Isle Of Wight Rock
August 16, 1997
Robyn Hitchcock -- The Boat Gig
Saturday, 16th August, 1997
by Mike Plumbley
I caught my first sight of sun-basked Hitchcock party-timers on Brockenhurst Station. Regulars to the 12 Bar Chris and Sally had left steamy Woking behind for a day in the country. We climbed off the train at Lymington Pier into the full blast furnace heat of summer. My shirt stuck to my back as we walked around to the town.
This was one sleepy cove. We had time to pass the afternoon away in a near-closed pub called The King's Head. The world wandered by the quaint Victorian tea shop as we continued to cool our temperatures inside. Then we headed on through the cobbled streets tracing Antwoman's map. At the cross on the map there was no boat but a few familiar faces from 12 Bar queues to suggest this was the spot.
The third Robyn-Hitchcock-away day had once again assembled in a sleepy corner of England. Packed as Lymington was this afternoon it still had a laconic laziness that typifies yachting towns on the Solent. The "Robyn At Sea" day-trippers merged like coloured sand into the great mass of sun-basked strollers. Slowly into this idyll chugged a small blue boat making its way into the mouth of the harbour. It would gently sidle like a crab to come alongside the jetty.
Fishermen swung buckets of plaice or flounder with their gait along the pontoon. They strode past a tall guy carrying a guitar case and a smaller, younger guy, who was hauling a double bass. The big bass gleamed like a wet fish in the sun. "Must be the entertainment," the fishermen might have thought as they headed to moisten their throats after a day out at sea.
Behind "the band" came the punters. Eighty or so fans, friends, and family out for a day at sea with a songwriter who is as much at home on the water between Lymington and Yarmouth as he is in front of Mr. Demme's camera. We have stumped up eight quid each to climb aboard today. That's less than a round of drinks in a local hostelry for a front row seat to musical jaunt across a stretch of water that's probably hatched more than its share of Hitchcock songs. Crossing the bar. You bet.
A shock-blonde-haired lady is giving the trip some semblance of ship-shape order by checking us aboard the good ship Hitchcock. (Actually Island Rose but who's counting?) She welcomes each of us aboard relieving us of the coloured pieces of wallpaper or card that serve as numbered tickets. Briefly her umbilical cord interrupts the queue. Islanders who have just struggled to cope with the lateness of British Rail ferries from Yarmouth are grinning when she retorts down the field telephone: "We should be at Yarmouth Railway Station by six."
By comparison, however, they had but a small journey. Aboard were a couple just returned from honeymoon, a guy from Pennsylvania (or was it Transylvania, I always get them confused), fans from Bristol, Suffolk, Sussex; and Susan clocking up more airmiles and videotape from Holland in her quest to record the complete Robyn Hitchcock archive.
There are a couple of London Radio DJs present, even a young baby boy up for a day at sea with his Mum and Dad. Trevor's rode his tread iron up from Bournemouth and is busy offering around the three pounds of bananas he's just bought for a quid on Lymington Market. The familiar Laurence and ever-present Jonathan, plus a pile of others gradually becoming more than nodding acquaintances. Mark from Brighton, who missed the bus last year and found the harmonicas is on time and also on board.
After five the boat weighs anchor gently chugging out of Lymington's serene delta of yachts, reeds, and mud. The Island Rose is packed. Day-trippers lulling in the evening sunshine on the small top deck, sweltering inside where the bar is or crammed around the rear. From the stern Robyn Hitchcock begins the music with "Antwoman". The Merchant Navy flag flutters on the breeze while Jake's bass chugs along in time with the engines. It is not a day to record every song, every nuance. More a day to take a beer, lean back, and enjoy the cruise. The beer is slow in coming, but who cares if the pumps are working at half pace? We are, after all, heading for The Isle Of Wight. Life is always half-a-tad slower there.
Robyn H. has performed a handful of songs before Yarmouth Pier has hoved into view. The boat grates against the end of the pier disturbing the quiet of fishermen resting elbows on its ornate railings. From a marquee on the shoreline a '60s nostalgia band was giving its all for a function. Perhaps it was a wedding. I just hoped that the bride was prettier than the music.
Yarmouth is teeming, flags are flying. We have landed right into Carnival night. Pushing across the crowded square the locals probably did not turn a glance. Mistaking the tall guy with the guitar and the young guy lugging a double bass as part of the procession. The Islanders had made off in a desperate search for one Keith Gore who drove one of the buses for Robyn Hitchcock last year. Keith was unable to make it today because of driving the Alum Bay bus he has clocked off at five this evening and gone home unaware that his favourite performer is about to give an impromptu set on Yarmouth Railway Station.
