There's no band, just one middle-aged singer-songwriter and his piano, but Jim Webb delivers the goods. As a jazz artist he may rate nul-pwah, as Terry Wogan would put it, but for postwar American balladry this Oklahoma son of a preacher-man (to name one decent song he didn't write) is a genuine cabaret heavyweight.

A devout anglophile - "I fell in love with three English girls before I discovered that they all talk that way" - he sang lustily, propelled by forthright piano work. Between numbers he dropped plenty of showbiz names, including Frank Sinatra - "I always called him Mister Sinatra, out of respect for him as a musician and because I didn't want to end up in the trunk of a car on Mulholland Drive" - and actor Richard Harris, who gleefully informed him: "Tonight we'll stay at my sister's place in Dublin and you'll sleep in the bed where I was conceived."

Galveston, Up, Up and Away, By the Time I Get to Phoenix, Wichita Lineman ("the greatest torch-song of all time" according to Sinatra), Webb sang them all in a gratifyingly uncloying, full-blooded way.

Some of the higher notes were a little wobbly, but there was a certain magic about hearing great songs performed by their composer. Not even Cassandra Wilson, the sleepy-eyed southern diva packing the Jazz Cafe this week, could rival that.

• Till tomorrow (020 7439 0747).