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.

A month or so back, a friend kindly lent me a CD devoted to ‘Modern Folk’, which turned out to be a tedious disappointment. Although the record had a couple of gems on it (Final Fantasy’s ‘Ballad of Win and Regine’, an odd psychological contemplation of the couple behind The Arcade Fire, was slight but lovely), the record was mostly unspeakably dull (with Anthony and The Johnsons’ contribution as numbingly somnambulist as the enemies of folk music would have you believe). But what struck me about it was that despite all the plinky acoustic-ness, strange accents and reverential hush of it all, there was almost no feeling that this was folk music in any meaningful sense at all. Folk should all be about suppression of the individual ego and the celebration of community spirit, and this polished, artful compilation was completely free of anything of the sort. It was essentially boring rock music, played really quietly.

I mention all of this to set up the contrast between the pristine deadness of ‘Modern Folk’ and the scratchy vitality of We Aeronauts‘ beguiling little record. Everything about it is rough-hewn: the drums are sometimes out of time, the lead singing is often approximate and the mix sounds like it was carried out by an amiable wally who has knocked it off in hour after overdosing on the scrumpy.

And the correct response to all this should be: Who Cares? Because the Aeronauts have written some infectious old-timey songs, they play their instruments with gusto, and above all, they sound like they thoroughly like each other. The sheer spirit of good feeling that comes billowing out of the stereo is reason enough to buy this record, particularly in these clammy, snappish times.

‘Boatswain’s Cry’ is a romantic sea shanty which breathes the same salty air as Dylan’s ‘Boots of Spanish Leather’, with the end of the return journey more in the narrator’s mind than his destination. Piano, accordion and fiddle all jostle good-naturedly for space and Anna Wheatley’s spirited, wandering backup vocals are a joy.

‘The House on Ash Tree Lane’ has an insistent backbeat reminiscent of The Teardrop Explodes ‘Reward’ and the trading of lead vocals, sometimes within the space of a line, is a clever, original touch. Extra colour is provided by some gloriously ill-disciplined trumpet and the chorus melody is now on continuous play in my head, and has been for a week.

Centrepiece of the record is the splendid ‘Chalon Valley House Band’ an almost painfully nostalgic hymn to getting it together in the country. I love the almost washboard twang of the bass, the cheek of the melodeon and contrasting shyness of the banjo, which peeks out from behind the sofa from time to time before going AWOL for bars on end, like a nervous moggy. Heck, I love it all. It’s not so much about the details of the soujourn, lovingly described though these are, but rather a celebration of the intense friendship and discovery the musicians clearly experienced there. Like Jean de Florette, another wanderer in the French countryside, they have cultivated the authentic.

We Aeronauts Myspace

By Colin MacKinnon

A bouquet of roses to Three Blind Mice, who succeeded in putting together an excellent lineup of varied but compatible acts on their first night as promoters. Dead flowers through the mail to the Port Mahon toilet attendant, who failed to note a coil of barbed wire in the toilet bowl of the gents (wouldn’t an ‘Out of Order’ sign have been sufficient?) and then compounded his error by presiding over an occupation of the same room by a posse of female physiology students who wanted to do their make-up. Let’s get to the music and banish these traumatic memories.

The combined age of Tristan & The Troubadours seemed to me in the murky Port light to be about seventy. So far so unremarkable, but you should know that there are seven of them, floppy haired hobbits enthusiastically banging percussion, scraping violins and blasting out fat organ chords. The style is hard to pin down (good), but the vocalist has obviously heard of Robert Smith, David Byrne and Win Butler, and certainly the band, with its often bombastic combination of folk instruments, spidery keyboard riffs, surges of guitar noise, and that vocal yelpiness (which will be an acquired taste for many) bring us into Arcade Fire territory-check their rather wonderful ‘Venice Ghosts’ on Myspace for a prime example. At other times in the set there lingered the aura of the after-school youth club- at one point the drummer and percussionist changed places, which demonstrates versatility, but to what effect? At the moment, I see T and the T as stem-cell talent, undifferentiated, uncommitted, but full of nervous life. What will they become?

Perhaps the next We Aeronauts, who rather despairingly admitted that ‘We’re f***ed, basically’ due to half the eight-piece folk-rock band’s taking up residence on other continents. Still, with various ringers on board they gave us a satisfying if far-from-perfect set. The strengths are in the effortless excellence of the songwriting: ‘Boatswain’s Cry’ is a worthy successor to Dylan’s ‘Boots of Spanish Leather’ as the cool person’s sea shanty of choice and ‘99 Days’ was a spirited, singalong stomp with more than a nod to Mercury Rev. ‘Fleet River’ (the famous subterranean Other London River- Tom Baker’s Doctor Who once caught a salmon in it and shared it with The Venerable Bede, who adored fish) is charming on record, full of tremulous guitar atmospherics, but was on the shambolic side tonight. I hope they get their lineup sorted out soon, because songs like these are too good to lose.

Another band to recently undergo extensive re-tooling is Maria Ilett’s. Last year, she produced an excellent little CD which was all sunny folk-pop married to subtle electronica. That’s all gone now and in it’s place is drums, guitar, sax and trumpet, as if Mark Ronson were running the show. A song like ‘Sit on the Sun’ from that record doesn’t really work with this band, as the horns drown out Maria’s low notes. In contrast, they actually improve ‘Hit the Blue’, a scuzzy little charmer on record but transformed here into an exhilarating anthem. Even better is ‘You Play These Games’ which reminds me of that long-forgotten time back when Amy Winehouse could sing. The discipline of the staccatto Motown-style horns and drumming, together with Maria’s fine voice combine to superb effect.

So, well done everyone. Good music, good turnout, well-publicised (there were three local music journalists in the audience) and free white chocolate mice to all payers. What’s not to like? Oh, I remember, the bogs. If you’re coming to the next show, best bring a bottle. An empty one.

By Colin MacKinnon