Successfully wasted another couple of hours of my life last night watching the highlights of the Isle Of Wight Festival and getting all worked up about the state of modern pop music (which has now fallen behind TV adverts, radio jingles and lift music in the race to produce fresh and original new sounds for the masses).
I was reminded of my own trip to the Isle Of Wight Festival back in 2004 (when pop music was only three quarters of the way through its terminal decline and was still significantly more relevant than lift music and radio jingles, though still behind TV adverts) to see the remaining living half of The Who. This was during a period of my life that I now refer to as 'ambitious' (most people at the time plumped for 'deluded') when I decided that I could write just as good as, if not a little bit better than, Dylan. There doesn’t seem to be any real trick to it, I thought. Just bring out the madness in everyday life, make the ordinary seem extraordinary, keep it rhyming, toss in a few Shakespearean references, the odd Bible character, add the occasional satirical swipe here and there… easy. Turns out it's not nearly as easy as it sounds and, instead of making you appear really cool and interesting, can in fact leave you wide open to looking a bit of a twat.
This song went through many working titles - Stuck Inside Of Newport With The Island Blues Again, Henry Harding's 116th Dream, Like A Standing Stone - before I eventually decided to parody (rip off) another of my heroes instead:
Fear and loathing at the Isle Of Wight Festival
Written June 2004
The milkman ain’t out today, he don’t come round no more.
But the postman is on his way to feed a ticket to my door.
The neighbour drops round to say, “have fun on holiday,
And I’ll water your plants for you but I’ll do it my own way.”
I mixed up some cornflakes with some milk inside a bowl.
It’s a common way to start your day but it lacks a little soul.
Then walked around the corner for my daily paper Sun.
To get my fill of hatefulness and sexy, topless fun.
I arranged a meeting with my friends outside the car,
They said, “where are we going? I hope it isn’t far.”
Gave a pound to Michael so he’d read my horoscope.
He said “all men will hang themselves if you give them enough rope.”
Then someone with a clipboard asked me if I’m gonna vote.
For Labour or Conservative and as I spoke he wrote.
I said, “I won’t be voting, not through fear but lack of choice.”
When he snapped his pen and shouted at me, “Boy, you’ve got no voice!”
I arranged a meeting with my friends outside the car,
They asked, “where are we going? I pray it isn’t far.”
Filled the car with petrol and then drove it off a cliff.
The walk will do us good you know, my joints were feeling stiff.
And everywhere I look I see a picture of the sea.
It keeps my mind from staring at the local scenery.
I think if I can see it I might paint one of the sky.
I’m not the greatest artist but I’ll sure give it a try.
Chewing gum and waiting for the ferry to arrive.
When I set food on land again I hope I’m still alive.
The ferry overcharged me when I went to get a drink.
I asked them if the food was free, they said, “only if we sink.”
Everyone was soaking up the sun as it got high.
But I became distracted by some pirates floating by.
The people on the fruit machine did not win any fruit.
But the man on the car boot machine very nearly won a suit.
Then the pirates broke the cash machine and pocketed the loot.
So the captain swapped the money back for a basketful of fruit.
The boat came into port and they were shooting ducks for sport.
It seems this trip is going to be stranger than I thought.
Set foot on the island it’s a maze of docks and cranes.
And fishermen and Coke machines and coloured aeroplanes.
And I’ve been told that fishermen are dignified and free.
Take commands from nobody, married to the sea.
Smoke cigarettes, learn alphabets and recite poetry.
Well poetry’s like music but without the melody.
I could hear a singer floating songs into the air.
He was giving it his best but the people didn’t care.
The sun was shining fierce it burnt the buckle on my belt.
And half an hour later my baguette started to melt.
It seemed I had two options that could cool my body down.
A glass of Pure Wight Crystal or a pint inside The Crown.
I sat my head into my hands to ponder on my choice.
When a lady told me that she thought she recognised my voice.
She said, “aren’t you a banker when you’re back on the mainland?”
And I shook my head and said, “No, I’m a singer in a band.”
I was sucking apple cores to counteract the heat.
While everybody else was simply staring at their feet.
Now I’m discussing razor blades with tattooed, racist men.
Who tell me that Britannia’s gonna rule the waves again.
I asked if it’s a statement that they never wear a shirt.
Or a warning to the rest of us that people might get hurt.
They said, “you’ve got a lot of nerve to talk with us that way,
And don’t think for a second that you’re not about to pay.”
I said, “we could talk for hours ’bout what’s wrong and what is right.”
When they all put on St George’s flags and offered me a fight.
I fell asleep and dreamed that I was on my way back home.
Then opened up my eyes to find I already was at home.
What hour of the morning did I step on to the boat?
What time was it exactly that I registered my vote?
A friend of mine walked in and looked at me a funny way.
He said, “you should get out more.” I said, “I’ve been out all day!”
“It’s a pointless, useless waste to spend a day inside your head.
You haven’t moved a muscle, just been lying there in bed.”
He says imagination will only get you so far.
But I wrote this song on a picture of my guitar.
Just in case you were wondering if it works better with the music, it doesn't.
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