With his sentimental lyrical leanings and a sense of unpretentious, freewheeling hedonism, it is immediately clear from listening to Ezra Furman’s music – especially his excellent latest album, ‘Day Of The Dog’ – that the Chicago born twenty-something is not afraid to wear his heart on his sleeve. From the opening seconds of tonight’s set, it is equally clear that that is only the half of it.

“Oh Lord, help us”, he implores into the mic, gaining the audience’s rapt attention before launching into ‘I wanna destroy myself’, followed by ‘We Should Fight’, which is introduced as a protest song, a reminder of what a rare gem of a thing that is these days. His current four-piece backing band, The Boy-Friends, provide the requisite gleeful cacophony – variously on saxophone, guitar, bass, keys, drums and maracas – to add to Furman’s vocals and sometime guitar.

There is a compelling openness and grace to Ezra Furman, as he shimmies, thrashes and moshes around. The sleeve on which his heart is pinned tonight is short, red and attached to a slinky minidress in the exact same shade as his lipstick; but there is no hint of a contrived onstage persona here, just someone who fancied wearing a dress and some slap and doesn’t feel the need to explain it. Everything about this visceral, foot stompin’, tender yet nihilistic concoction of rock ‘n’ roll infused mayhem is about as real as it gets, his shape-shifting voice and instinctive delivery excavating the depths of the human condition with warts-and-all emotional honesty and a frenetic energy, like Tom Waits reincarnated as a labrador puppy.

For every switch in musical mood there is another highlight. ‘And Maybe God Is A Train’ is one of a noticeable contingent of songs with lyrics so childishly and unashamedly simple they rip right to the core of the issue like an insane nursery rhyme. ‘Bad Man’ – a ballad of painful longing and self-loathing, peppered with wry and entertaining rhymes – brings a truly spellbinding performance; with the backing stripped down to just piano and saxophone, Furman prowls the front of the stage, fixing his puppy dog peepers earnestly on the audience, in cabaret chanteuse style.

No less candid, but five hundred per cent more raucous, ‘I Killed Myself But I Didn’t Die’ deals with an attempted suicide and subsequent incarceration in hospital as a teenager, any whiff of self-pity swiftly dispatched by the honest relish, dark humour and pure punk snarl with which it is delivered.

Clearly at ease with his fans, and delighted at the turnout, Furman’s chat is as frank, witty and affectionate as his songs. “Thanks… a hundred”, he cheekily throws out in response to a rapturous bout of applause, before upping the goodwill factor further with singalong new single ‘My Zero’, whose country-blues imagery is all the more immersive for the throaty intensity of live performance.

The spirit of the night is winningly summed up in ‘Tell ‘Em All To Go To Hell’ (“It’s sort of like our band’s motto, and if you don’t like the dress, this song’s for you”, explains Furman, in case anyone was in any doubt), and the party atmosphere is heightened when he calls support band Happyness onstage to dance away the last few tunes. Having opened up admirably with a set of guitar-heavy goodness – riffs ranging from wailing to screaming via crunchy, choppy and jangly – and quietly intense vocals, the young London three-piece celebrate the end of their tour with this motley band of Americans in jubilant style.

With the night drawing to a close, and the stage as buzzing with bodies as the crowd, Furman whips out a harmonica to accompany himself in a punk-folk stream-of-consciousness that seems to channel both Bob Dylan and Patti Smith, bringing yet another twist in an absolute riot of a show from a refreshing and gifted performer.

Rosie James