The Isle of Wight Festival exists in something of a time capsule. It’s one of the few where you can engage the crowd in an unironic “Woop! Woop!”, and where “Sweet Caroline” blaring from the speakers elicits the same kind of rapturous response as “Freed From Desire” at a World Cup game.
Originally held as a countercultural event between 1968 to 1970 – with performers including Bob Dylan, The Who, Miles Davis, Joni Mitchell and, most famously, Jimi Hendrix – it relaunched in 2002, with organisers keen to maintain a throughline with the festival’s extraordinary rock heritage. Perhaps this is why, much like the fossils embedded in the island’s chalk cliffs, the headliners over the past two decades have been somewhat immovable; a near-interchangeable blancmange of white guys with guitars. Stereophonics have headlined no less than four times, Razorlight and Snow Patrol a more modest three. This year is probably about as much of a “shake up” as it gets, with Scottish singer-songwriter Lewis Capaldi, dance music producer Calvin Harris and goth-rockers The Cure topping the bill.
Surveying the festival over a scorching June weekend, though, I get the impression that the familiar is welcomed. Possibly as a reaction to the overwhelming volume of new music released every day, festivals are becoming less about discovery and more about seeing your favourites all in one place. So on Saturday, pop band Five get as rapturous a reception as they would have had a quarter of a century ago, blasting through crowd-pleasers like “Everybody Get Up” and “Keep on Movin’”. Rick Astley channels a church preacher in his white suit, rolling back the years with great enthusiasm. Not everyone shares the sentiment: “Do you like gospel music?” he bellows. “No!” several people yell back.
Pop singer Rita Ora has a hard time winning her audience over – or rather, she starts off strong, then loses their attention with a setlist that leans heavily on new material. US pop/R&B star Teddy Swims is outstanding, a weekend highlight who frontloads the set with a number of his most viral tracks: his infectious kiss-off anthem “The Door”, and the swooning ballad “Are You Even Real”. His stage manner is lovely, too – he climbs down to sign autographs for fans mid-set, celebrates Pride Month, and takes a moment to acknowledge his struggles with mental health, urging men in the audience to be open about their own issues. Festival favourite Calvin Harris is a dopamine factory all of his very own, pushing out a dizzying salvo of top 10 hits amid a storm of lasers and fireworks.
One of the most striking things about this festival is just how multi-generational it is. There are teenagers fresh out of their exams, families with kids, and weathered, sunscreen-resistant veterans. Organisers have done their best to emulate this on the lineup: beyond Friday headliner Lewis Capaldi, younger rock or rock-adjacent acts are scattered across the weekend, from Manchester’s rising indie upstarts the Guest List to the Isle of Wight-formed duo Wet Leg, baroque-pop group The Last Dinner Party and Liverpool’s Luvcat. In the sweltering heat of the Big Top tent, Luvcat stays cool, calm and oh-so collected while performing murder ballad “He’s My Man” and the magnetic “Dinner @ Brasserie Zédel”. Fans emerge, sweating, and make their way back to the main stage just in time to catch David Gray in a tremendous display of dad-dancing. The Kooks are brilliant on their biggest songs (“Ooh La”, “She Moves in Her Own Way”, “Sway”) but a little one-note elsewhere (although frontman Luke Pritchard does an emotional performance of “See Me Now”, dedicated to his late dad on Father’s Day).
Really, though, the weekend belongs to Sunday headliners The Cure. A rumble of thunder heralds their arrival (from the main stage speakers, not from the clear blue skies overhead), and Robert Smith – in red lipstick and kohl-smeared eyes – prowls the stage like a vampire out past curfew. He’s on joyously impish form, pulling faces and rolling his eyes as if to check: “Are you sure you want this?”
While the band are no one’s masters, tonight they’re certainly in a generous mood. We get a transcendent “Just Like Heaven”, “Fascination Street” and a spicy “Lovecats”, along with festival staple “The Last Days of Summer”, their thoughtful meditation on ageing. Smith’s voice somehow sounds as good as it’s ever been, supple and sonorous, and the set builds in a way that perfectly demonstrates their world-building prowess.
By the time they reach the spidery, spine-tingling guitar notes of “Lullaby”, a perfect half-moon hangs over the stage. It’s a magnificent performance from one of our greatest bands, a moment suspended in time, mighty, immortal.
