Isle of Wight Festival 2006

Line-up

747’s CatHead Coldplay Delays Dirty Pretty Things Editors Foo Fighters Goldfrapp Kubb Lou Reed Maximo Park Morning Runner Placebo Primal Scream Procol Harum Richard Ashcroft Skyline Heroes Suzanne Vega The Kooks The On Offs The Proclaimers The Prodigy The Rakes The Upper Room The Windows

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Chris Martin/Dave Grohl 2006
Coldplay at the end of a world tour look like men released from prison, as Chris Martin dances on his piano stool, and leads the crowd in a massive sing along. For 'Yellow', huge yellow balloons festoon the stage, one of many stunning anthems for a troubled world. Foo Fighters are raw and exciting, with Dave Grohl playing demonic guitar, and treating his throat like sandpaper as he gives everything with no quarter asked or received. The Saturday night crowd go beserk.

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2006 is the hottest IOW Festival yet, in more ways than one. Friday sees helicopters dumping water supplies to stranded motorists on the M25, and two tankers colliding in the Solent, thus disrupting ferry connections. After weeks of miserable, chilly, rainy weather, the IOW is blessed with a weekend of hot, cloudless, full summer sunshine.

With Glastonbury cancelled this year, the IOW crowd is even more boisterous than usual, and the carnival atmosphere is well underway by the Thursday night, with a thriving festival village of food, music, fairground rides and themed bars. You can sip cocktails in Babylon, “inspired by Biba, art nouveau and the velvet underground”, or amid the mirrors and decadence of Pussy Parlure, then shake your stuff dressed in retro-mod in the Hipshaker Lounge, with classic 60s film footage and sounds, “spun on chunky black vinyl the way it was intended to be heard” .

Live music comes courtesy of Rock Up and Play, a stage ready for anyone who wants to plug in and rock out, and Bandstand, run by local music college Platform One, with over fifty different Island acts getting their brief dose of fame. Thrill seekers take trips on giant dodgems and a ferris wheel – weirdly illuminated in the night sky. Younger festival goers flock to the Kids Zone, with face painting, circus workshops and dressing up. Extra drama comes when its creative genius, Liz Cooke, was rushed off to hospital to give birth to a festival baby.

The spartan conditions of the original 60s festivals have become state of the art lifestyle choices. As London’s Evening Standard notes, “At the original Isle of Wight festivals, the only entrepreneurs doing a rocking trade were those selling narcotics. Food, for those who insisted on eating, usually featured lentils”. But this weekend the Marks and Spencers’ onsite store was doing a swift trade in Chicken Caesar wraps.

As usual, Lindsay Weatherston’s calm professionalism wins the day backstage, even in the face of some openly rude media folk, demanding more passes or access to the stars without ever using words like ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. But some attempt to appeal to a yet higher authority. The Family Church of Newport set up turntables playing Jesus rave “in a bid to entrance passers by”. And John Giddings does sometimes seem to have God on his side, not least when formula BMW driver Matt Howson stormed to victory a month before in a car bearing the IOW Festival logo.

And times have changed from the swinging sixties. The sardonic Gary Brooker might tell the crowd that “you look pretty much the same from here as you did in 1970", but The Daily Telegraph fears “his eyesight may be fading, because there was not a whiff of the hairy, counter-cultural hippie ethos that prevailed in 1970: designer casuals and England football shirts were, overwhelmingly, the dress code. Cans of lager rather than cannabis were the drug of choice. The bands appear on time. But the best acts did something quite unexpected”, Of which more anon. Primal Scream’s Mani tells Virgin Radio that he has come to “dig up the bones of Dylan and Hendrix”. Whereas Placebo’s Brian Molko says “this festival has all the history and if you check out the artwork and all the original 60s stuff it really feels like it takes you back in time surrounded by all this English countryside”.

Friday 2006
The weekend kicks off with a “commuter friendly” half day starting at 5pm, opened by Reading based four piece Morning Runner, all jangling keyboards and youthful energy. Between sets, giant screens on either side of the main stage show great videos of Hendrix, former IOW Festival gigs and John Giddings talking about Solo’s placing a life-sized, bronze Jimi outside Dimbola, with a backing track of ‘The Wind Cries Mary’.

