Annie Clark is at her peak. Four albums and a collaboration with Talking Heads’ David Byrne and she’s delivered her finest work.

The self-titled album St Vincent is another clever and creative step forward as part of a steady reinvention from fresh-faced Oaklahoma indie singer to grand-standing performer.

Many commentators compare the newly embraced shock of purple-grey hair and podium-loving futurism to David Bowie.

But watching the keenly choreographed show and unshakable, techie-like approach to the guitar, Muse’s Matt Bellamy seemed a better comparison.

Huge choruses, big licks, cock rock head-banging and bombastic solos mixed with subtle, clever harmonies certainly felt more Bellamy than Cobain, whose songs Clarke first began to learn as 12-year-old rock fan.

When the chorus to Cheerleader kicked in the pocket-sized performer nearly took off - though her heavily lacquered barnet hardly moved.

Of course, Clark is her own woman. After some cod prophecy about why we’re all here, she laid out on her pink podium, teasing, singing, kicking her legs, every bit the delicate temptress.

If there was something operatic about her solo singing alone, electrified and bathed in green light, by the end, it felt like we’d descended into bomb shelter, as a ramped up version of Your Lips Are Red rattled the vintage Winter Garden.