It was quiet... too quiet

Rescue Rooms
She asks for the lights to be turned down,"so I don't feel like I'm about to be run over". Her merchandise stall, which offers embroidered T-shirts and her own paintings, could pass as a miniature craft fair. But Kathryn Williams is not wholly above showing off.
Her encore last night, as the audience requested, was Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah -- every syllable weighed and timed for meaning, the power obvious but held in reserve. It's not something to attempt unless you're sure you can do it, and she can.
When she performs her own works, you have to listen closer for the fireworks. They're short, crafty things about settled love, unease and irritation, the product of two guitars, a cello and a foot-operated tambourine.
Old songs, like the lovely Flicker, are nudged back to life with a smile to the cellist. New ones, like the oddly cheery Indifference or the sweet, as-yet-unrecorded When, see a marked upping of energy. Williams may be a modest performer, but she has much not to be modest about.