Random thought for today, has anyone ever made this awful joke? Cartoon frame of Minnie the Minx or similar, clearly the last one on the page, in which she's tucking into the traditional pile of mash with snorkers sticking out at angles having a "nosh up" in a "snooty" restaurant. She's looking at us, saying. "Reader, I married him *Chortle*".
THE
PUNT – Purple Turtle/Cellar/Wheatsheaf/Duke's Cut/White Rabbit, 8/5/13
Like
cultural futures market traders, some people go to see unsigned acts so that
they can spot successes early on: “I saw them before you’d ever heard of them,
chum” is a common cry, and might be one familiar to anyone who caught Young
Knives, Stornoway or Fixers at previous Punts.
Tonight’s event is odd because, although it may well source a few
similar anecdotes for future pub raconteurs, for those of us who live in the
here and now the bill is chock full of potential, but a little short on match-fit
performers and finished articles.
The
Purple Turtle PA, sadly, doesn’t seem to be either of those. As an engineer battles gamely throughout the
night, the timings fall further behind schedule, and the sound becomes more and
more wayward. For Phil McMinn (who has played the Punt previously as part of Fell
City Girl and The Winchell Riots, despite his cheeky onstage claims) this is a
minor issue and, although the mix might be missing some laptop trickery, his
acoustic songs with violin touches cut through technological difficulties. We’ve
always admired rather than loved his previous acts, finding them too bombastic
and desperately emotional to truly embrace, but this outstanding set hinges on
his fantastic, ruby port voice, and a knowing way with melody and
dynamics. If the music is more down to
earth than his old bands’, then the lyrics certainly are, touching on
mountains, tents and, quite possibly, pony trekking and Youth Hostels, with a
wordy dexterity that occasionally recalls Joni Mitchell. Give that man a gold star, and some Kendall
mintcake for his napsack.
More
veterans stripping things down next door in The Cellar, as Listing Ships take to the stage for the first time as a trio,
having lost a member to parenthood (which has probably killed more bands than
drink, drugs and gate reverb put together).
No offence to the departed guitarist, but the band is a revelation as a
threepiece, giving the compositions enough space to add a cheeky sashay to what
was once a clumping krautcore goosestep.
Tonight keyboard parts reveal new squelchy qualities, and basslines
suddenly exude the aromas of dub and New York punk funk: seriously, we can
suddenly hear ESG in there, along with the predicted Tortoise and Explosions In The Sky.
Candy Says...relax! They might as well, they’re still soundchecking
back at the PT. Oh, they’re about to
start...oh, no they’re not. Must dash.
Beginning
to know what a ping pong ball must feel like, we nip back to The Cellar for a
bracing waft of Duchess. We enter to a delightful bit of summery,
Afropop fluff, which bears a marked resemblance to Bow Wow Wow. It’s often lovely stuff, but they could do
with going a little more wild (in the country) to lift these promising
songs. Perhaps if they swap one of the
percussionists for some gigging experience, we’ll have a great band on our
hands.
Limbo Kids have made some
superb recordings, which is what you’d expect from members of Ute and Alphabet
Backwards. In the White Rabbit, though,
the glacial fragments of late 80s chart hits they arranged into delicate towers
of song seem to topple like so much icy pop Jenga. The vocals are cheery but thin, the band look
a little uncertain, and the whole affair is tasty, but somewhat
undercooked. This is their debut gig, we
understand, and the conclusion is that they could well have been the best act
of Punt 2014, but for now they’re just providing the hold music before our
first visit to our favourite Oxford venue.
The
Wheatsheaf, apparently held together by scraps of tattered carpet and the
accrued tar of ancient cigarettes is not only our Oxford bolthole of choice,
but also the most fitting venue for some proper rock in the Punt, making its
rock ‘n’ roll case from the tattooed boozers in the downstairs bar to the
leaking toilets in the venue above. In
the darkness with a pint of cheap ale is perfect place to see Bear Trap, a scuzzy quartet of grungers
who look as though they should come from Oxford, Michigan, making mall rock in the back room of the local Lutheran chapel to kill
drab small town weekends. There are
backwards baseball caps on- and offstage, all nodding vigorously to greasy rock
that kicks like an irate lumberjack, but whines like a petulant teen. We’d be lying if we said that these thrashed
chords and raw snarls were in any way original, but we’d also be lying if we said
we don’t sup back that cheap ale at double speed, with a dumbass grin on our
silly face.
