You have to give Gwyneth Herbert credit for integrity. Though appearing at a famous jazz shrine, she resolutely continues to do her own hybrid thing. Thus the Great American Songbook remained firmly shut, even though her shrill, emotionally charged style actually leans closest to the stage-musical area of the vocal map, with elements of cabaret-diva thrown in.

Give her a few Kurt Weill and Berthold Brecht opuses and she could have the arts-centre circuit at her feet — a fondness for military stop-start tempi is already evident — and some day it’s equally easy to see her edging the Elaine Paiges and Ruthie Henshalls into the wings. At the moment she is too involved with her own work to contemplate that.

Every number she sang last night was original, apart from one David Bowie oddity, Rock’n’Roll Suicide, which chimed with the living-on-the-edge philosophy that permeates her lyrics.
These lyrics are copious. Olympic shorthand speeds are necessary to take them down. In her wordy world, rather like Bernie Taupin’s, the lyrics sound right (“Watching the day turn blue/Drinking the dreams from your shoe”) even though they don’t make sense.

Gwyneth also needs to emote, so the last drop of emotion is wrung from every situation. Obviously these are songs about women and mostly for women but not of the shrinking-violet kind. The tears on their pillow are more likely to be tears of anger. “Here’s one I wrote when I was really pissed off,” she announced at one point, and a fair amount of yelling and footstamping ensued.

Tucked away in her backing group were some familiar jazz faces, notably drummer Sebastian Rochford and guest cellist Ayanna Witter-Johnson, but they were allowed only the briefest glimpses of solo space. All eyes and ears remained on the star, whose love of the spotlight, and complete comfort within it, is exceptional. However one classifies her work, the audience definitely warmed to it.

Ends tonight (020 7439 0747).