Isle Of Wight 2012

The mud.

Holy crap, the mud. How is it even possible for an island so small to contain so much mud?

I’ve rewritten this review a good half dozen times now, and yet I’ve found myself unable to convey quite how much mud there was. If I were to simply write the word ‘mud’ over and over again in lieu of a real review, few people who were there would dispute my take on the event. Muddy mud mud. MUD. Lots of mud. etc.

A friend’s uncle once regaled us with the tale of the time he probably saw Jimi Hendrix at the Isle of Wight, but couldn’t be certain on account of the fact it was 1970 and, well, the acid. As I trundled forth into the arena for the first time on that Friday, I began to wonder what horrors to expect without the sweet, hazy release from reality he’d enjoyed.

Attempting to gain entry to the site, having been sent back and forth by a vast number of officials who seemed to know very little about anything, the unmistakable sounds of Feeder drifted through the sodden trees - a somewhat diluted noise, but enough to cement fully their place as a festival band. As they paced through a back catalogue from their ‘Insomnia’ days to the high points of their career (‘Buck Rogers’, ‘Just A Day’) it occurred just how prolific this band have been. Though Grant’s voice seemed to struggled with the higher notes of its register, there remains a bizarre greatness about Feeder - regardless of how awful the last decade of their studio existence has been.

Placed far too low down the billing for her current status, Lana Del Rey mesmerised and charmed the crowd in the Big Top tent. At this point it’s worth directing you to Derek Robertson’s recent review from Sonar, in which he wrote she displayed the “spark and passion that her previous performances lacked”, referring to the excruciating TV bits from earlier on this year. A most pleasant surprise from Nancy Sinatra’s pouty impressionist; and a hint that Lana could yet go further.

Friday highlights came from the superb Best Coast, whose live show took on a darker, punchier sound than one might expect of the surf-rock Cosentino and pals, emitting an almost Pixies-esque quality. A glorious pick-me-up after the mud-induced catatonia of the previous hours, continued by Garden Stage headliners Crystal Castles. Bringing their signature brand of glitchy, grating electronica to rival the croon of Tom Petty on the main stage, the Canadian duo (and an unidentified drummer) drove a previously conservative crowd into something of a frenzy. Hate Alice Glass’ abrasive screeching all you like (I certainly do), but there’s something really quite irresistible about this pair.

Saturday brought the unashamedly brilliant Madness, the decidely average-but-well-meaning Elbow and legions of The Worst People In Human Existence (thank you, Jessie J and Tinie Tempah for dragging them out). Tinie was, curiously, quite entertaining, bashing out a dozen or so songs that sounded suspiciously like ‘Pass Out’ before closing, shockingly, on ‘Pass Out’.

Biffy Clyro followed with one of the weekend’s most powerful sets - from the humble beardy Scots touring the toilet circuit to the second-down-the-billing festival band they are today, the Biff have had a hell of a transformation. Impressive pyrotechnics and a similarly firey selection of songs confirmed their place as one of the few great modern rock bands. They even had the balls to cover that Matt Cardle Christmas #1 from a couple of years ago…

For some reason, most of Pearl Jam’s career passed me by growing up, a feat I sort of regret having now borne witness to their live show. Eddie Vedder, sporting a Springsteen shirt, may be late into his forties now, but exhibits a terrific charisma and a true showmanship. Even the rain that began falling part way through the set couldn’t dampen the crowd’s spirits, if you’ll forgive the tired cliché.

And oh, did the rain fall. Refusing to let up until well into Sunday morning, the campsites suffered a mass exodus as tents collapsed and flooded. Even the most hardened revellers could take no more. I was lucky enough to overhear the most wonderfully English quote as I woke up on Sunday morning: “Well, my tent collapsed and I woke up in several inches of water. I was going to leave but then I thought ‘fuck it, I’ll just get drunk instead’.” Fuck it indeed, random campsite guy.

After Spector idly triggered laptop backing tracks in the Big Top, The Vaccines did their thing on the main stage, plagued by screaming fangirls and I went off in search of finding water that didn’t cost £2.20 a bottle or taste like TCP. It seemed like a better use of my time.

Eventually the clouds cleared and warm sunshine (or perhaps sunsheeeeeine) broke through, just in time for Gallagher the elder. Chucking in a couple of old Oasis numbers, the High Flying Birds went down a treat; my eight-year-old self would’ve been particularly chuffed to know Noel ended with ‘Don’t Look Back In Anger’. If there’s a better definition of the quintessential festival singalong, I’d like to hear it.

Of course, I could’ve spent the weekend up to this point picking leeches off my body and still given the damn thing a great write up - because, to paraphrase Renton in Trainspotting: “Who needs reasons when you’ve got Springsteen?”

Opening with ‘Badlands’ and ‘No Surrender’ before ‘Wrecking Ball’’s opener ‘We Take Care Of Our Own’, the show was a typically stunning mix of a broad back catalogue and most of the band’s incredible new album.

Though Bruce treated the crowd to the rarely-played-outside-of-the-States ‘Born In The USA’ before launching into ‘Born To Run’, ‘Glory Days’ and ‘Dancing In The Dark’, there was a conspicuous absence: the late Clarence Clemons, whose death a year ago left a gaping Big Man-sized hole in the E Street Band. As Springsteen yelled the famous ‘Tenth Avenue Freeze Out’ line “we made that change up town and the Big Man joined the band”, he paused for what felt like minutes, as the crowd applauded - a tear-inducing tribute to the most beloved saxophonist of all time. Clemons’ nephew Jake has taken his place, and while there’s no one better suited to step in Big Man’s shoes, it still aches to see the cover of ‘Born To Run’ knowing that Clarence is no more.

Announcing the E Street Band had a “fuckin’ boat” to catch, Springsteen closed with a cover of the Beatles’ classic ‘Twist And Shout’, in front of a ridiculously over-the-top fireworks display. Well played, Bruce. Well played.

Pausing on the walk back to the tent to take in the ever-magnificent Darkness, the weekend’s festivities drew to a close with ‘Love On The Rocks With No Ice’. Just perfect.

Muddy as hell, and probably not worth shelling out a couple of hundred quid for, the Isle of Wight’s greatest draw is also its biggest downfall: its size. It can attract some huge names, yet the hundreds of thousands of feet passing through the site are inevitably going to lead to unpleasant conditions. But when you’ve got The Boss headlining the Sunday with a three hour set, all can be forgiven.