The night is running just shy of an hour late. “But that’s all the better, you get to see the support”, says our host Aidan “Sky-” Larkin. Yeah, brilliant, hooray – less exciting for those of us who actually turned up on time, of course. And doubly depressing when the support aren’t actually that good. Their chunky, approachable roots sound is solid and melodic, something like a supermarket brand Black Uhuru, but Jamatone don’t ever quite achieve the cohesion of a good reggae band. They spend most of the gig standing on the edge of the groove, peering in. The vocalist keeps our interest, with a warm, unhurried style and a stage presence with plenty of character – which is good as the hackneyed lyrics can’t be said to have any – which is fine until half way through the set when he cedes the mike to a younger model. The new singer has a staccato style that is an interesting contrast, but it grates awkwardly against the band’s rhythms, which is ironic as the band actually improve noticeably for the last couple of tracks; perhaps adding a little dancehall phrasing to a straight pop reggae style might work, but as it is he just sounds like a clumsy version of Eagle Eye Cherry.

Compare Dawn Penn’s delivery. Within seconds of climbing on stage, she reveals a mastery of phrasing that makes every line matter, and gives every word weight. Each tiny portamento at the start of a phrase, every subtle vibrato at the end make the songs sound natural and conversational, as so many great pop songs should be. Penn’s voice, as befits a woman nearing 60, doesn’t have the sweet clarity of her early rocksteady recordings, but it has a deeper timbre and air of experience that is, if anything superior, reminding us oddly of Johnny Cash. The Man In Black is also a good reference point for Penn’s ability to recreate a song, and give a trite ditty an air of gravitas and richness you’d never expect was there. It took us a good few bars to realise that one naggingly familiar tune wasn’t a soul classic, but All Saints’ ‘Never Ever’! Of course, a healthy attitude to found material is one of the pillars of Jamaican music, from the endless and inventive versioning of rhythms to the unpretentious approach to melody that says that any track is worth covering if it has a tune that can be used, but Penn is a master of the art.

In case this sounds impressive, but somewhat honed, like a seasoned cabaret performer, we must also note the wonderful spontaneity of the gig. Second to Penn’s easy melodic sense is her understanding of musical space. She twists and elongates lines as the whim takes her, but is also content to drop the vocal for bars at a time, remixing the songs from the inside. If you thought that late Johnny Cash was a weird reference point, then you’d better sit down before we tell you that technique somewhat recalls latter day Mark E Smith (although we are certain that Dawn would be a better person to have a drink with). When she does ‘You Don’t Love Me’ as the inevitable closing track, we are stunned by the liberties she takes with it, improvising lines and melodies, giggling and narrating ad hoc sections, as if it’s the first time she’s ever sung the song. Pretty audacious when you consider that it’s the one piece half the audience has specifically come to hear. We’ve seen some of Jamaican music’s greats play live – most, it must be said, at Skylarkin’ events – but this is the best, an effect heightened by the intimate atmosphere, which stops the music slipping into empty gestures (although the guitarist does smuggler in some overwrought Dire Straits solos whenever Penn’s back is turned). Why wasn’t this gig sold out ten times over? Has nobody heard of Dawn Penn? Wake the town and tell the people!