The "bustle" that is Yarmouth immediately dissolves simply by the crossing the road strolling down the path aside The River Yar. We are headed for the abandoned railway station walking by the old cottages, past owners drinking wine and lazing by the still water. As tranquil a part of England as you might find anywhere. Back onto Yarmouth Railway Station still where this party left it two years ago.
Robyn Hitchcock began a short set paraphrasing that stream-of-tourguide Hitchcock style from his Tribute To Jimi concert here in 1995. Although there are a few gaps in his history, the effect is as sublimely English as quince jam and scones for tea. The music this afternoon includes a breezy "Devil's Radio", Jake's solid bass beating time over Robyn H.'s chords. Perfect for a summer evening by the "brackish" water. A set ended with a superb story about the song "Heliotrope" from Moss Elixir. A song, the writer explained, about a gunfighter who gets buried beneath a bus stop above which stands a woman who consumes him. One of those unique takes on grownup fairy tales slotted in between songs like most musicians retune guitars.
The set is as relaxed as the setting. Ramblers wander by, carefully taking to the platform to avoid interupting the songs. A gang of small boys come a-kicking stones along the platform. One stops his mate to say, "That's too big to be a guitar," a grubby finger pointing to Jake's bass.
"I guess we didn't figure the scouts would be back so soon," smiles Robyn H. to his girlfriend as they disappear into the station.
For completists amongst us, including me, the set had begun with "Gene Hackman" and also included "DeChirico Street". During one song, possibly, "Devil's Radio", Robyn H. has become fascinated by the burglar alarm on the railway station. "A burglar alarm on the West Wight, that will start something," he muses. The set is over, all too soon. No more than twenty five minutes -- or thirty tops. At seven the boat will have pulled back onto Yarmouth Pier awaiting the party's return. "Will they wait?" wonders the songwriter.
"They can hardly go without us," calls back the shock-blonde-haired organiser.
The return to Yarmouth Pier caught the town's Carnival mood. Suddenly the boat party were making their way down the road but a few minutes ahead of the procession. Locals hanging over garden walls and painted gates look puzzled. "It will be along in a minute," assured Sally to a quizzical local. I think Jake might have to go back to collect a prize for that bass.
A stroll up the short wooden Victorian pier onto the boat again before casting off headed west along the coast for the Needles. What a superb piece of coastline. Past the Victorian Fort where Robyn H. noted his desire to play live with an electric band. Up past Totland Islanders hanging over the back of the boat have spotted one Chris Colley and family complete with speakers and barbecue on a deserted piece of beach. "You just missed Bob Dylan's chauffer back there on the beach," I note to Robyn H..
"What, Dylan is somewhere in the world without his chauffer?" laughs the songwriter. Not quite only circa the Wootton Festival of 1969, but that's a whole other story.
With the songwriter and Jake preparing to play again I abandon an attempt to get some beer. This set is played from the small top deck of the boat. Fans are crammed on the stairs, holding onto the sides or leaning over the back for a view. Amongst the songs is the one that is going to make them sit up in Seattle when the songwriter heads over there in a few weeks' time. The "Sea-Tac" (thanks Susan) song is another in a long line of Hitchock corkers that hit the button. On the way out towards the Needles the songwriter has performed "1974". On the turn towards Hurst Castle he is calling for requests. The obvious one has to be "Bass", and the Islanders call for it. A boatload of cruisers singing the choruses as cormorants, fish, and imagery rolls like the waves cutting on the boat's bow.
As the light begins to fade Robyn and Jake have done their bit to send up the Elvis industry. On the twentieth anniversary of the "King"'s death, the world resounds to the kind of trappings to befit an Egyptian king. Gaggles of fat, crap karaoke performers with fake sideburns and ludricrous Las Vegas uniforms like a cross between Star Trek and Butlins are huddling together to discover why Elvis works down the chip shop. Meanwhile Robyn and Jake take hold of "Mystery Train" and give it some welly, saving the over-the-top mannerisms for "All Shook Up" (complete with boat participation). Every piece of step, rail or rigging packed by fans. Looked just like a vintage Elvis movie. Elvis just left Yarmouth. You had to be there. Susan, who diligently kept filming the whole event, nearly fell over the back of the boat laughing through it.
Under cover of darkness the good ship Hitchcock finally slipped silently back into Lymington Harbour. Fans and friends waiting in line to thank Captain Hitchcock for another cracking little jaunt. Then the day-trippers disperse to catch trains, ferries or climb into cars, onto bikes or maybe for the nearest pub.
Sometime in the new year the film Storefront Hitchcock comes out of the can. Robyn Hitchcock will be decamping to American chat show sofas perhaps to answer that universal question: just who did put that burglar alarm up on Yarmouth Railway Station?
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