Rarely do you find someone painfully shy but alarmingly revealing, uncertain of her own ability but assured of her quality. Before Kathryn Williams had strummed a single folksy tune on her acoustic guitar, she admitted to negligible tour funds and confessed to bleary eyes from lack of sleep. Combined with her mesmerising, introspective songs, we were in for something irresistibly tired and emotional.
Fade opened with rich instrumentation and disarming lyrics while melody enveloped melancholy. The relationship between Williams's soft but barbed vocals and the divine air of Laura Reid's cello was embodied in frequent shared smiles. Sometimes supportive, often betraying a joke, this uplifting rapport is crucial to the music.
Toocan and Leazes Park float by and Williams tentatively addresses the audience, paying due attention to the conspicuous stream of men heading to the bar. I want to be better, she says, in mock apology, before dedicating Soul To Feet to herself. As the delicious reproach rings out: You only stop talking, when you fall asleep, titters drift among the seats. But as the dark ballad unfurls, a delicately-picked Spanish guitar, entrancing double bass and hushed percussion reduce all to silence.
It's a tribute to her light touch that Williams can admit to following the advice of her therapist by performing the troublesome Jasmine Hoop and not incur a single cringe.
In the legions of singer-songwriters to be compared to the late Nick Drake, Williams rises above the throng with a deftly-layered sound and a quality that is scarcer still. Honesty.