The Rakes had promised to "warm things up" and play a typically edgy set, including 'On A Mission' which singer Alan Donohue introduces to the crowd as “some new shit”. With a wild eyed frontman – his voice low and urgent - , a fierce, spectacled guitarist and muscular cave man beats, the Rakes exemplify sharp, sweaty intensity. They know how to change pace within songs, between edgy passion and a slower, more romantic undertow.

If the Rakes exude raw masculinity, then Goldfrapp – who take the stage to a huge roar from the crowd – are witchily female. Not just Alison’s banshee wail, but a dancing troupe of bikini clad vixens, masked and dangerous, They emphasise the dark, menacing undertones to Goldfrapp’s edgy electro-dance music, like Saint Etienne with a switchblade. But Alison is always the queen bee, a new wave Marlene Dietrich imperious with her mane of blonde hair, stars on her cheeks, dressed in a little black number and platform shoes, and alternating a sexy purr and an otherwordly soprano. The dancers change into electic blue leotards for ‘Strict Machine’, like robotic mannequins, then return sporting silver horse’s heads. Equus on heat; after each routine, they turn to the back of the stage and slowly bend over, flicking their long white tails. It is a long way from Afton Down, a post-Cabaret display of sexual decadence and visual excess.

More gender bending from Placebo, led by the charismatic high voiced Brian Molko. Boos echo across the arena as Germany scored in the football match. But Molko stills all that with a raised arm salute. Their still androgynous looks have eased with the short haircuts, but Brian’s voice still has a unique lilt, and careful enunciation, allied to a full on guitar attack, and effortless changes in pace. The crowd are soon up and dancing, as the sun sinks behind the trees, and the lights on stage gain power. One of those unmissable festival moments, that no indoor gig can hope to match. ‘Remember Me’ had a plaintive edge, and the band ooze maturity. Then the bassist strips off to the waist . The guitarist banged his machine head on the floor of the stage during a joyous ’20 Years To Go’, then jumps up on the drum riser, making rock shapes in the dying sunlight. They cover Kate Bush’s 'Running Up That Hill', before finishing on old favourite 'Nancy Boy'.

Songwriting is perhaps not the prime purpose of the Prodigy, with barked vocals over an endless beat, and Keith and Maxim prowling the stage like Dickensian urchins. This is an unashamedly greatest hits set. “This ain’t no funfair shit” Flint rorars to the crowd as he surveys the lit-up rides at the back of the arena. Set closer ‘Outta Space’”.  Even the usually sedate Liam Howlett, controlling the electronic beat from a tardis-like row of computers, looks live and dangerous.

Night has fallen by now, and the arena wis packed and excited as something wicked this way comes: smoke, flag bearers marching around the stage, huge spider emblems. Someone counts 1,2,3,4 “I didn’t come to fuck around. Do you want some?” Essex boy accents. “Fucking raise the level”. Almost every word is “fuck”. During ‘Firestarter’, the whole field seems to shake. This is loud, loud, loud. Gangsta rap before its time. Anarchy in action. Not subtle. Theatrics override the music. Keith Flint is a blur of action all night, in his Robert Mitchum frock coat, the preacher as a devil, eyes lined with make up. At one point he kicks the drummer. No one ever dared do that to Ginger Baker. The energy is electric and disturbing. Flint runs out to front and sides of stage, rubbing himself, snorting . He whirls around like some anti-Christ. The stage lights turn red, orange and green in turn – the fires of hell. Maybe this boy is the love child of Arthur Brown and Carrie.

So does Flint retire post-gig to a designer coffin? Anything but. “I’m staying in Tennyson’s old room tonight”. In a four poster, at neo-Gothic Farringford, with views down over Freshwater Bay and Afton Down. The local paper frets that the “good citizens of Freshwater, who get all het up over an inanimate statue of a rock n roll hedonist, would surely have gone into an apoplexy at the thought of being neighbours to twisted Firestarter Flint for a weekend”. But maybe its all just showbiz. Liam Howlett reminisces over happy trips to Blackgang Chine, as a youngster. Or maybe not. Farringford staff are horrified to find the next morning that Keith had scattered broken glass in the outdoor swimming pool.

