Former Throwing Muses and Belly bass guitarist Fred Abong was first up, and apparently the airport had lost his guitar so Kristin had kindly lent him hers for the night. Not heard any of his solo work, so I was at a disadvantage, but I liked that Pavement-like glimmer he was plying with a dusty delivery with tightly wound chords full of weird little divinations and bright lyrical pools.

After a short interval, Kristin Hersh graced the stage, and wasting no time she carved straight into a track from Wyatt At The Coyote Palace, a stormy roar that filled up the space. She hit into her guitar with such force it literally buzzed between songs, the volatility of her voice was phenomenal — not only did it reach to the shadowy back of the theatre, its scary mood switched, smash and grabbed your psyche, giving Kristin’s words a startled shimmer. If you weren’t familiar with her wares (I think most here were converts) you couldn’t fail to be impressed.

Some of these songs are more than twenty years old, but she sang them as if they were penned yesterday. No best-of slack or water-treading here; you get a real sense that she lives in them, spatters their bones with a raw intensity. One minute giddy with melodic sway, the next vocally tearing it away, those husky, gravelled tones matched by a burning dexterity.

She yelled, screamed, her lyrics twisted, illuminated that sparse stage. “Mississippi Kite” and “Flooding” from her Crooked album unfolding in accented curls, a short rendition of “Cuckoo”; she even delved into a murderous lullaby which was sung to her as a child (where the victim dies twice). Some tracks I didn’t recognise, but for the most part this lilted the cherry of loved classics. A turbulent set that lead to riotous applause, even a bit of floor stamping that promoted a speedy return and two more tasty encore treats.

-Michael Rodham-Heaps-