited and didn't posted what I won...*blushes* well, I got the SPIN mag (the issue with Interpol on the cover )

oh, and today I got a new 'Pol video, it's an interview with Carlos and Dan at the Roskilde festival in Denmark, and Dan said: "..we're gonna be done in October...after this tour we're gonna be on Australia and Japan, then we're doing one more tour on the US and we're going to Mexico, Canada..."
ok...now the question is..when? -I don't know...but I hope it's soon !! I'm dying to see them live!

but of course, I know they need some time to rest, that's why I totally understand if coming here to Mexico takes time...as long as they are ok and healthy, so they can give a good show and enjoy it

now..the first article I read about Glasto..(on Italic my fave parts ):

Suited and welly-booted
After torrential rain and flash-flooding hit Somerset on Friday, this year's Glastonbury festival was in danger of being written off. Into this maelstrom stepped Interpol, New York's finest band, with a reputation for sharp sounds and sharper suits. So how would they cope? And what would they make of the urinals? Laura Barton joined them for their entire Glastonbury experience.

Monday June 27, 2005
The Guardian

Glastonbury. Kaiser Chiefs lately over, the Acoustic Stage awaits Chas 'n' Dave. Implacable June weather. Saturday afternoon, and the scene is best described as biblical: 152,000 festival-goers; two-hour queues for wellington boots; five-hour queues for the cash machine; up-turned toilets; submerged tents; grown men and women swimming in mud.

Into this abyss step Interpol, New York's finest. Revered for their taut, angular sound - exemplified by their debut album Turn on the Bright Lights, and this year's Antics - as well as for their immaculate attire and the painful jut of their haircuts, Interpol's is perhaps not an image that rests easily with the free-love mud-in that is the Glastonbury festival. One of them even wears a holster, for chrissakes.

Nevertheless, at 1pm sharp, Interpol will arrive at Worthy Farm. At 19.50 precisely, they will assume the Other stage, in a slot that nestles snugly between Echo & the Bunnymen and Kasabian. At 1am, they will head off into the night towards Holland's Rockin' Park festival. In the intervening hours, we will accompany them as they roam through the festival, fend off groupies and mainline Jack Daniels in an effort to discover precisely what it is like to be a rock band at Glastonbury 2005.

Unfortunately, the band's grand entrance is somewhat stymied. Their tour bus - a jazzy purple and chrome affair - gets stuck, like most of the vehicles passing into the festival, in a mighty traffic jam. Fans cluster excitedly outside the smoked-out windows. Directly behind, meanwhile, in a jaunty little British racing-green sports car, sit several members of the band Razorlight. After a good 20 minutes, with the bus showing no signs of moving, Johnny Borrell, Razorlight's lead singer - today positively resplendent in a sugar-pink cardigan - concedes defeat and completes the short distance to the backstage enclosure on foot.

The wait at least presents Interpol with the opportunity to don their wellingtons, newly purchased from Harvey Nichols, no less. Wellies present something of a sartorial challenge for the band, and at least one member has refused to wear them on the grounds of stylistic repulsion. The bus door finally swings open at exactly the same time as the festival engages in a mass Make Poverty History "moment" orchestrated by Bob Geldof on the Pyramid stage. He beseeches festival-goers across the site to "grab the hands of the person beside you. Not as some big hippy rock festival thing, but because you want this to happen. Lift your hands and say together: 'Make poverty history' ".

As Sir Bob's gesture of unity ripples across Glastonbury, Sam Fogarino, Interpol's drummer, havers in the doorway of the bus, before tentatively stepping down into the quagmire below. He is closely followed by lead singer Paul Banks, and guitarist Daniel Kessler, who merrily struts about in his new black wellies. "I'm like a little kid!" he declares. "I wanna go off and find puddles!" Carlos D, Interpol's sleek, snarling bassist, meanwhile, is officially "out of sorts" and remains aboard the bus, preferring the company of a Thai chicken curry.

Some minutes pass before D emerges. Banks, Fogarino and Kessler have all trotted off to inspect the dressing room (a small, over-lit Portakabin stocked with the band's rider of Jameson's, Stella, tequila, and vodka). Only his management remains when D eventually descends, black bin liners swathed around his feet, and in growly mood. "Hey, Carlos, how are you?" he is asked. "Whatever." He sighs. "Can you do me a little favour? Do you know the cosmetics brand MAC? Can you get me a little tube of MAC Studio Line - it's foundation and it's in ivory. And a little pair of grooming scissors?" With this, he too swishes off toward the dressing room, muttering: "I mean, there aren't any proper facilities here, like bathrooms!"

This is an act of pathetic fallacy - Carlos's grumpiness is matched by the weather. Everything around remains cold and gloomy and there is mud as far as the eye can see. In an attempt to lift everyone's spirits I coax the band into a foray into the mud. Banks, in virginal white trainers, looks a little disconcerted. They all tiptoe gingerly around the puddles. "The problem," explains Kessler, in black suit, black shirt and black tie, "is that we have to wear these same outfits tomorrow night, and we don't have the facilities to clean them ourselves." Behind him, Carlos bends down to readjust his bin bags, and finds his long, lily-white fingers covered in sticky Somerset mud. He grimaces.

