KT Tunstall/Tom McRae at The Living Room, 'The Hotel Cafe Tour'

One of the more entertaining postings of the week on that scurrilous British website Popbitch suggested that KT Tunstall was becoming prone to showbiz strops. The poster alleged that KT had already fired four publicists and eight hairdressers. The punchline to the message was imagine what she might do if she ever became famous? Ouch. But look past the charges levelled at her and shouldn’t we actually be rather excited about this kind of behavior? In a manufactured world of American Idols, Maroon 5 and, er, the return of Hanson, shouldn’t we cherish a star in the making with - gasp! - an attitude? If she ever refuses to climb onto the stage and uses the third person by declaring that, “KT doesn’t do stairs” then we should immediately declare a public holiday and call it the ‘Whitney Houston would be proud’ day.

Of course, whether Scotland’s brightest talent since a kilt worn in sunshine would want this kind of attention is a moot point. And far more to the point is that her silky, smooth songs deserve attention, acclaim and all other kinds of alliterative terminology. Inevitably, KT (Kate sounds like a farmer’s daughter, in her opinion) is nothing but lovely and seems genuinely thrilled to be here. Announcing that this is only her second New York concert, Tunstall performs as if she's been playing here for years.

Right from the off with opener ‘Miniature Disasters’, her voice effortlessly mixes soul and classic “rawk”. Which is some achievement as she can’t be much taller than five feet. ‘Stoppin The Love’ sees KT “lose my piano cherry” while ‘’Through The Dark’ and Another Place To Fall’ simply cements her place as the breakthrough artist of the year. But all this pales in comparison to the final tune of an all too brief set. It’s quite a sight: KT slaps her guitar, claps her hands and makes this nagging “woo-oo” sound which she records and plays as her own backing loop to the epic ‘Black Horse & The Cherry Tree’. The song sounds like nothing else, nodding its head to a bygone era where torch singers ruled the roost yet still with its feet firmly planted in the present. Think of a Norah Jones with balls and you’re on the right track. And her reaction to the track is as tumultuous as ours - she pumps her fists in the air and gives a thumbs up before telling us how wonderful we are all. No one, to the best of our knowledge, gets fired but there’s a steely determination behind those eyes and when her last words are that she’ll be back, you wouldn’t dare doubt her. Diana Ross, Cher and hairdressers of the world: run for cover!

The only cover in evidence during Tom McRae’s set is the one drink minimum put in place by the venue. And you would want, say, a aged malt by your side during the British singer songwriter’s half hour performance. This is old fashioned music making: much like a fine whisky, it’s distinguished, with the faintest hint of oak (though that might just be the stage) and demands to be shared with as wide an audience as possible. Sadly for McRae, he wasn’t getting the airplay back in Britain so with an admirable ‘have guitar, will travel’ attitude, moved out here. And the gamble, if it even was one in the first place, is certainly paying off.

McRae’s most powerful weapon is his voice and you get the impression it can melt the harshest heart. His songs of lust and longing connect with the crowd though it’s fair to say that he takes ten minutes to get into his stride. The moment of impact comes during his “rock song” of ‘Enemies’, a haunting affair which builds into a crescendo where, with his eyes firmly shut, he repeats that “time slips away, blood is rising”. No way could that be his view on the British music industry...

From here on in, any possible bitterness is put to one side and the music takes over. Written about LA, ‘Hummingbird Song’ juxtaposes the highs and lows one experiences with the city of angels (“At night we fly above this town...feel the beatings of its wings”) with a mournful, quite possibly regretful refrain of “we’re coming down”. You can see why you need that drink by your side. The climax to the set is no less intoxicating. ‘Silent Boulevard’ seeps into your soul - when you hear the words “voice like a knife”, you’re more open to suggestion - and with his Hotel Cafe bandmates in tow, the words carry their way out into the New York night.

You’re left with the impression that Britain’s loss is America’s gain. And whilst the success achieved by David Gray and Damien Rice might ultimately elude McRae, at least his destiny is in his own hands. The joy in listening to him is that neither the singer nor the audience could predict what the future holds. Let’s leave the last words to him: “And in a year of new beginnings dear, how do we write the end?”