The idea for this gig was no sanctimony, just a gig, the kind that the late Jim Bearwish would have played at. Let the music speak. End to end it was just that.

The evening was opened up with an introduction from Jim's sister Jenny before the Accelerators steamed through a short set. The John Lytle, Roger Munt backline kicking over the coals. The band had the Manfred's Mike Hugg on keyboards plus Debbie Pidgeon and axeman for hire SG depping for Mike Wheeler. SG played some blistering stuff particularly on Mike Jolliffe's great song for Gurnard called Beachboats.

Between sets Graham McFarlane from the Ferret Theatre Company rolled out a string of banter to keep the evening on the boil. Next band up were Nathan King and friends. Down from London this is one superb powerhouse funk band topped off by horns and Nathan King's full on vocals. Another set of musicians that demonstrated that there was no such thing as a support band tonight.

Jimmy's Big Fish the group named for Jim Bearwish by his friend Simon Holmes. Theirs was a spirited, emotional performance. Acoustic guitars mixed with electric. The rhythm lifting Simon Holmes edgy soulful voice to the rafters.

Freshwater's Teen Taal added guitarist Adam Kirk to the Athey, Cuffe, Pontin, Philips line up. A great set of funky continent crossing rhythms topped off by Dave Pontin's saxophone.

The Godsends having folded on Mick Cooch's immenient departure to Eygpt added Graham McFarlane on keyboards and Russ on bass to become the Jones'. Chiz as ever full of rock'n'roll passion. Madcap Graham McFarlane in floppy hat dancing all over the stage through a short but full on set that had some of the audience up and dancing.

Vic King, who commandered the Rose and Crown's field telephone back in October to book the hall with John Wroath came on to thank everyone and introduce MacMillan Appeal Manager David Baggott. The Appeal, more used to raising funds through fete's and similar events were overjoyed at the response.

Finally the Wayward Sons led by the man with more front than Ryde and an even larger heart, John Wroath ended the night in fine style. The Sons usual mix of dancing music steeped in Irish soul brought more dancers up out of their seats. On the final number Rupert Brown commandered the drum stool to shift the beat into overdrive. Like each and every performance tonight it was one delivered with passion.

The Friends of Jim Bearwish not only gave a capacity audience a cracking gig, they managed to raise funds for a very deserving Island charity.

Mike Plumbley

The heat was way up past the sweat level when The Jones' finally ended the night at Calvert's back bar. The venue is perfect for sweaty rock'n'roll as played by The Jones'. The tiny bar only holds about a hundred people who by the end of the evening were crammed tight around the band.

The Jones' are a different kettle of fish to The Godsends but driven still by the exuberance of Mark Wozencroft's stickwork. The addition of Graham McFarlane's keyboards adds more than a hint of the sixties to the sound. Resplendid in that floppy hat he looks like a cross between Merlin and Stevie Winwood as he dabbles amongst the keys. Sometimes he just departs his position and dances out front as the band rip through a number.

The solid core of the band is Wozencroft's drums and Russ's bass work with big Chiz whanging into his electric guitar out front, singing as ever, as though his next pay check depended on it. The set list tonight full of Chiz's own songs with the odd cover like Down In The Tube Station at midnight thrown in to show their roots. The addition of eye mascara looked positively Aztec.

Earlier in the evening Mongrel aka Keith Gore had the uneviable task of opening before the punters packed the place. His small audience were appreciative, none more than musician Rick East who sat entranced. Keith Gore's songs full of magic lines like 'Sitting in the Travellers, watching cricketer's heads going slowly bald' are more for listening than dancing. He ended on his pyschedelic rambling guitar piece The Longstone. The Island's 'mystery stone', the haunt of the Island's 'white witches' conjured by a veil of feedback strained through wah wah pedal effects.

Rick East's Tripswitch, a three piece band of guitars and keyboards and a drum machine are always worth their salt. The dance mix tonight, one of only two bands that I can rock to who play with a syncopated drum sound. Simply the songs are strong, could not say what they are called just that the music turns heads. The punters are starting to take to the dancefloor.

Devoid of too many places for live music these days occasional gigs at Calverts, like this one are to be welcomed.

The Mascara Snake

Occasionally Wroxall stirs from its slumbers to pump some live music between the pints for locals and holidaymakers at the Worsley. In recent times the pub has hosted local Ventnor band The Itinerants and even a loud mainland rock band. Tonight Void has come all the way from Freshwater to play a couple of sets.