"I had dinner with my mom last night," says Banks, "and she had a newspaper that she put in front of me showing pictures from Glastonbury - it was knee-high water and beyond. I freaked. In America, festivals are very different. They're in concrete parking lots. My memories of European festivals are always of mud."

Banks gamely wades up towards the cinema field, where a 22-metre screen sits blankly in the corner, awaiting the next screening of the largely unsuccessful John Travolta movie, Be Cool. Interpol like movies. They watch a lot on their tour bus. "On the way here we had a debate between watching Citizen Kane and Seven," says Banks. "The greatest movie of all time. Or Seven. We went for Seven."

Struggling uphill against a tide of six-inch deep sludge can have a draining effect. "Let's sit down here," says Banks, spotting some unusually vacant seats loitering beneath a display of jauntily coloured hanging baskets. The baskets are an addition to Glastonbury this year, designed, one assumes, to perk the place up a little in the face of biblical precipitation. At this point in time, they act merely to remind us how much nicer it would be if the sun came out. Ensconced, Banks reminisces about Interpol's first Glastonbury, two years ago, when they were further down the bill and the sun shone relentlessly. "I went out with Har Mar Superstar," he recalls. "All over the festival and we were all just drunk and nice. It was one of the happiest days of my life."

Opposite us is one of the campgrounds where, on Friday night, flash-floods swept through the fields and left campers waterlogged, stranded and tentless. Now, mud-soaked items of clothing have been strung out to dry, and bedraggled campers sit spiritedly swigging cans of lager beneath their self-assembly gazebos. It brings up in Fogarino strong memories of the last, unfortunate time he slept in a tent. "North-east Pennsylvania, I was 13 and it was cold. I caught on fire," he says, as if the statement requires no further explanation, and instead looks out across the splattered tarpaulin before him. "I just couldn't seem to get warm enough," he continues eventually. "I kept getting closer and closer to the fire, and then my friend's brother tackled me to the floor. I couldn't work out why. But my leg had flames on it."

It is, now, an hour before Interpol are due to perform and the band has decided to spurn the dazzling array of felafel bars and curry teepees out in the wilds of the festival in favour of the lah-di-dah catering tent provided for artists and crew. In a Van Dyke-English accent, Banks declares his meal to be "lovely!", before hastening to add that, "My parents are English, and I was born here - we moved to the US when I was three, so I feel entitled to do the accent." Perhaps nostalgically, Banks has chosen lamb hotpot. "My mother used to make it. And I'm having it with new potatoes. All potatoes are of a higher standard in Europe," he confides. "Potatoes and cheese."

All talk of potatoes soon comes to an end and the band retreat to adjust their ties. A magnificent and excited crowd gathers before the Other stage. As is traditional at big Glastonbury performances, there is a wafting of various flags and banners - Scotland, Wales, Drop the Debt, and an inflated condom bobs gently above the heads of the crowd.

Behind the curtain sit a million drum kits, amps, miniature pianos. Dozens of roadies and sound engineers mill about purposefully fiddling with half a dozen standing lamps and an assortment of shrubs, while the drum kits are being softly soundchecked beneath the racket, ready for the next act.

Beyond the stage, the sky is a sulky shade of grey, yet somehow it seems to meet Interpol's determined austerity. The band strut on to the stage through great clouds of fake smoke: Fogarino first, Carlos, naturally, last. "Hi," says Banks and the crowd whoop and caw as they launch into their set with a bludgeoning intensity.

The smoke machine doesn't stop billowing. Carlos is down the front, whirling about in the smoke like a demented marionette. In the misty distance, beyond the lake of mud and the rows of upheld clapping hands, stand hundreds of waterlogged tents, and lines of people marching back and forth, like ants. Interpol play a ferocious, glistening set, which culminates at its dark, steely best with their last single, Evil. This, you think to yourself, is the festival: damp, grey, but with a fierce, wiry spine of optimism. "Thank you. It's great to be back in Glas-ton-berry," says Banks. And off they stroll.

"Are Interpol gonna walk out here, d'ya reckon?" asks a girl of about 17, leaning against the gate at the side of the stage. Not, we assure her, in the immediate future. "Shit," she says imploringly, with the tone of voice of someone who has an appointment to keep the other side of an ocean of mud. "I wanna go see Kasabian."

The truth is, the band have been waylaid by another diehard fan, Gwyneth Paltrow, here to support her husband Chris Martin whose Coldplay are headlining later in the evening. She has been watching the set at the side of the stage, along with a small scrum of minders. The band exchange extended pleasantries before Carlos, promptly, retires to the bus. Kessler and Fogarino head off to do a radio interview, and Banks, looking somewhat exhausted now, suggests we accompany him to watch Kasabian. "We may run into a problem here," he says wearily, as he heads towards the stage, "in that I may not be able to speak."

