The stuff comes out of her without filter, not so much stream of consciousness as unconscionable torrent: crossness, self-pity, indignation, wit, vision, witchy vituperation, vivid regret, terror.
Part of Martha's charm lies in the passion of her incontinence, as if the exercise of restraint were a cheat. Then there are her arrangements – all nicely turned and inoffensively semi-acoustic, they sit back and accommodate the flow. It's music of heart if not much reason, and for that alone you have to take it seriously, however bonkers you know it really to be. It's possible she may be Patti Smith's crazy sister, not Rufus Wainwright's.
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