Ani DiFranco is that rarest of artists – someone who makes music so naturally that it seems to seep from right out of her pores and into the atmosphere around her. On record, she is a revelation, writing lyrics that might not attract the same degree of hype, but still quietly hit Emimen’s home turf for sheer inventive quality and skill. She is outrageously prolific, highly individual and hugely gifted.

Technically, all she needs to do here tonight is to reproduce the best material from her numerous albums. And given that an adoring crowd is by turns hanging on her every breath, chanting her name and begging for favourite songs, this shouldn’t pose a problem. Right?

Well, no, actually. As anyone who has ever had the misfortune to see Bob Dylan live will testify, great artists have a nasty way of murdering their own material.

Not that DiFranco always murders it, mind. Much of the time, the problem is simply that she doesn’t play it enough. Instead, her penchant for performance art emerges, and we are ‘treated’ to two poems, one of which deals with the tragic events of September 11th. While you can be sure she means every word sincerely, the drum rolls, creepy keyboard/guitar sounds and alternately hushed and raised vocals seem far less poignant than crass.

Thankfully, there are great stretches when the music is allowed to shine. ‘Letter To A John’ and ‘Fire Door’ sparkle in their setting, while ‘Jukebox’ comes on buoyant and bright. DiFranco has a wonderful knack for making her guitar sound like a percussive instrument, and her fluid backing band nicely complement its complicatedly jagged effect.

Most impressive of all, though, is the moment when the band depart and she returns alone for the encore. Here, playing one of her better known tunes and singing in the most sincere, unadorned fashion, she is truly glorious.

You wish it could always be this way.