Saturday 2006
The music starts just before noon with an energetic set from indie three piece OnOffs, followed by the summery pop of 747’s. But the first act to really impact on the crowd as they bask in the sun is Suzanne Vega, who draws an instant reaction for her classic songs ‘Luka’ and ‘Tom’s Diner’. Suzanne’s fine clear voice drifts across the arena: cool music for a hot afternoon, a perfect exorcism after the Prodigy’s dark energy the night before.

The Upper Room are young and melodic, but it is another long established act, the Proclaimers, who really bring the day alive. Twin brothers Craig and Charlie Reid still gawk at us through horn rimmed glasses, still sing in twangy Scottish brogue, but their passion and lack of flash gets through to the vast crowd, sitting happily on the green grass. Its what old time country calls ‘blood harmonies’. They do not even to begrudge England their 1-0 win over Paraguay earlier that afternoon. And this set is to spark a revival in the Proclaimers’ fortunes, which a year later sees them gain their first ever number one single, with an all star Comic Relief line-up.

The Kooks represent indie guitar rock, with a forthright singer in straw hatted Luke Pritchard - shades of Paul Rodgers back at Afton in 1970 – with crunchy guitars and a devoted following crowding the front of the stage . “Hello, you look excited”. They combine hard rock and catchy choruses, with echoes of blues and reggae. For the NME, it is “like getting a whole festival in one set”, with a rousing finale in ‘You Don’t Love Me’. While most bands lig backstage after their sets, or come out to watch the competition, the Kooks leave the site early to attend a party at a local garlic farm.

The Libertines pulled out of an earlier IOW Festival at the last minute, but after last year’s Babyshambles shambles, this time round is the Dirty Pretty Things who have the chance to impress, and indeed they do. Carl Barat and his troops ooze an instant authority, a speedy, tight band, with super-fast guitars. At times they seem to lapse into musical chaos, but always managed to pull it together. For the NME, with a “Jam like fervour, ‘Bang Bang You’re Dead’ can be heard in Cowes, to raucous backing vocals provided by the crowd”.

The Editors are a far more serious bunch, four anonymous Brummies, whose singer Tom Smith punches the air with angst in his voice, furrowed brow, and pleading hand gestures. They are like a less melodic Joy Division, the same Germanic driving beat and melodic guitar. And passion. Their set unfolds like a TV play, building in intensity, with standout song ‘Retreat’ seeing Smith holding his microphone as if praying. ‘Speak When You’re Spoken To’ wis a “masterpiece of bleak grandeur” and even their closing masterstroke of reinterpreting the Talking Heads song ‘Road to Nowhere’ turns it into an act of “existential angst”. There is at least one touch of humour when Chris Urbanowitz exits the stage by recreating Morecambe and Wise’s ‘Bring Me Sunshine’ dance.

Primal Scream are introduced by a kimonon clad Kate Moss, who had appeared side stage the year before to watch Babyshambles. What Pete Doherty and his stoned chums aspire to, Primal Scream exemplify, a sense of danger backed up with strong lyrics and tunes. They have moved from Creation-style indie psych to Stones-likee rock emotionalism, with a side turn into experimental noise, but always with the slight but wild figure of Bobbie Gillespie at their helm. He wears ‘Destroy’ on the back of his T shirt. “Anybody got any drugs?” they ask, to an arena in which I detected barely a whiff of sweet smelling weed.

But Primal Scream are certainly wired on something, and this is an exhilarating performance, even if they make little attempt to ingratiate themselves. When the crowd try to sing along, Mani sneered “all together or not fucking at all”. He also fails to win any friends by announcing “Good evening, Isle of Man”. ‘Swastika Eyes’, ‘Rocks’, and their current single, ‘Country Girl’, are especially electrifying. For NME, “they come on like street fighters, the ultimate festival jukebox, providing the soundtrack for sinking frothy beer-tent lager”.

Headliners the Foo Fighters certainly have a hot act to follow. Dave Grohl promised before the gig that “I’m going to pull every muscle, have too much beer, and blow my voice”. Their two hour set is incendiary and muscular. And very loud.. The spirit of grunge lives on, Seattle style. For the NME, the Foo roughs up the IOW audience: they even blow a few speakers”. Grohl gives a name check to “the boys in the Primals” but this is like a panzer tank, running down the opposition. They opt to almost exactly repeat their set from Reading the previous year, right down to the green laser and Dave taking over the drum kit for ‘Cold Day in the Sun’, recreating his role in Nirvana. But many reviews note how the once shy drummer has emerged centre stage as one of the “most confident front men in the world”.

