OxfordBands.com

This year’s Punt is a kind of family reunion for Oxfordbands.com – in a nice warm, nostalgic way of course rather than some sort of Monchensey hell – as Colin and David have persuaded a few of us to take up our reviewing pens for the first time in a while. What an incredible night on which to begin again. First thing’s first though, apologies must go out to Dial F for Frankenstein, who, in a total failure of organisation, none of us managed to get to see.

BORDERS

Borders gives the performers a lovely big space to play their sets – larger in fact than some of the proper venues involved in The Punt can offer. Cynically, it could be seen as a side benefit of having a shop that hardly stocks any bloody CDs, perhaps – how can the current difficulties in record retail be solved by paying premium Oxford rent for a vast floorspace that only stocks about 5 different records?! Still, getting involved with The Punt is exactly the kind of thing Borders should be doing to drum up local custom, so kudos for that, although they could have kept off the tannoy during songs.

Opening the night’s festivities, singer songwriter Matt Kilford wore his bobbleless-bobbler with confidence, and rightfully so. His voice is soulful and plangent. But while the material itself is downbeat, it’s intelligently reflective rather than morose or self-pitying and is pleasantly undercut by warm inter-song wit. The calm assuredness of Matt’s delivery is crucial to his success, giving his songs space and time to hit home. It was an unhurried performance of unhurriedly beautiful songs.

While Matt was adept at creating his atmosphere, Bethany Weimers‘ set lacks some of the same cohesion, partly because the wide range of vocal techniques at her disposal do not fully gel. In theory, and at times in practice, her voice is stunning – deep, precise and vivid, like a less robotic Nico – but she doesn’t always seem to have it under complete control. The power of her voice also seems to somewhat overwhelm the delicacy of her folkier songs, which is a shame because she is lyrically imaginative and engaging – a story-telling song-writer of real talent.

THE PURPLE TURTLE

They look quite like Guns ‘N’ Roses, so it’s fitting that Pistol Kixx take to the stage late. OK, ten minutes is hardly in the Chinese Democracy bracket, but every second counts with The Punt’s crazed itinerary. They sound a bit like G’n'R too, although perhaps somewhat more low budget: we’re thinking Dogs D’Amour, The Quireboys or Skid Row, with hair treatments by Mosh ‘N’ Go. It’s been a while since Oxford has witnessed such flagrant use of wailing solos or bandanas, and the conclusion has to be that Pistol Kixx are embarrassingly awful, but also, in some masochistic way, hugely entertaining. Thank you, Sir, may we have another.

With young bands like From Here, We Run! around, the town’s music future is bright. Stylistically, they’ve been compared elsewhere with math rock, and at their best they are crisp and intricate, but without the dispassionate introversion which the moniker implies. The key is that all the tapping and complexities are treated as features in a smooth, brooding underlying landscape, rather than the be-all-and-end-all, making the music immediately approachable, without compromising its more jagged elements. A good deal of the underlying atmosphere is created by Pietke’s vocals which are happily less prominent in the live scenario than in their recorded material (judging from Myspace at least). That is not to imply it’s a voice that needs hiding – it is extremely powerful with great colourful tone and bags full of personality (although also a slight tendency to become a little flat at the lower end of her register). But the band’s balance does seem more effective and, importantly, more individual when the vocals meld rather than stand out. From a conspicuously nervous start they grow visibly in confidence across the four songs they manage before the tight schedule sadly forces your tireless reviewer to move on.

At their best, indie-punk quartet Beaver Fuel combine uncomplicated fifties rock-n-roll energy with a scabrousness which is pure twenty-first century. Imagine Eddie Cochrane’s gently subversive rock classics but with Trey Parker writing the lyrics. Indeed, the infamous ‘I Want to Live in Your Buttcrack’ not only sounds like a tune worthy of ‘South Park’, but could even provide the plot for an episode. Tonight there’s a celebratory attitude to the set: a band pulling out a big performance for a big crowd, and that crowd engaging whole-heartedly with them. This was not, however, at the expense of musical control; the band is tight, focussed and has obviously worked hard to make Leigh Alexander’s vocals the centre of the show. Technically, he isn’t a great singer but that’s hardly the point- his strength is as a composer of baffled, occasionally sardonic social commentary and the group is now supporting him rather than drowning him out.

