A Kristin Hersh gig is a bit like being subjected to a decade's worth of psychotherapy condensed into an hour and a half. The quirky mingles quite happily with the grotesque, the trivial takes bizarre twists and the supernatural is a familiar and comfortable constant. With songs populated by strange angels, dead rabbits and evil hair-do's, if you closed your eyes for a moment you could be forgiven for thinking you were listening to Phoebe from Friends singing the follow-up to Smelly Cat. But open them, and you will be met with an intense, middle-distance stare that challenges you to deny the veracity of her testimony.

Freely admitting that most of her works are depressing, she goes and writes a song such as Hope, ends it with the lines "I don't want you, I feel broken and miles away" and then has the cheek to describe it as "uplifting". Is it therapy as music, catharsis as a black, black comedy? And, when the audience hangs onto every melancholy syllable, who is indulging who here exactly?