Mark Spencer, who had come all the way from Gurnard to mix the sound, introduced the band by sitting in with his digeridoo. The sound of the didgy boomed through the mikes gaining the pub's full attention. Locals left their beer on the bars and gathered around.

Then Void took over with a set of covers and a few of their own songs. Since they first stepped nervously onto a stage at St. George's Park, Newport last summer they have grown in stature. Then they might have struggled through half a dozen numbers with a repeat for an encore. Now they have about twenty numbers under their fingers.

All the current favourites performed by most bands are here including the Sleeper songs, the Cranberries Zombie even a rocking cover of the Beatles Lady Madonna. For all these one of the band's own driven by Ben's acoustic guitar has them sounding not unlike them country rockers The Stone Poneys with Lucy becoming Linda Rontadst. There is even a self penned funk number that conjures up a debt to the great Freshwater band of old, Big Swifty.

The band is a five piece. A tight and getting tighter rhythm section with a twin guitar frontline to spotlight Lucy's vocals which are sounding relaxed and confident. The band played the Crown in Ryde on the following Monday night. They have been asked back. A long way from that first night last summer.

Stoney Edwards

The well intentioned rhetoric from musos and organisers was unlikely to change my mind on Thursday. Voting for slick, well heeled politicians has all the appeal of listening to a pile of KTel line dancing CDs. At least those country yee haws wear better boots.

Right time to come down off the soapbox. The music, the evening all superbly done by the Ross, Sheath and Math Dodge. Two stages, main and one shoved in the corner. Managed to miss the Nuns as a Pete Byrne curry and Captain Beefheart singing Zappa's The Torture Never Stops live from my favourite neck of the woods, Awesome, Texas, got in the way.

Flinch and Tripswitch

Flinch and Tripswitch dulled my aversion to drum machines. Karioke with guitars generally ain't my idea of fun.

Flinch are a three piece, two gals and a guy. Gal in the middle mike holding the riffing guitars on track with some fat bulbous bass play. Most of the old farts stood around to watch. The dancefloor jammed with kids barging dancing partners flying. Novel kind of chat up line. Given Flinch's neo punk dress I was expecting some John Wroath, as a young punk, stage announcements. So I cracked up to hear the gals apologise for the spluttering drum machine with all the grace of a vicarage cucumber sandwich tea.

Any band fronted by rocking Rick East is going to be flat out ride into the dance zone. Tripswitch filled the floor. Those boys rocked. Upstairs at St. George's a heaving mass of jumpers, jivers and colliding bodies.

Tiz, Chiz and Russ

Between Flinch and Tripswitch the acoustic stage had Tiz do a solo set. Tiz was singing Dylan's Like A Rolling Stone and I was chatting to the guy from the West Wight who met Dylan at Bembridge. Kind of appealed to my wry sense of history that did. Tiz was followed by Chiz with Russ on bass. Since the demise of the corking Godsends Chiz has been turning up the heat in the Jones's with Russ, Wozencroft and McFarlane (the Steve Winwood of Isle of Wight Rock). The explosive partnership with Mick Cooch finally over. Cooch at this moment hitting the back bars all the way down the Nile from Cairo to Luxor. Chiz still perched, ready at the drop of a bar stool to perform a song. Something he does with a passion.

Big Paul

After Tripswitch on the main stage Big Paul (Armfield) wound it up on the acoustic stage. The thinking man's Kerouac who performs his own songs like Elvis before the cheeseburgers took over. Big swiping chords over a lunatic rocking dance step. He dresses like a character that Dean Moriarty might have come across in a West Texas diner. A Bill Cody lookalike right down to the long shaped beard. His most appropriate song for tonight was Housesitter. Margaret Thatcher writes Major a 'Dear John' letter. Ought to have been snapped up by a spindoctor somewhere. Knocks all the Satchi and Satchi election slickness into a cocked hat. Big Paul's set cut short by the event running out of time and the Wayward Sons itching to get started.

The Wayward Sons

The Sons ain't everyone's cup of tea it seems. Most of the younger set lounged at the side of the hall looking bemused. John Wroath telling them to get up and dance must have sounded like an order from their teacher. Most stayed put. Flinch, however, were up, there's a beat let's dance and the floor heaved away to a close at one o'clock.

