Out on her own with just a few bags, a guitar and a bunch of songs, former environmental education worker Kim Richey looks like a spectre up on stage: dressed in black with a shock of hair and a pale face, Richey offsets any notions of gloom with a sharp sense of humour and a gum-chewing session uninterrupted by songs or wisecracks.

Up until the mid-1990s, she was writer for hire for the likes of Radney Foster, George Ducas and Trisha Yearwood - a creator of intelligent, sparse country/folk that mixed poignant emotions with a not-too-sweet melody. From that time onwards, Richey has released a few albums, with last year's Glimmer pushing her profile further above the parapet. Why she should be playing such a small (but excellent) venue is, initially, a mystery.

The mystery unravels slowly but surely, however: the intimacy of a Kim Richey solo gig would be lost in bigger surroundings. As she strolls from one song to the next (each a perfectly-formed acoustic gem), the simplicity of the tunes and the expressive layering of the lyrics form their own identity. The end result is a superb, involving, low-key gig from a singer/songwriter whose unembellished moments better a raft of grandiose ones from people more famous and a lot richer.