From Water Slides to Stage Dives: Rockaway Beach, Bognor Regis 

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

 

A three-day buffet of brilliance, bafflement, and battered ear defenders

As the minions shuffled back to work, trudging through poor weather and poorer New Year’s resolutions, “New Year, New Me” was left starving back at the gaff, living off the good intentions of its hosts. Dry weather. Dry January. Dry skin. Dry water-cooler chat.

Yours truly, newly freed from the constraints of gainful employment, had other opportunities in store courtesy of life. Click-clacking along the tracks toward Bognor Regis, thinly veiled snow banks slid past the window. One couldn’t help but squint skyward at the boundless azure above, bathed in golden rays, and think: suckers.

If you too carried over some holidays, are free of financial burdens (kids, mortgages), or are simply gainfully unemployed — this could be you. We were en route to that strange kids-turned-adult theme park, Butlin's, for one of their signature Big Weekenders: Rockaway Beach. Once in its infancy, Rockaway is now a pre-teen in its 11th year. Three days. A buffet of legendary and emerging artists. Direct competition with the Butlins breakfast and dinner buffet. Only one would remain.

 

Day 1

 

The sun sinks, the moon rises — impossibly large, already asserting dominance. We drown our fish and chips in ladle after ladle of molten nacho cheese sauce, earning serious side-eye while giving the mushy peas a wide berth. A colonial culinary masterpiece, in our opinion. Fusion cuisine, eat your heart out — though it would likely be our hearts eaten from the inside out by cholesterol.

The calories were directly proportional to the amount of artists we needed to absorb: seven. Of those, three stood out.

Prima Queen

A two-piece with a travelling drummer, having a lot of fun when most of us are still hungover beneath a new moon in a new year. Louise and Kristin engage with each other more than the audience, which we appreciated — many of us were still reckoning with earlier food choices that felt sensible at the time.

They play and sing about what they know: their experiences. Tracks like ‘Ugly’ and ‘Chew My Cheeks’ explore unbalanced relationships across TFL routes and festival circuits alike — gig spaces and limelight blur together. Lyrically you’d expect morose Morrissey, but visually it’s back-to-back solos, skipping across the stage, and three tambourines (one per member). Kristin can’t wait to hit the water slide tomorrow; Louise later attempts to court a royal with her eyes over on the Skyline stage.

The speakers crackle throughout — more a sound engineer issue than theirs — but between that and the pop-leaning tones, they struggle to fully grab the room. They close with ‘The Prize’, a slick hook that pulls everyone back in. Heads bob. Clapping happens unprompted. Kristin introduces it:

“This one’s named after our friends — because sometimes the world makes us forget they’re the prize.”

True say. The next afternoon we spend hours in the water park and, to our regret, never cross paths with them to say we enjoyed the set — or challenge them to a slide race.

 

ElliS·D

After a few performances, we were flagging. The cold crept in. Darkness settled. Circadian rhythms lay in ruins. Enter ElliS·D — the shot in the arm we desperately needed.

Standing in for Stealing Sheep, this albino James Brown (energy-wise and touring-wise) blasted off, taking several layers of epidermis of those fans closest to the stage, with him.

“If anyone was expecting Stealing Sheep,” Ellis grins, “you’re going to be bitterly disappointed. This one’s called ‘Humdrum’.”

No one was disappointed.

Easily the best-sounding and most vital act of the day. Timing locked. Sound pristine. Fake-out endings worthy of Houdini himself. Everyone on stage firing. Ellis moves like Stretch Armstrong, invading every inch of the stage — and several beyond it.

Near the end, there’s an audible electrical explosion offstage. The equipment simply cannot handle the truth (said in Jack Nicholson). A guy behind us, as blown away as the AV rig, mutters reverently to no one in particular: “That’s really cool.” We clock it.

“This is our last song,” Ellis says. “If you want more… it’s really fucking long. It’s called ‘Drifting’.”

No joke. We’re repeatedly faked out and repeatedly scolded for premature clapping. One to watch. Playing the 100 Club at the end of January — we’ll be there, and you should too.

 

Mandrake Handshake

Promise from the off: a tambourine, a muahahahaaa, a warm-up stretch before the sprint. Eight multi-instrumentalists on stage, and genuine skill in how they avoid stepping on each other. Feels like art-school kids who started a band as a joke and accidentally got good. Loose, jammy, shameless fun. Like a psychedelic porno soundtrack.

And then… the vocals.

Non-lexical wails that work briefly — like catching a radio signal in a tunnel — but quickly wear thin. Between songs, the vocalist speaks perfectly clearly, which only deepens the confusion. The new material itself is excellent, but the vocals blow everything else out: flat, loud, wildly out of tune. As an older gentleman strolls past yawning wide while the guitarist rattles off a wookie call, the timing is impeccable, wish the same could be said of the set’s vocals.

We leave early.

 

Day 2

Pastels bleed through the curtains overlooking a car park. They’re peeled back to reveal a bright full moon — easily mistaken for the sun. Spellbinding. Confused, hungry, emaciated, we drift toward a gluttonous breakfast. Coffees. Waffles. Fortified, we waddle back to the hotel.

Halfway to our floor, the lift begins to shake violently. The hand of God slaps us. This is it, we think. Cut down in our prime in a Butlins lift. Our eyes land on a framed flyer: “Download our app, today!” Beneath it, simply: “Splash.”

