It really doesn’t take very long for Punisher to be tremendous. We’re in Kyoto, the monolithic hangover of old Japan, and have just left a temple that looked better in the brochure. Bored, senselessly bored, even a speed train can’t excite us. As friends depart, here’s something – a payphone. A brief call. In fewer than 10 lines, Phoebe Bridgers has locked us inside her head, and narrowed nimbly from the ennui of a touring musician to a father telling his daughter they’re sobering up, and that they wrote her a letter, but she doesn’t have to read it. The heart attack of a frail bond on reverse call charge. Then a cry. Charging horns. Snare. Backing coos like birds breaking a cloud. “I’m gonna kill you,” she assures the fuckup at home, “if you don’t beat me to it / Dreaming through Tokyo skies.”