Interviewed by Suzanne Vega for Channel 4’s late night broadcast, Grohl tells the story of his mother in law going over to the 1970 Afton event. “I was talking to her about the gig. Its such a beautiful place, and we were delighted to be asked to perform”. He made the point of watching all the other bands that day, and even grinned at me in the ice cream hut that becomes Solo’s HQ during the festivities, so long live the Foo Fighters, I say.

Sunday 2006
Music starts at an unfeasably early time on a Sunday morning for those still recovering from the passion and energy (and noise). First up are Skyline Heroes, four Medina High School students, who rock enthusiastically. A crowd starts to gather. Another Island band, The Windows, recycle 60s style psychedelic folk, and are clearly influenced by local heroes the Bees. Friendly music. “We only had about three songs ready when we did the Wight Noize audition in May” says Nathan Russell. The band fought off competition from 28 other bands ato get here, all aged under thirty.

Cathead, aka Canadian singer Tim Phillips, plus three guitarists provides a slow, bluesy-country rock sound, perfect for Sunday lunchtime Philips looks like Dylan aged 20 complete with tousled curls, and winsome eyelashes. But in a cruel twist of fate, the giant video screen then shows the real Bob Dylan, illustrating how far Cathead still has to go. Indeed, the visulas are excellent all day, hot on vintage IOW footage, current music videos, aand very little advertising except Suzanne Vega plugging my festival history Bold as Love.

Next up are the Delays, filling in for a cancellation, and after two hours sleep having played a student ball the previous night. They play up a storm, all falseto vocals, sweet lyrics and seaside sounds, plus good singalong choruses and a song about chavs. Highlights include ‘Valentine’ and ‘Wanderlust’. Summery, poppy stuff. The atmosphere is very friendly – the crowd sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Greg Gilbert.

Now for some genuine rock legeneds. Only main man Gary Brooker on sad vocals and ornate grand piano survives from the original Procol Harum line up, though Geoff Whitehorn gives the departed Robin Trower a run for his money in the anguished face and screaming lead guitar breaks stakes, and Hammond organ was still high in the mix. Having defined the summer of love, then torn up Afton with some rock n roll encores. This is a band whose sinister fables seem more relevant now than ever. After the concert, original organ player Matthew Fisher sued Brooker for his part in arranging ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale, and won a substantial settlement. So much for peace and love. John Giddings introduces the band personally – “I grew up with Procol Harum, they have been a huge influence on me, a legend on stage”

Brooker, now with white hair and trimmed beard, wears a black beret, and plays some bluesy piano and jokey musical riffs. His distinctive voice is still pure and resonant, “We played here 36 years ago, one day we’re going to go out on stage, or in the VIP room”. Watching this from the backstage bar – when I had already had to remonstrate with some revellers who chose to turn their backs to the band then shout over them – was particularly poignant. “This is when we usually have some oxygen”. His voice remains effortless, and the band still lay out a rich tapesty of music, with perfect delivery and timing. They ease through a set which took snapshots from their whole career, including ‘Bringing Home the Bacon’, ‘Pandora’s Box’, ‘Homburg’, ‘Kaleidoscope’ – right back from the first album – ‘A Salty Dog’, with haunting sound effects, and another early song, ‘Conquistador’. But the set closer could only be ‘A Whiter Shade Of Pale’, still odd and stately after all these years, and bringing a tear to every eye.

I confess to having missed Kubb waiting to get my Procol Harum albums signed by a twinkly Gary Brooker. The Guardian dismissed them as “indie cabaret”, and one internet review gives them the full monte. “Singer Harry Collier cranes and strains over his mike like a turtle taking a turd. ‘Grow’ is perhaps the most pretentious five minutes of slow death since the Spanish Inquisition and the rest gradually bleeds into a filthy scab you want to pick at. Despite their massive marketing budget, Kubb have sold bugger all records and hopefully will have been eradicated by this time next year”. Well they sounded OK as background music, is all I can say.

