St. Vincent, Crofoot, Pontiac, Michigan

presence; she carries the stage away with her, closing her eyes - eyelids fluttering, as eyelids are want to do - wrapping the crowd around her finger. As a guitarist and vocalist she is of the highest calibre, having no need for the sloppy glance, or even the uncertain staring afflicted on guitarists who may be talented, but wholly unenthusiastic. The way she moves her hand along the neck of the guitar is like that of a lover gently and skilfully arousing his or her mate. In a word, spectacular. As far as performers go she leaves the weary, black-framed groaners behind, she’s a loved mother to the crowd-turned-children, who hush and harangue their neighbours if they speak during the quieter sections of the songs. Real performers are hard to come by, especially in the indie world where many artists linger in broody, pensive lyrics, only barely hiding a kind of militant self-depreciation. This is a clean experience.

All flattery aside, the crowd is certainly enamoured with Annie, between every song - and at times during - both male and female profess not only their drunken admiration, but also their love. The music is that good. Not content with playing tired and exact versions of her songs, she adds a little funk here, peppers some blues-rock there, all while smiling her if not winning, wonderous smile. One of the girls standing behind becomes hysterical when, during ‘Jesus Saves, I Spend’, Clark shreds her guitar like only a classic rocker can; by all accounts she ruined the guitar throughout the solo. It’s no metal solo, she isn’t that crass, it’s a clean, artful, rock solo. And, even though her sonic material is so varied, dipping between the softer curvatures and harder edges of musical composition, she finds a way to make the setlist undulate, babying the crowd with a lovely cover of Nico’s ‘These Days’, then rides the lull in to the frantic, jitter-punch of ‘Marrow’.

At only eleven songs and one encore, the set feels long. Often, the band break apart in to dissonance, and a tiny, yet distinct guitar line floats along the periphery, easing in and out. Her revamped version of ‘Her Lips Are Red’ is one notable deconstructing, reconstructing blur. Coupled with the explosions of fuzz, the grunge of her guitar and the violent, yet endearing drum solo, the song feels all too appropriate to end on. But what rocker is going to leave the crowd without an encore? In the final stretch, the band plays ‘The Party’.

Overwhelming.

While the crowd isn’t partying exactly, it does become a jumbled mass; an angry little corduroy-jacketed man in front, who seems to be aware of nothing but himself during the show, even begins to shudder, girlfriend or no. The lights flash, the violin creeps in waves, and it’s as though everyone were clasping their eyes shut as if to, like our eyes in amniotic fluid, absorb the clashing energy in to themselves as the music fades away.