Life’s too short. Let’s get wet.

We skip gigs for the first quarter of the day and head to the tallest structure on site: the water park. Child-free chaos under adult supervision. Zero queues. Slide races. Minor musculoskeletal damage. We quit while ahead (feet first, kids). Pints on the seafront. Salt mist in our nostrils. Sun still high. Darkness beckons.

First stop: Winter Garden.

 

Winter Garden

No skimping on guitar delay. Bass and drums crisp. Vocals? Less so. Harmonies fail to align. Most tracks follow a rinse-and-wash formula: build, crescendo, fade. Where do they sit? Gothic? Math-rock? Shoegaze? If The XX are for sad boys, Winter Garden might be for sad girls.

One redeeming feature: the guitarist appears to be listening to an entirely different band. High kicks. Gesticulations. Complete mismatch — and therefore, accidentally entertaining.

Directionless. Self-indulgent. Chef’s kiss for spectacle, not substance.

 

We Hate You, Please Die

Flagging before 9pm — dangerous territory. Then France launches an ICBM (Inter-Continental Ballistic Music). Direct hit.

Guitars stab, stab, stab. Cymbals rain like hail on tin. Vocals stomp straight through ear protection. Scratchy. Punky. Perfect. France has given us wine, romance, and Descartes — but these three channel the spirit of farmers dumping shit on parliament. We’re all in.

Great hooks. Sharp turns. We promise to die if you’ll play at our wake.

 

Gans

A band that sounds as dirty as it… well, sounds. This filthy duo drags punters to the stage — the fullest Centre Stage’s been since WHYPD. Electro-pop trash bathed in strobes, shadows, and melting computer noise.

The problem? They abandon what they’re good at — the tunes — in favour of audience engagement that simply doesn’t land. Stage diving at an audience without the upper-body strength to support their ambition.

“Put your hands up like it’s 1999 Mother Fuckers!” they shout at a middle-aged crowd who don’t know who they are.

They sound like what Slaves became, or DFA 1979 held underwater too long at Splash. Washed out.

 

Walt Disco

Rolled in like the tide — smooth, quick, and left us a bit wet. From sweat, you perverts.

Buttery vocals. Symphonic. Nuanced operatics many attempted this weekend and failed (we’re looking at you, Mandrake Handshake). Think Hercules & Love Affair with an ’80s Bowie affectation. Polished. Rehearsed. Smooth as silk.

Online presence doesn’t quite match what we’re seeing — this feels more Radio 6 than a Channel 4’s production playlist — but it works. All new songs, no titles yet. Frontman James Potter abandons his guitar and prowls the stage with a roving mic. No one’s safe. Everyone looks delighted.

Keep an eye on Glasgow.

 

Insecure Men

The most outrageous act of the weekend — and recent memory.

Saul Adamczewski (Fat White Family) strolls onstage smoking a fag, giving fire safety and social contracts the finger. Bold. Insecure. Same thing.

They open a late starting set with ‘Cleaning Bricks’, a honky-tonk western oddity that hooks instantly. Seven musicians. Four keyboards. Someone yells, “Where’s the fourth bass player?” — we laugh and note down the anecdote, thanks for the insightful chuckle random dude. 

People flood the space mid-song. Hype spreads faster than Marky. Track two, ‘Cliff Has Left the Building’, slinks along beautifully. Slide guitar holding it together. The most replayable band all weekend. Music for any occasion.

“This one’s miserable,” Saul warns — but technical issues derail it, and instead we get ‘Crab’. Miserable enough. Lyrics like “Let’s make things harder” and “I want to peel off the back of your eye” delivered sickly sweet.

They finish abruptly 20 minutes early and simply… leave. The DJ panics, looks to the sound booth for an answer, and just flicks on the decks dropping The Runaways’ ‘Cherry Bomb’ on us. Landing bungled. Set? Superb.

 

Day 3

The Members

 

A try-too-hard mess riddled with tech issues. Feedback. Crackles. Unplugged guitars from stepped on cords, repeatedly. Out-of-sync chaos.

“What’s more punk than this?” Marky asks.

My gut screams no. We leave after two songs.

 

English Teacher

 

Studio 365 is cavernous. Gloomy, upbeat souls gather. The chatter dies instantly when English Teacher take the stage — the only time a class ever shuts up for a teacher.

Hooks collide from different seasons — winter meets summer — and somehow it works. No instrument oversteps. Everyone races together toward the finish line sticking out a different note to break the tape. New track ‘Shark’ meanders a bit, but the energy is undeniable.

This is music that would feel cramped and apologetic in a low-ceiling pub. Tonight, with space to breathe, it’s precision without waste. Effortless on the surface. Paddling furiously beneath.

They end debating whether sharks are fish or mammals — like a Reddit thread come to life.

 

And so it ends.

A seaside escape. Highs and lows like the tide. Rockaway Beach, 11 years deep, shows no signs of slowing. One final bottle of Prosecco at The Spoons as sunlight splashes and crawls across our faces, we sit comparing notes. Agreements, disagreements, what is prog-rock even and why does Marky actually hate it as much as he does? [I'm an old school punk, dude; hating prog is in our manifesto - Marky, Ed.] Zero conclusions made, zero water dispensed in the train’s lavatory after healthily lathering up our mitts in suds.

No arguments about how it felt, slippery and awkward, at times but, we’d do it all again. Well, not the part about the train’s toilet.