Traditionally, French female singers' luck and appeal expires the moment they cross La Manche, hence the somewhat limited appeal of Emilie Simon (the French Bjork), Claudine Longet (the French Julie London) and Françoiz Breut (the French Beth Orton). Even dear old Edith Piaf (the French Shirley Bassey) couldn't sell a record in Britain.

Born of Dutch-Israeli parents, Keren Ann Zeidel is merely French by a Parisian upbringing, culture and first language. Five not wholly successful, albums in, she remains a cult, but last night's absorbing show, mostly sung in English, suggested her appeal may yet transcend international boundaries.

"I feel like I am in a stadium of football," she announced at one point. Clearly, she has not been to a football match for some time, for the crowd were hushed, reverential (aside from a ringing mobile which had its ringtone set to earthquake and almost thwarted an encore trundle through Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi) and eager to absorb a cornucopia of sounds which ranged from the ethereal, Angelo Badalamenti-esque twang of The Harder Ships Of The World to the tongue twisting-For You And I, via the relatively simple Gallic loveliness of Que N'ai-Je?

The evening's most transcendent moment came before the encore with Between The Flatland And The Caspian Sea which began in hushed fashion, embarked on a freeform jazzy tangent with trumpet to the fore and ended with the daintiest of three-part harmonies.

After an hour of such boundary stretching, she was gone, but after the lights went up, with most of the crowd on their way home, she returned alone to the stage, cut the lights and, from the darkness, wrapped herself around the jazz standard Mañha De Carnivale a cappella as a farewell lullaby.

A wider audience awaits. The mainstream may have to wait in vain.