The Purple Turtle finishes with The Winchell Riots, the nearest Oxford has to U2 or Snow Patrol. Phil McMinn’s effortless tenor remains the best reason to catch them but they also boast one or two gorgeous pop songs, notably ‘The Man Who Mapped the Oceans’. One ingredient is missing- they do not rock. This can traced to the technically proficient but somewhat buttoned-up drumming style of James Pamphlion- perhaps he could give the clever syncopations a break for a bit and allow the songs to flow more naturally. The set was immaculately performed, but sagged in the middle for lack of variety and to be honest, the Riots’ studious, painstaking balladry is best appreciated on record rather than live.

THE WHEATSHEAF

Phantom Theory and their heads-down, charging hardcore get The Wheatsheaf’s programme off to a stomping start. A guitar and drums duo, they have a pleasing line in dirty scuzz rock, something like 50 Foot Panda having their blood replaced with hillbilly hooch by the devil’s dialysis. It is a towering, monumental set of thrash and pace and noise, and is thoroughly wonderful.

Next up are Mary’s Garden, the evening’s second goth-tinged band fronted by an accomplished female vocalist. Interestingly, Laima, who seemed to be fabulously dressed for a burlesque funeral, plays almost the opposite role to Pietke (From Here We Run). Mary’s Garden’s stunning instrumental song dynamics allow room for Laima’s velvety voice to roll around providing colourful illumination to the dark backdrop. Hers is the strongest lead performance of the evening – the centre of a sound which is at turns thunderous and tremulous.

A rush to The Wheatsheaf for The Response Collective is a must for a Punt that otherwise threatens to contain no bleeps. Sadly, neither does the set, it being a series of drab vocals atop some stale trip hop loops and loosely post-rock guitars. The kindest you can be is to say that there are moments of pretty ambience, and spice is added by some proficient scratching, and some moody projected films featuring evil vivisectionists and a car chase in a Ford Fiesta. However, the net effect is a sound that is not only uninspired and anaemic, but also a few years out of date, trapped in some kind of early ’90s time warp where Morcheeba are the height of excellence to which one must aspire – the closest thing there is to a dance music cardinal sin.

The Wheatsheaf finishes its eclectic line up with Black Hats. Are Black Hats the first stirrings of the Britpop revival that we must surely be on the cusp of? Certainly, they have that aimless punky, funky vibe that you found in your average Gene B side or a Denim album track. This is simply not music that will change your life, but it is extremely accomplished. The vocal harmonies in particular are effortlessly magnificent while the lead guitar has that Britpop trick of threatening overblown soloing histrionics but always pulling back at the last minute, letting the song breathe and breathing more life into the song. Top stuff.

THIRST LODGE

It’s worrying to realise that it’s nearly a decade since The Libertines entered the public’s consciousness. Are people already becoming nostalgic for the early 2000s already? Hearts in Pencil seem to owe some debt to that post punk revivalism that filled the airwaves seven or eight years ago. The vocals have that half croon, half screech quality to them, which can be a little grating at times. The music is more pleasing though, with hints of Talking Heads’ faux funk (sans electronics) bubbling to the surface on a few occasions, particularly at moments when the bassist seemed to be gripped by St. Vitus’ dance. Above all else, Hearts in Pencil have haircuts. Cool haircuts. You wish you had Hearts in Pencil’s haircut.

Thirst tonight has the most stunningly disinterested bouncer who couldn’t care less whether I have a Punt pass. Ho hum. Anyway, Dr Slaggleberry appear to be doing some kind of curious visual tribute to Slipknot, all wearing masks. The music’s a lot better than the Iowan horde’s though; tight, pummelling prog-metal, driven along by a drummer who seems to have some kind of broken metronome in his head, so neatly does he flit between changes in tempo. It’s challenging stuff – especially for those on the dancefloor who try their hardest but were in the end a bit thrown by all the sudden gear changes – but expertly done.

