Thirty two years on from the last Isle Of Wight festival and instead of Hendrix, Hell's Angels and half a million hipppes, this time we have a more conservative line-up, a council run event and 10,000 locals watching ads for deodorant between the bands on giant screens. Yes folks, the times they certainly are a changin'...
Local nu-metal heroes, Neglected Youth, impossibly named, impossibly young (just 16) and dangerously enthusiastic, explode onto the stage with 'The Waiting Game', driven along by Dave Stringer's searing guitar and singer Clough's welcome 'ants in the pants' arrogance. Amps explode during 'Strike True' but such is the adrenalin rush pouring down from the stage that nobody notices. When they learn to shave, learn some subtlety and get a soundman they could be outta here for bigger things.
Johnny 4's Radiohead-esque approach to pop wins them fans but the Bees are today's first surprise. A brass driven, groove machine of immense taste, Paul Butler's eclectic mix of funk, jazz and Brazilian grooves, chills then thrills, with new single 'A Minha Menina' and the hypnotic 'Punch Bag' among the highlights. The Coral appear to be a gang of scousers with an unhealthy Doors/Beefheart obsession but their faux Ska adventures probably suit a more intimate venue. Good fun.
And so to Hundred Reasons - denied entry on arrival today - a slick, punchy, metal feast that takes on the Americans at their own game and wins hands down. Fat bastard slabs of overdriven guitar, courtesy of Larry Hibbitt, punctuate the grey air on 'Silver' and drums and bass bludgeon anyone within two miles. It's a fantastic noise and a great way to keep warm. They're mental and we love them. Suddenly the festival is alive and awake. Uh oh, here comes...
Starsailor have toughened up their act while they've been away. James Walsh and his over-stylised vocals still irk after a while - particularly on 'Alcoholic', but their tasteful use of piano and acoustic is a sure winner today and James seems delighted and relaxed. "This one's for any northerners in the crowd," he chuckles. People from Cowes roar their approval. They play a new song. 'Shelter', have two black backing singers (serious business) and have turned 'Good Souls' into a stalking monster of a song. We could live without James' guitar histrionics though. Hendrix may be turning in his grave.
Ash are introduced by THE Arthur Brown and waste no time in proving the day's biggest hit. Tim Wheeler's in playful mood and the band positively smash and grab their way through a greatest hits selection from the past ten years of Ash. 'Submission', 'Angel Interceptor', 'Shining Light' - each faster and more warmly received than its predecessor. "Yous been starved of rock and roll for 32 f**kin' years!" says Tim - obviously forgetting Level 42.
Robert Plant's big old head looms large on the screens as the only original rock star and his sidemen begin their polite metal musings. Bob still sings like an angel but moves like a man trying to swat a fly. It's an immaculate, cold music that fails to impress and his version of 'Hey Joe' "which happens to be on our new album..." is a shocker. It may just be coincidence, but at this point the bar runs dry and the PA packs up for five minutes. At least his choice of Love's 'House Is Not A Hotel' as a finale shows some class.
And so to the Charlatans - today's Hendrix - and with Tim Burgess sporting a Duran Duran 80s mullet. 'Forever' broods and shimmers in the darkness, breaking into a joyous 'North Country Boy' driven along by Mark's layered Les Paul and some mighty drumming. But then the problem starts. When Tim does his Bee Gees impression for newer songs such as 'Judas' and 'Love Is The Key', people stop in their dance tracks and stare - is this for real? Full marks for trying to expand the Charlatans soundscape - they must be sick of playing 'The Only One I Know' after all - but this poor man's disco just doesn't cut it. 'Impossible' gets us back on track, but Tim looks bored and unadored and he skulks off and leaves us without so much as a cheerio long before the last strains of 'Sproston Green' give way to a neat firework display. Shame.
Next year we could do with one genuine star name - and more beer please.
