There’s no pretence with Mary Coughlan – what you see is what you get; but more importantly, what you hear is the truth. She doesn’t have the power or the rich vibrato of Sarah Vaughan, she can’t scat like Ella Fitzgerald, nor does she have the refined innovative jazz virtuosity of a Carmen McRae. But like her idol, Billie Holiday, what Coughlan possesses in spades is an honesty and lived-in quality born out of the good times, but more often, by the sorrows left from broken relationships, alcoholism and even a stint in Galway’s notorious mental asylum, Ballinasloe.

Mary Coughlan

The show was a mix of Coughlan originals, songs written by collaborators and material mined from the archives. Yet it all blended into a compelling narrative of love lost and lust pursued, without a hint of regret or recrimination. Vocally, Coughlan (even with her prominent Irish brogue) transports you back to the smoky nightclubs of the depression. Her tone is guttural and deep and rises from the boot straps.The woman has impeccable taste and resurrected songs I thought that I would never hear again live such as Jack Teagarden’s Meet...