Desert Storm’s sort-of-thrash-metal laced with weed smoke was very much in fashion at the height of Pantera’s success a few years back, and they have clearly drawn a good deal of inspiration from the (in)famous US rock monsters, right down to Matt on vocals who, albeit with an overcoat which makes him look like a Joy Division fan, appears to have borrowed Phil Anselmo’s guttural roar. Metal is as metal does, to a certain extent, and Desert Storm don’t rewrite the rulebook, but they do know when to drop in and out, and when to let the music chug on regardless. The playing is all extremely tidy, especially the drums, which are busy but incisive, just how we like them. It’s not anything massively new or innovative, but they’re plying their take on this part of the metal pantheon very well. The crowd got into the spirit of the thing, with something almost approaching a mosh pit breaking out; probably not entirely what the staff of Thirst were expecting from the Punt.

THE CELLAR

The overriding tone of a We Aeronauts gig is one of slightly mussed amiability, and tonight’s set is the usual tasty gumbo of singing accordionists, romantic sea-shanties and the odd digitally-delayed mandolin solo. Their sound is built on folky intimacy, created right from the gloriously delicate opening, a hushed blur of clicking drumsticks, guitar and accordion sounding like soft waves washing a pebbly beach. Still, they occasionally bubble up into a big-boned rock chorus, some bold, simple vocal melodies grasping at the heartstrings like Elbow at their best. At the moment, the Aeronauts are seen as understudies to folk maestros Stornoway and The Epstein, but if they can bust out a couple more tunes of the calibre of ‘Chalon Valley House Band’ or ‘Boatswain’s Cry’ then they will be waiting in the wings no longer. That said, they could do with getting their trumpeter and female vocalist back: the brass is an important element, as it makes the band’s output less obviously classifiable as folk music and Anna’s gloriously unpredictable countermelodies provide great richness and depth.

A successful gig is as much about right-time-right-place as it is the technical merits of the music, and although in conversation afterwards From Light to Sound reveal they aren’t entirely happy with what they produced, their enormous sound gave a much- needed boost to some flagging reviewers. Their music is as rich, textured and guitar-heavy as the members’ reputations would suggest, and is burgeoning with playful and intelligent ideas. It is at turns brutal, ethereal, and bludgeoningly funky – a stunning and uplifting mixture of intimate soundscapes and ballsy bombast. Never, however, does it stray towards pomposity – all the tunes are just too enthusiastic and exuberant for that. Tonight’s set was a genuine Punt treasure.

By this point in the evening, it must be said reviewers’ notes have become pretty incomprehensible, and their memories have since become somewhat patchy. What is clear, though, is that the contrasting styles of the final two bands provide a fittingly superb ending. First we are taken down a notch. After the soaring enthusiasm of From Light To Sound, Sprial 25 turn The Cellar into a dark womb of numb bliss and stoned paranoia with their molasses-thick drone rock. It’s a claustrophobic experience, an expertly controlled swirling fug of heavy grooves and sweeping vocals, with definite narcotic nods to the likes of Spiritualized, Loop and The Jesus and Mary Chain. Finally, after what seems like three hours, we are thrown high in the sky as The Original Rabbit’s Foot Spasm Band takes the stage. (Pedant’s note: they’re not strictly a spasm band, as they don’t use home-made instruments). They represent an inspired piece of scheduling, and demonstrate to a jubilant, dancing Cellar that jazz can be so much more than pretentious doodling. ORFSB are what it feels like to be brutally assaulted by a jazz elemental. Up a back alley in New Orleans. At the turn of the forties. But in a good way. They transform the Cellar from a gig venue into a party venue, and emphasise that Punt should not be seen simply as a showcase of Oxford music but into a triumphant celebration of why it’s so damned good.

By Daniel Mitchell, Alastair Tervit, Rachel Smart, Colin MacKinnon and David Murphy.