In a world where transgender people still face societal barriers, oracular New York smooth-talker Justin Vivian Bond dismembered divisions.

Mocking any need to refer to the fans in the cabaret seating as ladies and gentlemen, Bond - in a shimmering red dress and heels as angled as the lid of the grand piano stage left - is singing love songs on a mini-tour, backed by the amused Lance Horne on ivories, a guitarist in a three-quarter length dress with a pyramid of white hair and a nimble violinist susceptible to guffawing at the singer's bone-dry jokes.

Brought to Brighton partly by the Pink Fringe, Bond was pouting to the converted. The playlist was impeccable, from Jesus Was A Cross Maker - Hollywood folk singer Judith Sill's 1971 debut, given a forcibly redemptive resonance renouncing both heaven and hell - to poet Frank O'Hara's witty vignette on celebrity culture ("Oh Lana Turner, we love you, get up").

Bond's husky vocals were often unremarkable. But an earlier beach meeting with Geri Halliwell must have tempted both singers to serenade the pull of personality.

A brilliant raconteur with imperious timing, Bond's laconic tales and catty asides were easy to warm to. "I just want to be a rich white successful woman who can have all the valium she wants", rued Bond.

A stomping cover of Kate Bush's Aerial ended with Bond horizontal to the sound of Horne's spectacular, dreamy piano flourish.