This year’s Punt kicked off uncharacteristically in the swanky surroundings of Malmaison. Colin was making notes throughout Helen Pearson, so I didn’t bother putting any together myself, but my vague recollection was that she was a  little bit dull, the songs a tad twee for my tastes and the manner in which they just came to a halt rather than realising any kind of musical conclusion a little disappointing. Still, a fairly nice voice and the guitar strumming was competent enough so there’s potential for a fair amount of musical growth.

The Anydays were first on in The Purple Turtle, ploughing through their straight ahead rock and roll. As good a choice for an opening band as I could think of, there was nothing revolutionary in the group’s take on Sixties garage rock tinged with US punk of the mid Seventies. What it primarily had was a dynamic sense of fun behind it, which seemed to really kick start the evening. Fronted by a mopless simulacrum of John Cooper Clarke, the three piece energetically powered through a fine set of tunes, with little hints of The Stooges here and a smidgen of the New York Dolls there. Not exactly mesmerising, but worthy of a surreptitious pogo every now and again.

I only caught a little bit of Message To Bears’ set, which was unfortunate as what little I heard really impressed me. There were shades of Radiohead in the way the guitars played against one another, without ever quite disintegrating into Ed O’Brien’s feedback squalls. The violins blended into the riffs and noodling with remarkable ease, lending an ethereal edge to the sound. A sort of Sandford Sigur Ros.

I’m reliably informed that no one playing under the moniker Samuel Zasada is called Samuel. Or Zasada for that matter. But don’t let that distract you from the wonderful sounds they make. A pair of acoustic guitars and a bass provided some lush counterpoints to one another, evoking a sense of mild pastoral melancholy. These were topped by the vocals, where singer David Ashbourne wove the words in a manner that called to mind a gruff Jamie Lidell.  Add some occasional vocal harmonies into that stew and the ambience was almost hypnotic. You’d be hard pressed to find finer acoustic practitioners, locally or otherwise.

There seem to be a number of Beach Boys comparisons flying around about Fixers, but I couldn’t really see it myself. Yes, there are some nice harmonies and some really well crafted pop tunes, but I found them more reminiscent of the Stone Roses with the chip pan haired monkey vocals replaced by those of Kevin Rowland. Most of what I caught was dynamic, fun, pop rocking with an early Supergrass-ish sense of joy. There were a few mellower passages, where there was the occasional twinge of Tears For Fears, but without becoming remotely insipid. Always good to see a bit of wood block action too.

A pair of trilbies and some wispy beards? Ahh, it must be folk time again. Telling The Bees blended what looked to me like mandolins with bass, cello and violin into a syncopated whole that mixed the angular with the smooth. I found they called to mind Jethro Tull, without the prog rhythm section and considerably fewer incidents of whistling. To be perfectly honest, I hightailed it out of there when the English bagpipes were produced.. From there I managed to catch half of the last song by The Roundheels. They seemed to be having a bit of a hoedown, steel and acoustic guitars chugging along to a playful stomp. I’m no bluegrass expert, but what little I heard sounded well executed and kind of fun. If you like that sort of thing.

I had high hopes for Ute, from what little I’d heard about them, but was a little disappointed by what actually met my ears. To accentuate the positive first, I thought that the drumming was incredible – lots of exciting polyrhythms coming in at obtuse angles to what the rest of the band were playing. It was the rest of the band that failed to inspire me though. The melodies were more inspired than some of Coldplay’s insipid drek, but not an awful lot more so. The Thom Yorkealike vocals helped to lift things slightly, but I walked away more than a little underwhelmed. I know I differ from consensus here and actually rather enjoyed the track on the Puntcast, so perhaps I’d been unlucky and walked in on a couple of weak tunes. I don’t know, but I suppose I have to go with my honest reaction at the time. Will try and see them again soon.

The opening to Taste My Eyes’ set came as a bit of a surprise. Rather than the metallic onslaught I had been expecting, there was an intricate space rock workout going on for those first few minutes. Then the roaring began and we all found ourselves back in our allocated (dis)comfort zones. For a three piece, the sound was pretty dense. The mighty bellowing obviously helped, but the speedy fretwork and pounding rhythm section on exhibition carried more than their fair share of the noise.

Welcome To Peepworld stepped into the Scarlett in the Wilderness shaped hole that was left after they were unable to participate in the night’s events. They turned out to be a welcome addition too, their simplistic folky rock being very well executed. A guitar, a bass and an understated voice that at times hinted towards P J Harvey blended together remarkably well to produce a melodic whole. The guitars seemed at their most affecting when they were at their sparsest, the vocals propelling the tunes forward. In spite of the absence of a drum kit in Coco Royal, percussion was cunningly added by a tambourine being placed on a mat and then periodically stamped upon. Not exactly a massive innovation, but it provided an added sense of dynamism when in use.

High camp cabaret is a tricky mistress to master, a mistress that sadly seem to have escaped Barbarelevena (well how would you pronounce it?). The attempts at capturing the spirit of Ziggy Stardust fell more than a little flat here, the musical whole never really gelling in my ears. The band seemed to be fairly confident in what they were playing, but the sound as a whole came across as being quite dull and, unfortunately, seemingly endless. I failed to get that close to the front so only caught glimpses of what appeared to be homemade headgear from the back of the room. If they moved their priorities away from costumes and back to the music, I’d hope that there’d be significant room for improvement.

The grand finale to proceedings came when the sermonsters of rock, The Vicars of Twiddly took to the stage. Garbed in miscellaneous Catholic regalia, the group greasily stamped through a variety of rock standards, giving us the imaginary soundtrack to Papal Fiction. They were no (Church) Hall and Oates or Nine Inch (Cardi)Nails, but neither of those would have worked in the context of the highly polished pub rock covers on exhibit. Guitars fizzed like sherbert incense, keyboards throbbed harder than a startled altar boy and the drums pounded harder than a flagellant who’d just slept through mass. The Prayer Bear Bunch were joined onstage by their own Synod O’Connor, wimpled up and providing some nice harmonies. It was a (testa)mental ending to an extraordinary night that (Catho)licked my decal’s off, baby.

(I freely admit that the only notes I made during the last band were bad puns. Of this fact, I am not ashamed!)