Martha Wainwright – Union Chapel, London 15/08/13

Sometimes you just know a show is destined for greatness, simply by virtue of the venue it takes place in. Maybe it’s a punk band in a sweaty East End basement, or a post-rock band seeing out a Coachella sunset, but the juxtaposition of artist and environment is such that, barring the most unfortunate of catastrophes, the audience is guaranteed to experience something special. Tonight’s Martha Wainwright’s performance was one of those shows.

In the past, Martha may have been overshadowed by her more flamboyant older brother Rufus, but over the last few years, she’s emerged as one of the most compelling solo artists of her time. This reviewer generally greets the sight of an acoustic guitar-playing singer-songwriter with the same sense of mild nausea induced by George Osborne. But there’s something about her that far transcends the earnest, generic guff peddled by many of her peers, which is only amplified by the incomparable surroundings of the magnificent Union Chapel.

A big part of it is her charisma. Like the rest of her clan, she seems born for the stage – warmly conversational and wittily self-depreciating. She good-naturedly mocks her sibling, Mark Ronson’s “fucking hair” and herself, gives a shout-out to the NHS nurses who delivered her son and recounts the stories behind her song-writing with charm and aplomb. The chameleonic quality of her voice also lends to her allure, shifting through the whole spectrum from “delicately coquettish” to “full-throated rock goddess.”

But most of all, there’s the music itself. Her self-penned songs are consistently strong, emotionally touching but not sentimental; deeply personal without being dry or self-absorbed. Yet, the highlights of tonight were the covers of other people’s material. An un-amplified, A capella cover Edith Piaf standard was outstandingly beautiful, taking full advantage of the chapel’s wonderful acoustics.

Her take on the elegiac ‘Proserpina,’ written by her late mother, folk legend Kate McGarrigle, sent shivers down our spine and perhaps sent a tear to our eyes. For Judy Garland’s ‘Stormy Weather’, she was joined by her husband Brad on piano, and her 3 year old son Arcangelo as whatever the folk-rock analogue of a hypeman is. Most kids his age would have probably shyly shuffled behind the altar or at least be slightly fazed by the sea of people in front of him, but the boy, apparently channelling his Uncle Rufus, made the utmost of his moment in the spotlight: Busting some Leonard Cohen-ish moves, falling to his knees whilst crooning into the mic and generally having the time of his life. One suspects we might have another Wainwright star in the making – and if he’s even half as talented as his mother, we’ll be in for a treat.

Photograph by Steve Asenjo. See full gallery here.