As to Maximo Park, “we write pop songs about real life. We have no desire to mythologise our existence . We take things with a pinch of salt from time to time". They came to the IOW on the back of headlining an NME tour, alongside the Arctic Monkeys. They are a strong band with attitude, a Northern gritty edge and electric keyboards playing over a thumping raucous beat with heavy bass. Singer Paul Smith wears a trilby ha and white t shirt. An energetic set includes 'Going Missing', 'Kiss You Better'. ‘Graffiti’, and crowd favourite 'Apply Some Pressure', plus new song 'By The Monument'. The lads look confident, with lyrics well worth listening to, which the audience do, as a hang-glider soars silently across the reddening sky, another of those magical festival moments. Later, Smith told the NME that "I think everything came together today. It's the most people we've ever played to”.

As to the legendary Lou Reed, a man who has certainly seen it all, the programme told us to “expect songs like you’ve never heard before and a performance you’ll never forget”. True, but maybe not as intended. The old misanthrope starts with ‘God Save The Queen’ put to free form guitar, presumably in a tribute to Jimi in 1970. It doesn’t work. And Lou, wearing a weird plastic shirt, does not initially acknowledge the audience, and remains unsmiling, with a deeply etched face, and as straight backed as all those ancient Velvet Underground shots, playing rhythm guitar like a heartbeat. Squint your eyes and it could still be 1967 at the Factory. His voice is still strong, and combines beautifully with electric cello.

“How are you today? I’ve never been here when it hasn’t been raining. Nice (grimaces) to see you all”. Fist shaking the air, he goes into ‘Dirty Boulevard’ from the New York masterpiece. Maybe that nails the problem here. Reed is perhaps the most literate man ever to write a rock song, but his major works are complex – and decadent – suites, and work only at length and in an intimate setting . He is simply not made for the outdoors or for daylight. This is very close to free form jazz, like something late at night at the Village Vanguard. Thrilling, but inpenetrable, and totally unsuited to the situation. The crowd mostly lose interest. Instruments meander, and Loud seems disconnected, as if he is simply filling up the time. And yet the tenderness of some of his vocals show a bruised heart within the cynical exterior. An analyst’s dream.

On ‘Tell It To Your Heart’, the bass player sings, a startling soprano. Then Lou rocks and rolls with ‘White Light’, with a red silk clad tai chi dancer throwing shapes. Monolithic and strange. ‘Perfect Day’ is noticeably absent from the set list. A ‘greatest hits’ show this is not. Later Chris Martin reckons onstage that Lou had been in a “funny mood”. But no one was laughing.

Richard Ashcroft had earlier told Virgin Radio that he felt “embarrassed “on having to go on after Reed. Well, he didn’t need to. After all, during Live 8, Chris Martin introduced Richard Ashcroft onstage to sing ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ and described it as “the best song ever written, sung by the best singer in the world”. And this was a Lazarus moment. I can personally attest that only a few minutes before he went onstage, Ashcroft was stretched out on the floor of a backstage bar, seemingly dead to the world. He later confesses to the crowd that a few days before he had genuinely thought of doing away with himself. The result is a particularly passionate and moving festival performance. And the love the crowd give him back must make him realise with how much affection Richard is regarded .

He lurches forward to the microphone, earnest, serious, pained, in front of his largely anonymous backing band. “Bring the boys back home, Tony. You don’t get our fucking vote, don’t fucking vote for Tony”. Thumps the air. “So glad you are still here, I’m a lucky man”. Ashcroft has a whole sheaf of great tunes and great lyrics,both solo and with the Verve, though his delivery starts off a bit shaky, his timing a bit too slow. The crowd sing along to these stadium anthems which also remain personal – a trick that REM and Coldplay can also pull off, but so few others. Richard seems to genuinely believe that his music can change the world.

A slowed down solo version of ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ has everybody near to tears. “Fuck you Tony, you’ve lost me “. This is just the start of a five minute rant against Tony Blair and David Cameron, plus his bike. It rather falls on deaf ears, as people here are trying to escape the Iraq war for a weekend, but at least he has the guts to say it. Then ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ unites the arena in a moment of idealism. He even twists the words, now thanking the crowd for "letting me be myself".

As the Daily Telegraph puts it, “he was a man possessed, and festivals are made for moments like this”. His passionate anti-war stance is reminiscent of some of the performers at the original IOW Festivals: the Doors with ‘Unknown Soldier’, or Jimi Hendrix recreating Vietnam through screaming feedback. Ashcroft was soon won over by the beauties of the Island. “It’s beautiful. There are lots of beaches. A friend of mine came here a few days ago and said he caught crabs on the beach and there are fossils. Its an amazing place,. It looks great. It’s like being on holiday, and festivals should be like that”

So who could follow this? Well, Coldplay though very few others. Their only appearance in the UK or Europe for the whole of 2006, Coldplay’s sparkling appearance is a two fingered riposte to recent press reports that they were splitting up.

