When an event is set amongst such a glorious setting then you’d expect an occasion of magical proportions. Yet what was supplied, was a muddled assortment of conventions that has left a peculiar taste in my mouth and an incoherent feeling in my head.

Opening the event was singer/songwriter Winter Mountain, who spewed a set of monotony and squandered thirty minutes of my life which I would desperately like back please. Writing music for the sake of writing music is not artistic. It’s a kick in the face of every fraught and deserving artist who actually has something of importance to articulate. The only material that he could distastefully regurgitate were empty songs about girls in coffee shops. Where was his struggle? Where was his passion? Why weren’t his crimes against music punished with rotten fruit thrown directly at his sickeningly unworthy ego?

Winter Mountain’s contrived folk tedium made me desperately long for an actual mountain to catapult myself from; and he’s firmly secured himself the title of being the only artist that I’ve never applauded, not even feebly.

Lissie on the contrary, was a breath of fresh air when she took to the stage, and immediately donned the room in her light and highly likeable mannerisms. I hadn’t forgotten about the disaster to precede her, but I was certainly willing to try for the sunny blonde that stood before me.

With new and older songs alike, she regaled the audience and made a conscious act to collectively befriend everyone in her vicinity in the homely way that only Lissie can. There was no inflated ego, no depraved attitude, just song after song chanted passionately with the powerful voice that has catapulted her into a semi-famous spotlight.

Admittedly, her country-esque music has a speck of cheesiness about it, but her energetic demeanour outweighed her wince-worthy lyrics tenfold and she proved herself to be a worthy act to play at the local hotspot. This was concreted further by her emotional delivery of When I’m Alone, which evidently occupies a large proportion of her heart. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t mind-blowing or world-colliding, but she was certainly impressive regardless.

With pillars and posts in most audience member’s eyesight though, and a pitiful organisational system, The Watering Hole proved that it doesn’t work as a music venue. Yes, a beachside bar venue sounds idyllic, in theory, for our sandy county.  But I’d rather attend the grottiest venue in existence than a stunning one that doesn’t cater for music lover’s needs. Unfortunately, the event suffered further as a result of this, but I’m sure that many still had a wonderful time.

By Keira Trethowan

Keira is a fanatical writer/editor from Cornwall. With coffee running through her veins, she can usually be found curled up in a dark room scripting a warped plot, or re-playing an album to the point of death.