The Guinness had run out early but the spirit, if not the sound balance, was right up. Roland Jones sang my favourite road rocking stormer Wheel of Fortune. Brother Duncan did that head-blown-in-a-boat trip song Hit Me Like A Hurricane and brought Kerouac to the dance floor with Jack. Wroath was full, as ever, of front and songs that Nick Potts spiked with electric violin. The guy playing guitar at the back was Adam Kirk, hanging in till the summer when he'll be off to America with Sinead Lohan as Joan Baez's guest on some gigs.

The set ended with Champagne, Dave Pontin finding Pete Byrne adding an extra set of sticks to his drums. The corks might have been popping a tad premature but for their efforts I hope that Imagine's team wins on Thursday. Then I can get my TV out of the loft.
- Ed Marimba

Tonight the Railway Medina, affectionally known among the Wayward Sons community as 'The Moon' is jammed with celebrities. These include Absolutely Fabulous Patsy and Eddie, a Miss Capone, a demure Mrs. Merton and Chris Evans, who is a lot bigger than the telly suggests but he probably had a good Christmas. At eight the pool table becomes vacant as the pub empties onto the waiting coach. All bound for Goose Island, with a stop in Wotton for Clintess Eastwood, for a Wayward Sons New Year bash.

The Vine at St. Helen's was where rock'n'roll started on the Island. Where Johnny Vincent and the motorcycle boys headed to watch Johnny wipe the floor at the skiffle 'n' rock competitions. The place where Blind Peter rolled out boogie piano vamps and guitarists plugged transistor amps into the light sockets.

Of late the Vine has got its second wind. The joint jumping with regular visits of those Guinness quaffing, Irish soul and bar jamming rockers The Wayward Sons aka Sporting Life. Tonight I reckon they might be renamed The Sporrans judging by the natty line in football shirts and kilts.

What a cracking New Year's Eve it was. 'A family affair' as Sly Stone might have said. From tiny kids with coconuts for wonder bras and a South Sea shuffle in their step, an all blue Statue of Liberty gal, a sporty lady in jodpurs, an Inspector with a big truncheon, a Mexican and a drunk threatening to play harmonica. All having a ball.

The Sons wound it up and went for it. The party, dance your feet off, mix again tonight, as ever. A few Oasis, Radiohead, Dirty Old Town and the Waterboys who seem like the band's Irish cousins. For the Cranberries Zombie John Wroath pulled an eight year old from the crowd who had been singing along all night word perfect. John had him sing the last chorus. Pure magic.

For all John Wroath's brash, football boy about town patter, he ladled it out to the Mancunian in the kilt plus tribal face pack, also in big spoonfuls to the young lad with the bottle to wear the Southampton shirt, but for all this John Wroath has got a big heart heaving beneath that swagger. The young boy returning after singing Zombie from the mike showed that.

The covers are always danceable but it is the originals I take my battered straw hat off to. Just love to hear John Wraoth open with Betrayal. To have Duncan sing Jack for Kerouac with a passion. Fall To Pieces slays me everytime. Just sheer class. As are the lead acoustic lines that Duncan lends to brother Roland's Simple Life.

Covers or originals, Nick Potts violin carved a surefooted dance step. From the Whelan's Dublin, back bar kick of Just A Lover or the orchestration of Oasis's Wonderwall, the violin playing put the head on the Guinness.

The wallop kept coming with two of the stonkinest bar jamming dance anthems ever to come from this diamond Wight island: Roland Jone's Wheel of Fortune and John Wroath's Just A Lover. There was also that old Oscar Wilde cliche via the prospective single Looking At The Stars. Just a set of absolute pearlers.

The band dedicated We Can Fly to their right hand man Pete Byrne. He with the Nobby Stiles knees and sporran askew. The band went for it on that one. The blood vessels on Duncan Jones neck at bursting point as he strained his vocal chords all the way. John Wroath working up sweat as he whammed the bass lines home. Nick Potts violin like a buzz saw and Roland Jones just sober enough to sing harmony. Pete Bryne is the unseen hand behind the band. The guy who gets 'em there sober (shome mistake tonight shurely?) and get's 'em home again safe afterwards.

At the appointed hour the boys did Auld Lang Syne, everyone got kissed and the dancefloor heaved, shook, making whoopee till closing time. The band ended with Champagne. If you take an interest in what men with Irish souls wear under their kilts best ask the gal in the jodpurs who was poking about with her riding stick.