If
Bear Trap look American, Ags Connolly
doesn’t half sound it. Not only is his
music old school one-man melancholy country – or Ameripolitan music, as he
and his fellow Shaniaphobes like to call their sound, to differentiate it from
whatever stadium schmaltz is being labelled country this week – his voice
is pure Midwest drawl, which is odd as when speaking he betrays his West
Oxfordshire home. Normally this would be
an unforgivable crime, but Ags’ voice is just so damn good, unhurriedly
lolloping along the melodies like a cowpoke taking an easy stroll back from
church on a glorious day, that all is forgiven.
Like Bear Trap, his music isn’t going to break new ground, but if it’s
looking to break a few hearts, it might just succeed.
Fearing
that we’d neglect The Duke’s Cut if we didn’t make the effort to walk there now,
we make the rush there to check out The
August List. Thankfully, it’s not as
punishingly busy as last year, but it’s still hard to make out much of this
enjoyable duo’s music from the back of the crowd, in the doorway of the Ladies’. Experience tells us that the music is a sweet,
smily balance to Ags’ lachrymose laments, with unhurried porch-swing ditties
drifting in from some mythical Deep South farmstead. There’s an unforced connection between their
voices that you only get if the singers are brother and sister, or husband and
wife. Or, judging by their musical
reference points, both.
We
have thoroughly enjoyed Death Of Hi-Fi’s
recent album, but live, and shorn of many of the guest vocalists, their music
feels like a functional backdrop, rather than a main event. Like the paranoid feeling that things keep
happening in your peripheral vision, the music always seems as though it’s about
to usher in something big - whether that’s a stunning guest turn or a brash
corporate pep talk, we’re not sure – but it never quite does. Only rapper N-Zyme really makes a mark
onstage, and he displays a nervous energy that seems to hamper his performance
a little. A strong band best suited to
the studio, perhaps.
Our
experience of tonight’s Punt has been of people doing old things very well, and
people doing new things that might need a little nurturing or rethinking before
they’re great, but that doesn’t mean that any of the performances are bad. Except Nairobi’s,
that is. It’s a little unfortunate for
them that both Duchess and Limbo Kids have nodded towards the post-Foals
African influenced rhythms they favour, and we try to bear in mind that the PT
sound system is shot away, but even with these byes, what we see is clumsy and
disappointing. With guitars doing an
ugly Hi-Life widdle over clunky drums and a vocal that sounds like a
disconsolate moose, it’s as if this set has been put together solely to annoy
Andy Kershaw. Sadly, the wonky world
music jam happening in the doorway of Moss Bros as we wend our way back to The
Wheatsheaf is more satisfying.
Like
a hideous breeding experiment between Stump and The Peking Opera, The Goggenheim bring some much needed
theatricality to the Punt. Everything
about this band is grating, from the unjazz skronk of the sax to the repulsive
Man At C&A striped vests to the shrill declamatory dada vocals, and yet,
against all logic, their songs feel like glorious pop nuggets. Whilst the band
nail the wayward blowouts of improvisors Bolide to trashy backbeats and
Beefheartian trellises, matriarchal abstract diva Grace Eckersley wails and
coos barely coherent mantras. There’s an
otherworldliness about The Goggenheim, as well as a love of the cheap and
brash, as if it were the sort of thing two-dimensional sci fi monsters might
listen to on their night off.
And
so, we leave the frugging Macra and boogying Aquaphibians and make our way to
The White Rabbit for the Punt’s denouement.
In a way, the biggest revelation of the night is how well this works as
a final venue: the Goggenheim provide a mystifying climax, and this welcoming
little pub acts as a come down party. We
slurp down a nightcap and enjoy After
The Thought, who starts off in the style of Artificial Intelligence electronic acts such as B12 or early Black
Dog, and then adds a sizable tray of guitar pedals. There’s a sparse, almost systems music feel
to the loops and rhythms, and a lot of the set sounds like the third Orbital
album with half tracks turned down and someone playing guitar over the
top. The effect is hypnotic but, just
maybe, it’s not quite as good as the third Orbital album without half the tracks turned down and someone playing guitar over
the top. Like much of tonight’s bill,
After The Thought is an act with a relatively short gigging history, and we’re
sure that soon this enjoyably textured music will become even more
encapsulating. Whether Matt Chapman will
become an “I saw him first” topic for future boasts we don’t know, but we do
know that we’ve explored a varied set of local acts, and supported a bunch of
excellent Oxford venues that should be cherished, which is perhaps enough of a
boast for anyone with a real love of live music.
