Isle Of Wight Rock
August 10, 1996
On The Bus With Robyn Hitchcock Or
The Number 42 To Compton...
by Mike Plumbley
Last year Vic King and I took a stroll across Afton Down before heading down to Yarmouth Railway Station for Robyn Hitchcock's superb "Tribute to Jimi". An event that knocked the media hoo-ha on the 1970 Afton festival into a cocked hat. Today we are headed for Cairo Cottage in Freshwater by Southern Vectis bus. The route passing through that taken later by Robyn Hitchcock's bus gig.
At Cairo Cottage, Mick Cuffe loaned us the long-lost Dancer tapes plus the definitive version of Big Swifty's Endless Dream. West Wight Pyschedelia at full tilt. Mick, a great unsung Jazz Funk bassist, in typical West Wight mode had only just heard that Robyn Hitchcock once lived out here in the West Wight. "Pam at the bank told me the other day," he smiled.
Vic and I retraced our steps from Freshwater back up to Alum Bay, down through Totland, along Colwell before finally rolling into the small yachting town of Yarmouth. At the ferry-point a couple of open-top buses were parked. The first was chock-full of day-tourists about to depart for Alum Bay. The second was empty. A familiar figure was pacing nervously around the vehicle while his girlfriend, Nut Cutlet, stood patiently waiting for something to happen.
Last year on Yarmouth Railway Station over a cup of tea, Robyn Hitchcock had first mentioned his intention to organise a bus tour gig for next year. Keith Gore promptly volunteered his services to drive the bus. Keith Gore, former Mansfield musician, now an adopted son, songwriter and bus driver of The Isle Of Wight. Perched on Keith's head looks like an old Isle Of Wight Railways cap. Under it sprouts a tangled mass of blonde hair. He sports a natty waistcoat. Looking for all the world like one of the cast from Ringo Starr's Thomas The Tank Engine. Nut Cutlet, a shy girl, stands by his side, not knowing quite what to expect from today's outing in the West Wight.
Jenny Cotten, of Sincere Management, walks across the road headed back from the railway station. There is a problem. Keith can't get the bus down there. Overhead cables are too low. Robyn Hitchcock is still down there rehearsing songs with Tim and Jake from Homer. Keith has sent Pete and Joel Turner down to pass on the message to redirect the fans up to the bus-point at the ferry terminal.
A second open-top bus has arrived, driven by well-known Freshwater driver Pete. A sizeable crowd -- enough to fill the buses -- has begun to congregate. Steve Brook has joined us from Slide Magazine. He recognises Mark Ellen, late of Mojo and previously presenter of The Old Grey Whistle Test.
"Hey Vic that's Andy Kershaw isn't it?"
"No," reckons Vic shaking his head.
Pete and Joel arrive followed by Colin Downer fresh from a car on crutches. Pete has been listening to the warmup set on the abandoned railway platform. "A little old lady came by while he was playing. He stopped and said to her, 'Hello. I haven't seen you for ages,' laughs Pete, shaking his head. "Andy Kershaw's here then," points Pete to the guy in the khaki shorts, hiking boots, and leather jacket. Mr. Kershaw, long a champion of RH's music. "And that's the guy who did the Old Grey Whistle Test, isn't it?" It sure was. What a strange tribal gathering on The Isle Of Wight.
The fans seem to have come from all over the place today. Jonathan from London, the guy from Bristol last year, Susan from Holland hauling camcorder and cameras. My eye even catches a backpack with a pencilled label that reads "Brazos Street, Austin". Turns out a couple of journalist guys have come over from Texas on tour of the festivals. Austin twinned with Yarmouth: now there's a thought.
It is past six when Robyn Hitchcock arrives with band and friends. Turner is assigned by Jenny Cotton to collect the pyschedelic wallpaper cuttings that are serving as tickets. All aboard. Rather than rush upstairs we plumped for downstairs on Keith's bus. Originally the plan had been for Robyn Hitchcock to conduct the tour by intercom from the open-top deck. The technology not quite caught up in this 1939 bus, RH opted for downstairs where he could talk to Keith Gore through the sliding glass partition. Jake hauled his double bass up onto the back running board. Off we went.
The pair of buses pulled out of Yarmouth harbour headed for Wilmington Lane. This tight country lane winds right out to Afton. Either side of us are rich fields of golden corn. At the junction of the Afton Road the buses turn towards Freshwater. The site of the Afton Festival now just a massive field with a huge pile of dung in the middle. Cows are grazing where back in that glorious summer of 1970 it had heaved with half a million people. Five days that shook the world. The Foulk brothers put The Isle Of Wight firmly on the world map. Then disappeared into the setting sun.
