ROCKAWAY BEACH
WAVES crash angrily into the pebbled beach of the South Coast’s least glamorous holiday resort as a surprising number of hardy souls fight their way along the promenade, determined to get their restorative gulp of sea air, even if it blows them off their feet. Bognor Regis in January might sound like a cruel, unusual punishment but actually its Butlins is surprisingly plush these days, and it turns out to be the perfect venue for a festival – now in its fifth year – celebrating a peculiarly British strain of black-clad indie perversity.
The billare probably less than half the age of most people in attendance, but they are certainly not here to provide any form of clichéd youthful exuberance, instead presenting themselves as haunted prophets of generation fucked. With their ill-fitting trousers and grown-out haircuts, they initially seem like unlikely assassins. Isaac Wood’s monologues often start out whimsically – something about or a rendezvous at the Cambridge Science Fair – but rapidly acquire a more menacing air. The traditional rock band lineup is augmented by violin, sax and synth, combining in varying permutations to create an air of compelling disquiet, reminiscent of ’90s post-rock crusaders June Of ’44 or Godspeed You! Black Emperor, with vocals by Will Self. Occasionally they get loud and nasty, but more often than not they go somewhere unexpectedly beautiful and poignant instead. Throughout, they maintain the determined stare of a band who know exactly what they want – or at the very least, what they don’t. Terrific stuff.