After a couple of songs he returns to the dressing room. He is tired and vaguely despondent, suffering, it seems, from the kind of malaise only a band on extended tour can catch. He's not sure where they've been playing recently; even less sure where they're playing next. "On tour, I really don't know facts," he says and sits down. "Ohhh maaaaan." He is finding the tide of humanity on Worthy Farm a little difficult to handle. "I'm not super-comfortable in huge crowds. Never have been. On stage, it's different, I have my space. It was great from the stage," he says of tonight's performance. "All the bodies crammed together ... you don't get a sense that they're mucky."

"I loved the flags," says the band's sometime keyboardist, Blasco. "I saw one for 'Bath Rugby', which is locally justified. But 'Ashley Giles - King of Spin?' And the mud - there were people dancing in it!"

"Mud dancers!" Fogarino delivers wryly. "We have arrived."

After almost two years of constant touring, Interpol have grown used to dropping in and out of festivals, towns, countries. "It's pretty much a band's-eye view - rushed in, rushed out," Fogarino admits. "I don't like to stay put. I've grown accustomed to the shuffle about. At home, I have a severely domestic setting - I live with my girlfriend, I cook, we have a dog." On cue, he pulls out photographs of said pooch, Mickey.

Coldplay are about to take to the stage and, in a gesture of solidarity (Interpol are to support Coldplay at Crystal Palace on Tuesday), Fogarino has pledged to undertake the trek to see them. As the night's performances come to a head, getting round a muddy Glastonbury becomes even more of a feat, snakes of revellers line up across the sludge and the main intersections are like an A road on a bank holiday.

Breaking up his journey, Fogarino stops to admire the festival's gallant attempt at introducing recycling bins ("I'm pro-recycling") and indeed, the continental-style urinals placed in the middle of a camping ground and coloured a garish green ("I haven't seen these before!"). I leave Carlos at the entrance to the pyramid stage and head off into the festival in search of Carlos, who, according to reports, has left the bus.

If not in the bus though, it's anyone's guess as to where he might now be. We head up to the Lost Vagueness field, where we find the usual array of curious and interesting creatures in this burlesque version of a wild west town. There are dancers, freakshow contenders, the sublimely intoxicated, but among them, no Carlos.

We are en route to the Stone Circle thinking that our errant bassist may well have been lured in by the promise of fire-juggling and hash truffles, when we hear that he is, in fact, hiding out in a Winnebago. The Winnebago in question is not entirely glamorous (there is a presiding air of beige, and we are instructed to remove our muddy wellies before being admitted).

Inside, the editor of Vice magazine and a couple of young ladies sit around the table, while Carlos holds court. One gets the impres sion the room is on the brink of all sorts of seediness. "When I do this," Carlos instructs me, clapping his hands twice, "then you cannot report anything that happens until I do it again." He claps his hands twice again, by way of illustration. "It's as if that time is in parenthesis." He claps his hands twice.

Half an hour later, the time still, it would seem, in parenthesis, we leave the Winnebago to find Kessler at a bar. "I've been here for hours," he assures us, sweetly. "I've been doing a lot of this. Whiskey. Straight. And maybe a lot of tequila."

"I knoww yoooou," an exceedingly drunk girl sways over to Kessler. "Werrrre yoou on stage?" Kessler nods gently. "Which bannnnd?" Interpol, he tells her. "Ah," she says, and staggers off towards the bar. This, he admits, happens fairly often. Almost on cue, another drunk reveller bobs into him. "Hey man, you were great," Kessler smiles politely.

In a brief break between fans, Kessler reflects on today's experience. "It's our first festival of the season. And it was a strange time to play - it's overcast, it's not night-time and I saw the gigantic river of mud. But Glastonbury's got this magic to it. Everyone's such an optimist about Glastonbury. No one talks **** about it. People in Britain aren't optimistic and yet no one talks **** about Glastonbury." He looks at us with twinkly-eyed wonder.

Holland awaits, and the band's tour manager is getting edgy. It is time to begin the long wade back to the bus. "You know, the problem is," says Kessler, with the sudden clarity of the well-tequilaed man, "when we play a festival like this, when we come in and we're only here for a few hours, you know I feel I have this clock on me. Like I'm trying to make the best of this. I'm always checking the clock. It's two hours and I think OK, I've got two hours. And now," he checks the time, "I've less than 10 minutes."

Everyone is now back on the bus except, perversely, Carlos, who is busy trying to sneak a young lovely past security. "I would love to be staying longer," says Kessler as he clambers aboard in his now gleefully muddied black wellies. "You know, the reason people like Glastonbury is it's not about 1am, it's about everything that happens after that."

****

I loved this article...especially this parts:

"Hey, Carlos, how are you?" he is asked. "Whatever." He sighs. "Can you do me a little favour? Do you know the cosmetics brand MAC? Can you get me a little tube of MAC Studio Line - it's foundation and it's in ivory. And a little pair of grooming scissors?" With this, he too swishes off toward the dressing room, muttering: "I mean, there aren't any proper facilities here, like bathrooms!"

"When I do this," Carlos instructs me, clapping his hands twice, "then you cannot report anything that happens until I do it again." He claps his hands twice again, by way of illustration. "It's as if that time is in parenthesis." He claps his hands twice.

Carlos IS a Diva!!