The buses pulled down towards Freshwater bay, the Islanders aboard crossing our fingers that Keith would be able to muster every gear of this 1939 bus' frame to climb that steep hill out of Freshwater. Robyn Hitchcock remained up front of the bus reading a battered old sign, telling his girlfriend that story about testing the mix of "Airscape" by taking the number 42 bus to Compton and talking to Keith Gore through the sliding glass window.
The old bus is crawling, literally creaking, almost to a stop as it groans up the steep hill. "Have you got a half-gear in-between?" asks RH.
"Nope," Keith replies shoving the stick down in first which almost brings us to a complete stop. Pete in the bus behind has almost come through our back window before he pulls back and gears down himself.
Hearts-in-mouth time as the bus barely moves at a crawl forward. Up in the cockpit Keith is pushing backwards and forwards in his seat willing the "old girl" on. Open on his knees he has a copy of Isle Of Wight Rock pretending to read it. He turns to grin at us. The bus finally making it over the worst of the climb. Sighs of relief all 'round.
As the bus pulled over that final crest the view over Compton was a cracker. My thoughts slid from Tennyson caught between the glass of Juliet Margaret Cameron's camera slides to the nude bathing at Compton during the Afton festival. To be perched above the beach that inspired Robyn Hithcock's "Airscape" is always a treat. Even more so when you are aboard a bus with the song's composer bound for Compton.
On the incline Robyn H. leans forward to speak to Keith. "Can we get in there?" He is pointing down to the car park that is nestled on the sharp bend at the bottom of the hill. Keith is shaking his head. The small car park would make an ideal stopping off point to walk across the adjacent field to the edge of Compton cliff. Pulling a couple of buses in on that dodgy angle looked precarious. "Okay, head for the main car park," concludes Robyn H..
Keith has maintained the bus' momentum by gearing down, bringing the "old girl" 'round the steep bend and climbing steadily out of the dip. As we rise over the final crest the view again is beautiful stretching towards Brook and beyond to Blackgang. The bus rattles and hums down the towards Compton Car Park. Here there are a few tourist cars. Surfers are pulling themselves out of wet suits in the evening sun.
Tour buses can be expected throughout the summer along this popular scenic ride. Not this kind of tour bus. The buses have swung in adjacent to each other. Instead of the familiar sight of silver-haired old ladies piling from the bus come backpackers and groovers, even two guys carrying guitars and one hauling a double bass.
Some intrigued passersby join the group circling Robyn Hitchcock as he opens up the gig with just himself on acoustic guitar. The high-point of this first section comes with the fourth number, "Airscape". "I wrote this song on this beach and about this beach," he says as he begins that familiar picked string introduction and opens with "And in the element of light/The sun reflected in the waves, inshore it spangles". The moment was perfect. Stood here above Compton beach, below us the waves crashing in up near the cliffs. A clear view West right across to Tennyson's Freshwater.
Jake and Tim of Homer joined Robyn H. afer a few numbers. The car park beginning to empty of sightseers by this time. A quartet of young chest-beating male surfers are feeling somewhat ignored and upstaged by the gathering. They tyre-screech out of the car park in a Volkswagen Beetle with RH catching the moment perfectly.
"It should be mandatory for any young male under twenty-five to undergo two things. Firstly, a vasectomy should be a mandatory thing, handed out to men as soon as puberty arrives. A...kind of, a global bar mitzvah, so that children can only be conceived (at least with a male protagonist) if the father has a parenthood licence -- which he probably wouldn't get until he was about forty. And the other thing is that the fuckers just shouldn't be allowed to drive. I tell you, young men is bad news. They make the young girls like lanterns: all giddy, they go out, fall over, and get extinquished. As for those shorts..."
RH has been keeping a weather eye on the dark clouds amassing off to the southeast, deciding to call a halt to the set after "If You Were A Priest". Dallies long enough for a photo session on the very edge of this crumbling steep cliff that drops to the beach. The trio romp through "Blue Moon Of Kentucky" and "Mystery Train" while anyone with a camera or a video to hand shoots away.
With the clouds pulling in on the beach it is time to climb back onto the two open-top buses to return whence we come. Back along the curving climb of the Military Road to drop down into Freshwater. The rain finally falling as we creak down past Freshwater golf course. Robyn H. has promised a stop for fish and chips. The wettened groovers wet their lips as the buses ground to a halt outside Freshwater's fish and chippie. Keith Gore has jumped out of the cab to run back to the shop but only to get a badly parked motorist to shift his car. We chunter on towards Totland.
