Together with Truck and Audioscope, the Punt remains one of Oxford’s must-do music events. The excitement starts at Borders, where people gather to meet and design their Punt routes with the dual aims of seeing more bands and drinking more beer than last year. It ends at the Cellar in a blur of noise, beer and bleach. The Cellar always smells of bleach. Apologies to bands missed or bands part seen.

Borders begins with a hastily eaten pasty and Desmond Chancer and The Long Memories. Harking back to the days when suited and booted crooners bashed out sad miserable ballads, this lot pile through a treacle-infused set of doom. The vocalist sings with a low level drone reminiscent of a broken vacuum cleaner, and while the group highlights the variety and diversity of the Punt, the singer’s voice seems to lack the depth needed to get this sort of music right. One of the songs claimed “there were no rainbows” – there were certainly no rainbows in Borders tonight.

Next, it’s a brisk walk to the Purple Turtle to see International Jetsetters. Formed by a who’s who of Oxford’s good and great, they work their way through an assured set in front of a rammed venue. The first two songs are their best by far, underlining the indie credentials of some of the band members, but the set is derailed as they veer into pub rock territory, the sort which would be enjoyed by estate agents everywhere. While the singer’s voice is pristine, some of the set reminded me of a long lazy Sunday lunch in some village outside Oxford, with a ROCK band providing the desert. More songs like the first two please.

Moving on, it’s Cat Matador at the Wheatsheaf, largely because we like the name. They are nervous it seems, but given more practice and confidence they could have something. Their songs are part pop and part misery, with the added texture of a violin, which I feel could be used more to accentuate melody, freeing up the guitar to provide a bit of bulk. They sound like the Tindersticks with the odd guitar jangle reminiscent of a whole host of post-hardcore bands. Towards the end the crowd swells, maybe signalling the end of another band and it’s time to leave. Good effort.

The Thirst Lodge live room shows that someone is taking music seriously there. There must be at least 18 miles of cable trays, lights and a good size desk. Black Skies Burn are a hardcore metal band with all the trimmings. Overpowering and LOUD, they scream their way through a set of unashamed thrash which must make the singer’s voice sore. The musicianship is second to none, with an amazing drummer, but that is it. Once the sheer fear of confronting this lot subsides, the songs become a blur of dull manic riffage, grumpy looking smirks and aggressive head nodding. Another beer please. Towards the end of the onslaught, the crowd cram in, no doubt anticipating Little Fish. A two-piece of drums and guitar, they spit and hiss their way onto the stage. The label interest shown in them is justified, as they play well-structured songs with the air of confidence that such interest brings. The crowd are going mad as the singer stares and jiggles around, manically strapped in to the pounding percussion to her right. Many of the songs seem heartfelt pleas and she reminds me of PJ Harvey as well as evoking other obvious two-piece band comparisons. In the end, the songs are nothing new: just well-done bluesy indie rock delivered with a venom that turns heads. They just seem to be trying a bit too hard tonight – relax and it will happen.

With several beers down, the walk back to the Purple Turtle flies by and time is running out on this year’s Punt. Raggasaurus bring the venue’s entertainment to a close. They are seemingly a bunch of fresh-faced kids fronted by an older, frazzle-haired singer, playing dub grooves which get the thinning crowd moving. Once again, the diversity of the Punt is underlined by the inclusion of this sort of band and its booming bass lines. The singer’s vocal style tends towards the ‘wailing of a strangled dog’ school and ultimately gets harder to listen to. While such exotic influences are to be applauded, the vocals ultimately force an exit from the venue.

Finally, it’s the Cellar. And yes, it smells of bleach. 50 Foot Panda are on and belting out a mishmash of drums and guitar played at pace and sounding like a dentist’s drill doing root canal work while a jumbo jet takes off outside. The noise is unrelenting and while some songs follow an experimental path, others just sound like two guys messing about in their garden shed. Get themselves more guitars to bolster their sound and 50 foot Panda may really reach the heights that they promise.