Bill Harkleroad

Arthur Trellis and his pie fanatical wife all part of the rich pyrex of scullery maid humour. Tonight was akin to Frank Zappa's Plastic Exploding Inevitable Shows in Greenwich Village in the 60s.

The laughter came like a busted water hose. First for two models. A pair of young 'slappers' who had shaved down their hairy legs and were not afraid to cross dress. Then came the talking ferrets rummaging all over the place followed by the dour Northeners Gerald Dodpit and Arthur Trellis. They turned a debate on ferrets, marrows and suffering Mrs. Trellis's pie talk into an art form. There was the the trial of Goldilocks and much, much more.

For all this mayhem it was the opera sketch that took the biscuit. Taking its delivery somewhere between Pavorotti meets Arthur Mullard it was sung in tight trouser verses and canons. Brilliant.

MY REPRISE

Between the surreal theatre came the music. First My Reprise singing all their own songs save for the finale with Jumpin' Jack Flash. The band is tight and delivered a good set. There is a Steely Dan lightness of foot, a pace about their songs driven by twin lead guitars plus an acoustic guitar. Tonight they seem a little unsure of letting fly for the guitars to burn the walls but the set is still a good one. I always wondered what Damon Hill did in his spare time. Now I know. He sings lead vocals with My Reprise.

THE GODSENDS

On the verge of Mick Cooch leaving The Godsends took their up to overdrive. The four piece began 'unplugged' or as unplugged as they can get with Mark Wozencroft cracking the rimshots as Frank blows a relaxed bass groove at the back of the stage. Chiz and Mick Cooch like a pair of buskers on acoustic guitars. The sound broadened by Dave, the sax man, Pontin playing horn and congas. All this made Cooch's Walking To The World stunning. Made me want to go straight out to buy the CD single again. Chiz's Shoot The Moon ended the first set as no other can. Vocals stirred by the acoustic chords. Wozencroft's drums and Frank's bass swirling the beat like cream on black coffee. The four piece lifted by Pontin's saxophone piercing high. Congas thudding dance rhythms into the groove. Superb stuff.

After more Ferret Theatre Company mayhem came the corker. Mick Cooch plugged in his favourite Gretsch. Frank turned up his bass amp. Mark Wozencroft readied his sticks. Chiz came to the mike. The Godsends slammed off into All Brand New. Chiz singing like he has tightened his trousers. Dave Pontin's sax like a lead guitar to Cooch's blowtorched guitar chords.

From that first number they just steamed it. Cooch's guitar work blistering the walls. He was paint stripping supreme tonight. Frank played out of his tree. Perched on the edge of the stage unleashing dance driven bass runs that had the punters up to dance. He was riding Wozencroft's knee trembler stick shots like some wild surfer with a vengence. Chiz, seven foot tall, if he's an inch, like some dayglo scarecrow tonight with his hair topped by a groovy purple paint job. Chiz the fulcrum between Cooch's torched guitar chords and Pontin's high pitched wailing horn. Vocals hemmed in by the rhythms.

'This one's called Bob,' notioned Chiz. Cooch dive bombing in with a chord that cracked the tune wide open. Literally split my head apart. Had the dancefloor at full stretch. As Steve Brook says of the Buenos Notches Four 'Plug in, turn up the amp to eleven and go, go, go." The Godsends sounded like a real, plug in, and blow rock'n'roll band tonight. Each one of them played out of their tree. Pared the audience limb from limb.

They ended with that old classic 80s cover Down In The Tube Station. Cooch placing his Gretch down and walking off stage. It couldn't get any better than that. Chiz pulled off his sweat wringed shirt to a round of whistles from the girls on our table. Screaming continued for the bassist to do the same. "Take yours off Frank," they begged and screamed. Frank declined, kept his head down and packed up his bass.

I was picking up my head and thinking all that keeps the Godsends from doing the same to mainland audiences is that stretch of water. Just back from the North where for all the Northerners gritty smuggness for being Northerners I had not felt the musical spirit that is spitting the rivets out of the rusty boats on Newport Quay anywhere else.

Godsends set: Unplugged TV Song, Walking To The World, What We Are, Let It Come Thro, Change The World, Shoot The Moon. Electric All Brand New, Free, Bob, Stone In The Eye, Dragstripping, Take Me Home, Tube Station.

Elliot Ingber