RH disappears upstairs for a while where the overhead leaves of trees are giving the top-deck passengers a good soaking. Rolling through Totland the Islanders aboard sight a familiar figure. Up goes a roar for Paul Athey.
"Who's that?" asks RH.
"Paul Athey, the best drummer on The Isle Of Wight," replies Pete as we climb out of Totland. Athey wrote "Endless Dream". A great song for a dark night on Freshwater Bay. The ride to Alum Bay takes us past the parched summer fields before the buses wind their way down to Alum Bay. The rain is still dripping out of the sky.
The original plan has been to make for the Battery which overlooks the Needles Lighthouse. The sunsets up there are stupendous. The rain has dampened the idea tonight. Instead the buses pull into a car park. It is Robyn H.'s intention to play on a pile of wood under some trees. The disapproving look of Jenny Cotten suggests it is not a good idea. Instead the buses head back down the road towards the Alum Bay theme park arcade and shops.
It is now 7:30 p.m., perhaps later. The place is deserted. All the shops closed, the sun-baked holidaymakers Vic and I saw this afternoon have all returned to their caravans and hotels. Robyn H. wanders off into the mall of shops as everyone piles off the buses behind him. The rain is still dripping down a pace. RH picks a wooden bench to stand on from which begins a new song called "1974". Most of the group are stood across the street from him covering from the rain under cover of the shops. Some, with umbrellas (some without), are braving the rain.
"1974" is a great song, summing up a lot of what I recall about that year, particularly in the line "It seems like 1974/Ghastly mellow saxophones all over the floor". Jake and Tim join him for a couple more songs before the ferry beckons at Yarmouth. Robyn Hitchcock thanks Keith and Pete for driving the buses allowing a rare fan photo of Keith Gore and himself.
On arrival at Yarmouth ferry terminal, Robyn Hitchcock encounters two late fans who had missed the buses. The pair had headed for the railway station where they found three of Robyn Hitchcock's harmonicas. In appreciation RH regroups the musicians for four numbers. The song that is the killer of this short set is "Heliotrope" off the new album Moss Elixir. It sounded so right sung here with in this popular weekend sailor's town alive with boats and visitors. The lines "She worships the sun" just seemed to part the clouds.
Funniest moment is when the sharp-eyed RH spots a lady peering from her bedroom window with binoculars. His dedication, "This is for that lady up there with binoculars," turns everyone's heads, but he soon gets embarrassed as the group begin to wave en-masse. "She's gone," he sighs.
"She's coming over to join us," someone shouts bringing a swell of laughter.
The time is now half-past eight. The boat for Lymington is at nine. I snatch a quick word with RH (joined by Susan from Holland). "Can we use your Yarmouth introduction on our CD of Isle Of Wight Rock?"
"What Yarmouth introduction?" queries RH.
"The one at Yarmouth Railway Station last year."
It turns out that songwriter has never heard of or seen any of the material. Susan has video films of both events. She apologises for not sending RH anything and promises to send some copies. "I haven't got a video recorder," he laughs.
The bus group gig split in various directions. Some direct for the boat, others to The King's Head where RH has already headed for a drink. Filled with yachties and locals the pub is doing brisk business. A chance to catch up with friends from last time and make a host of new contacts.
Ask me what I have enjoyed about today and I'll say the whole lot. There are few artists on the planet with as much humility and artistry as Robyn Hitchcock. Who else would conceive such a gig in the first place (and pull it off with such unpredictability)? It is much more than watching him perform. It is an intangible set of occurences. While educated Daily Telegraph columnists pronounce him as unfathomable; journalists from Austin, Texas; fans from Holland and remote Suffolk villages are lapping it up. Who else would bring radio DJs, music magazine editors to The Isle Of Wight, play them a set of songs, get them thoroughly soaked, and send 'em home happy?
Today was as welcoming as this Yarmouth pub. A comforting experience. Off the wall, on the bus, and on the road to somewhere. I thanked the singer for a great day, telling him we were headed for Cowes Marina to see The Dance Preachers. He laughed and made comment about not having had enough Rock 'n' Roll yet.
On Cowes Marina someone is emptying a bath out of the sky. The rain just pours down. Up under the marquee stage The Dance Preachers are whipping the last night of Cowes sailing week into a frenzy. I dancing with about a thousand people in three inches of water. A neat nightcap to one of the most satisfying days in a long time. Next year Robyn Hitchcock aboard a boat, perhaps. Keep the fingers crossed. Keep watch on the harbours.
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