"You could review this as theatre," says the guy beside me - and he's a playwright. It's one hell of a show. St Vincent, or Annie Clarke before she was canonised, arrives to her stage in a stylised opera and rattles through a series of songs - none simple, all transfixing - with a precision choreography. Without the elaborately zany stage devices of last year's appearance (such as David Byrne), her set looks a little austere this time around, but she and her band fill it with her favoured animatronic motion, stunning gestures for stimulating sounds. Clarke is an unreal guitarist - actually, her guitar sounds unreal, transformed through an array of tech into something otherworldly. She claims affinity with the freaks, which the nasty strut of Marrow and drifting, stuttering lines of Surgeon affirm. And if the theatrics of Cheerleader or Birth in Reverse suggest that all these wild fireworks are the consideration of a control freak, her utterly fearless last acts - letting the crowd bash at her axe like a piñata, before returning - somehow - wearing a lurid Lucha Libre mask, have a thrilling edge. All you can do is worship.

In Three Words: Something completely different.