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Isle of Wight Festival - The S.G Review

20th June 2008 | by Don Blandford

Famous for fossils, the Isle of Wight has always been a home for dinosaurs. This weekend is no exception. The once radical festival features the old guard of rock, some familiar radio-friendly foes and too few bands from outside the crowded mainstream of rock.

As with all festivals the dilemma is one of choice. A quick glance at this line-up and we're wondering who we'd most like to slap. Ian Brown, Sting, Ricky Wilson, or The Kooks. There are so many candidates!

Looking beyond the picnic-blankets, kids and couples there's boy band action on the main stage. Joe Lean urges the VIP blaggers over the fence to come and “join the party”. He poses some more and launches into some more polished pop. A few people shuffle their feet; several thousand others think about beer and wonder when The Wombats and The Hoosiers are playing.

It's all so safe! We're off to the Big Top stage for some prog-rock. Curved Air haven't played together for thirty years but these prog relics seem to be Friday night's radical option. Looking rather overwhelmed, Sonja Kristina floats airily around the stage and belts out 'It Happened Today'. The clock's turned back to a time of record oil prices, crap pop bands and high inflation – a well-timed comeback.

The Duke Spirit bring more female-fronted rock. Liela Moss is a rock fox. Her mic-hugging, femme fatale ways draw wolf-whistles from even the most deconstructed new men present. Boyfriends stare and girlfriends glare but they secretly want to be her.

Over on the main stage some Leeds lads are predicting a riot but in the heaving Big Top, it's The Stranglers who are keeping the revolutionary flame alive. The original men in black are burning tonight. The stewards skilfully pluck rib-crushed revellers out of the pit as 'Nice 'n' Sleazy' and Hanging Around keep the adrenalin rush going. 'All Day And All Of The Night' brings another surge before the punky encore of 'No More Heroes' sends punters crazy.

Commercial radio concerns dominate Saturday afternoon's line-up. The honest intent of The Enemy brings real relief after the well-worn nonsense of Kate Nash and faux-aggression of The Cribs. A better than expected performance by The Zutons lifts the mood but 'Valerie' needs to be exorcised from our brains before a mallet and tent pegs connect with our head to rid ourselves of the demon ditty.

Next there's a 61-year-old on all fours, barking like a dog! Hellooooo Iggy Pop! The only artist who was ever likely to go topless in the bracing northerly breeze. Soaking himself in water and singing to the stewards he sprays water and expletives into the crowd. With encouragement from The Stooges he humps amps and scampers around for 'I Wanna Be Your Dog' and gives a taste of the anarchic things to come with a rendition of 'No Fun' - aimed perhaps at the poor audience participation below him.

Crossing through the hordes with their little pony balloons and giant inflatable bananas and into the Big Top Ida Maria is putting the hic into rock chick! The Norwegian is either over-excited or has imbibed too much of the festival vibe as she leaves the stage three times during her short set. She returns with a ciggie and rouses the packed tent. She's not that popular - it's just that the Sugababes are up next. 'Oh My God' and the Jimmy Mack inspired 'Stella' mine the quirky pop vein well.

The punk pantomime of The Sex Pistols close proceedings on Saturday. John Lydon is no longer rotten. He's just a grumpy old geezer babbling out soundbites about England, Gazza and Tony Blair...but at least he's an entertaining old git. The opening strains of 'Vera Lynn' leading to a lounge-reggae version of Pretty Vacant bemuse many but Lydon and co. soon return to familiar ground. 'Belsen Was A Gas' gets renamed 'Baghdad Was A Blast' and Lydon - wearing a nightshirt and tartan trimmed attire - asks “would you like some more from granddad and the boys?” Lydon's utterances were designed to provoke, but talking about patriotism to a field full of Little Englanders clutching copies of Daily Mail supplements is hardly radical. It still amuses the usual lager-fuelled tossers wearing fisherman hats.

Going through the motions on many of the songs it was all a pastiche of the original roaring rock that once disrupted and disturbed. After threatening to leave because the audience were too passive The Pistols did eventually have their encore but bizarrely chose to do a cover of the space-rock classic 'Silver Machine'. The already cracked myth is shattered.

Sunday – and still no rain. Those gods that freed the festival of Lily Allen are once again smiling on the Isle of Wight. It's newcomers The Arcadian Kicks who sparkle in the afternoon sunshine. They're definitely preferable to the geezer knees-up of Scouting For Girls going on at the main stage. The five Birmingham teenagers showed experience way beyond their years and rocked the Big Top with their intelligent psyche-rock grooves. Vocalist Becky Wilson rocks, there's sassy sax from Rebekah and the boys swagger throughout. They refuse to be overawed and revel in the experience.

Blandness reigns on the main stage for most of the afternoon but it is a friendly, family festival so nice boys like Newton Faulkner and The Delays are bound to be popular. James provide the soundtrack to the scoffing during the early evening. Kicking off with 'Born Of Frustration', Tim Booth looks puzzled at the inertness of the crowd. They're just too busy munching on hog roasts and goat curry to appreciate the excellent set from the veteran Mancs. 'Sit Down' is conspicuous by its absence but 'Come Home' and 'Laid' add lightness to the lyrical gravity of anti-war song 'Hey Ma'. Booth has surreptitiously invited audience members up on stage before the gig and a posse of smiling faces join the band for a celebratory end to the set.

Yet more prehistoric creatures are unearthed for the festival finale. An aged Stuart Copeland bangs a gong and a whiskered Sting wanders on to the main stage, signalling the return of white, reggae-lite stadium-botherers The Police. Unsurprisingly the classic tracks excavated from some Eighties tape landfill hell appeal to an overwhelming majority of those in the park but they're still “sending out an S.O.S” – same old shit. It's Dad rock for Father's Day.

Meanwhile over at the Big Top new rave fans put their hands in the air like they just don't care...when the next ferry is leaving. All the discerning music fans enjoy a resurgent New Young Pony Club. Tahita Bulmer looks refreshed and eager to please and gets the tent nicely warmed up for the late night date with Feeder. It's one of the best efforts of the weekend - a thumping performance.

A massive firework display signals the end of the festival and the pyrotechnics rock harder than many of the acts who'd played the weekend. Still, fifty thousand fans leave Seaclose Park safe in the knowledge that the dinosaurs are far from extinct.

All photos by Sally Saveall

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