"I'm related to one of the best looking men in the world," joked Martha Wainwright, "you gotta help me out here!"

Identifiable by the dense smoke which coiled in the Hanbury's domed ceiling and the cider which made a human fly-paper of its floor, The Great Escape arrived on Thursday, trapping global talent within a narrow industry spotlight.

Merely amused by the intrusive cameras and lack of reverent hush, Rufus's little sister belted out an unself-conscious acoustic set accompanied by much breast bobbing and leg wiggling and several shots of tequila.

Wainwright's voice is incapable of being anything less than enthralling and she effortlessly conjured country husk, dreamy moans and blues-wracked wails out of the smoke and the sweat.

Less prodigious is her relationship with the guitar, which is always stubbornly out of tune and has, touchingly, to be watched at every chord change.

In the breathtakingly beautiful Bloody Mother Fucking Arsehole the 29-year-old sings with envy of male musicians who "stamp their feet to a different beat".

As this pre-menstrual anthem brought the gig to a close, I was inspired to hear, over the ringing of the till and the prattle of the delegates, the sound of a high-heeled shoe striking hard against the stage.