Coldplay are the ultimate, professional stadium band. The massive crowd – not a blade of grass left unstood upon - know exactly what to expect, but love it anyway. Yellow balloons bounce across the heads of the crowd, like moths on a summer night. Someone’s inflateable horse escapes and soars up into the sky. The band move around the stage, lithe, fit, engaging with the crowd, but still acting like nice guys, not ego tripping arseholes. Lou Reed, please note.

It is a smoky summer night sky, light slowly dimming. As I watch from the pub garden backstage, the river bank opposite starts to fill up with families having night picnics. Quiet and still, with the occasional bonfire. A flotilla of small boats is moored mid stream, half sinking tubs on the silky smooth waters. Coldplay are the only band to notice them, and then dedicate a song to them. Heavy, beefy bouncers deflect some festival asylum seekers as they try to scramble up the bank. Swans glide along in the moonlight, in line. When the fireworks start later, they skedaddle off like superfast clockwork toys.

“John Giddings asked a favour of us”, and Coldplay start up an acousitc version of ‘Perfect Day’: “well he (Lou Reed) wouldn’t fucking sing it so we are”. They get lost and jumble the words, “fucking hell, we only learnt it 20 minutes ago”. There is such a natural engagement with the crowd, a great atmosphere, a perfect end to the festival. "I've got a secret to share with you," Martin tells the crowd. "If England do well in the World Cup we're going to release a single called 'Do The Crouch'. So if England win the world cup we're going to get our first number one." Calling the song "very simple", Martin then reveals the lyrics: Get up off the sofa/ get up off the couch/ stop what you're doing and do the Crouch/. The band then work the song about the new England hero into 'Don't Panic': Martin even copies the striker's robotic dance during 'In My Place' .

“Thanks for staying so late on a Sunday” Chris tells the crowd, and bounces happily on his piano stool. Opening with ‘Sqaure One’, the band ease through a surprising volume of hits, as the crowd sing along happily to the likes of ‘Clocks’, ‘Speed of Sound’ and a heartfelt ‘What If’. Their anthem ‘Yellow’ sees giant yellow balls released into the crowd, for their further amusement. And Colplay pluck a young girl from the audience, present her with champagne and a ringside seat and and name her ‘Festival Fan of the Day’.

According to the Virtual Festival website, “whether its becoming a father for the first time, or just the prospect of bringing the curtain down on almost a year and a half of touring, Chris Martin inspires Coldplay to their finest live performances we have ever witnessed, far outstripping the subdued set they nerved it through at Glastonbury”. And for the Guardian, their set exemplifies “passionate, majestic pop”. Although Chris says ‘The Scientist’ is about “being a Coldplay fan in a cynical world”, cynicism doesn’t stand a chance against music of this grandeur, charm and confidence, warm words for a cold and hostile world.

One local expert estimated that “more than £15 million may have been pumped into the Island’s economy by the weekend’s IW Festival”. Backstage, Chris Martin said the audience was “phenomenal”. For John Giddings, “it was a bigger event this year and it was also better. People said it was more like a festival. There was more to do and people had more fun. The campsite was like a village in itself”. Though the found the police’s decision to strip search nearly 360 people over the weekend “heavy handed”, and among the “issues he would have to discuss with the police next year”.

Staff from the Earl Mountbatten hospice sold around 4,000 sunflowers around the site. The council itself gave away 120 tickets to children in care, and those “who had excelled in school and college work”. And for local reporter Gavin Foster, the “array of things to do, places to drink atmospheres to sample, food to scoff and stuff to buy was immense. The move from a near 40,000 capacity to well over 50,000 was seamless, Even the police reckoned the festival maintained its welcome, family-friendly tag. Giddings has a knack of pulling rabbits out of the hat, the IOW Festival will continue to prosper”.

Taken from Bold as Love, Return of the Isle of Wight Festival (Solo, 2nd ed 2006) by Brian Hinton - See Brian's Books on Amazon

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