In many respects the Port is the perfect venue for this kind of event. Its claustrophobic, low-lit surroundings lend themselves to this kind of intimate show much better than for a big rock gig.

Starting the night somewhat incongruously are The Jukes, who have found a drummer after a long search but haven’t managed to train him up in advance of the show. He’s forced to sit by the side of the stage playing tambourine and singing the occasional harmony, which doesn’t do much other than enforce the impression that the Jukes weren’t really right for this gig. I’ll cut them some slack – they’re very young and are clearly still wearing their influences on their sleeves, but it’s not a particularly auspicious start to their gigging career. Vocal melodies are too simplistic, following the chord progressions without much invention or variation. Lyrically they make Oasis sound like Wordsworth. One particular passage, directed at a girl and involving the rubbing of a metaphorical Genie’s lamp to see what happens, is delivered deadpan and apparently has no implied penis-related subtext, which automatically wins it the ‘most clumsy and sub-sixth form lyric of the year’ award. There’s some nice melodic counterpoint guitar work on occasion, but it’s all too basic and instantly forgettable indie-by-numbers that recalls the worst of that late 90s period when every label wanted an Oasis-lite band. There’s little in the way of modern development in the Jukes’ sound, and one can only hope their new drummer brings his balls with him to liven things up. Strangely they perform to the largest crowd of the night, which just goes to show the power of youth. At least time is on their side.

Standout performance of the night goes to Polly Josephine, a relative newcomer by all accounts, who seriously impresses with her soulful voice and assured renditions of Jazz standards. As such there’s little in terms of innovation, a stripped back piano and voice is presented without further embellishment, but Polly transports the audience to the aforementioned smoky, late night Jazz club with her rich, chocolaty voice and relaxed performance. She hits every note with ease and makes it all seem effortless, which is a mark of a great talent. There’s little more to say; closing with “I heard it through the Grapevine” is about as brave as it gets, but Polly clearly has a lot more to offer and one can only hope she continues to develop her set.

The night is wrapped up by Desmond Chancer and the Long Memories, who start promisingly but quickly descend into ham Karaoke, Rat Pack-style jazzy/big band-ish/bluesy dirges. Desmond himself has more enthusiasm and style than actual talent but seems to be well aware of that, delivering his pub shouter take on Sinatra with a knowing wink, a wry smile and some overblown theatrics. The backing band perform well, with tinkling jazz piano and a nicely played violin adding some cinematic depth to the music. A guest saxophone further embellishes the latter part of the set, bringing more smoky soul and a dash of virtuosity to the mix. Sadly the set is let down by quite significantly by the backing vocals, which are, frankly, awful. I had a long and rambling simile lined up to describe them, but it would be cruel to dwell on it for too long. Despite this, the crowd are clearly here for the headliners and take it with good humour, even dragging three songs-worth of encore out of them. As the set winds wearily to a close Desmond announces their intent to make the music more and more depressing and miserable, something they achieve admirably. The final couple of songs barely register a tempo and plumb the depths of misery in the human condition.

All it needs to complete the picture is for the crowd to dissipate, leaving a lone man slumped at a table in the corner with a half-smoked cigar and a tumbler of whiskey on the rapidly-dissolving rocks, being berated by the waitress.