An agonising bilious attack ruined my enjoyment of this concert, no fault of this brilliant orchestra nor its guest diva, the slim and intense Stacey Kent. Her ever-joyful mantra, not to mention her apparently idyllic marriage to saxophonist Jim Tomlinson, has irritated Londoners no end but we’ve learned to live with it, making allowances for an aspirational New York upbringing.

Last night she sang more forcefully than usual, her little-girl-lost voice tempered with a steely new core, possibly the result of recent health problems she forbore to mention, at least during the first half. Her gushing announcements were trimmed to tolerable levels, too, although after the title song of her current album, Breakfast on the Morning Tram, I thought I heard her say: “You know, it’s funny, but just when you think you can’t love a song any more than do you, that’s when you find you love it even that little bit more.”

Mixing solid standards (The Best is Yet to Come, I Got Lost in His Arms) with smart originals (The Ice Hotel) she displayed a confidence born of non‑stop touring, including the United States and most recently France, which bestowed its Chevalier D’Honneur des Arts et Lettres upon her.

She even coaxed Tomlinson’s languid saxes on stage halfway through the set, a plucky move by him after sizzling solos from big-band tenorists Martin Williams and Paul Booth.

But Stacey never misses a trick. She knows the value of an 18‑piece band in keeping the Broadway songbook end of jazz alive. Other singers set to front the band include Peter Grant, Ruthie Henshall, Kim Criswell, Todd Gordon and scat empress Anita Wardell. Purists may scoff but the silent majority seems to approve.
Peter Grant sings Sinatra, 8 May (020 7730 4500).