Marianne Faithfull looked every bit the consummate professional—even matriarchal—standing under the rays of light at Royce Hall. Dressed in a lovely blouse and a long black skirt, the first few songs she sang—Dolly Parton’s “Down From Dover” included—were imbued with a classy, smoky jazz quality and a polished shine that made it look easy. Maybe even too easy. A glance around at the audience—mostly 45-60 year olds—made this reviewer feel not only downright young, but curious enough to wonder—had she lost her edge? Had this legendarily restless artist grown comfortable, mellowing out with standards a la Rod Stewart who (once upon a time, if you forget) was gloriously raucous and unpredictable, too? The question didn’t linger long before Faithfull remarked how nervous she was, a momentary spark of emotion that led into a skillfully selected set of songs. Now versatility is not one of the virtues of that wondrous rasp of hers, but its fractured beauty allows for interpretations of an insanely wide range of genres and styles during a 90-minute show. Randy Newman’s “Germany Before the War” (with its tantalizing hints of Kurt Weil during its intro) provided the first notes of dissonance, while covers like Duke Ellington’s “Solitude” exhibited deep emotional rawness. The only missteps occurred early with an out-of-range nearly spoken-word cover of Neko’s Case’s “Hold On, Hold On,” and an unremarkable Black Rebel Motorcycle Club tune. She fared much better with another selection from the indie catalog, the Decemberists’ “The Crane Wife 3.” These interpretations led to what the show had been lacking up until this point: Faithfull’s own works. It was hard not to see the Keith Richards/Mick Jagger penned “As Tears Go By” followed by “Sister Morphine” as self-fulfilling prophecy about Faithfull’s life. “Broken English” followed, as timely as ever in its questioning the pointlessness of war. “Why D’ya Do It?”—jealous and wrathful—stole the show, suiting her better now than when she recorded it back in 1979. Maybe it was the contrast of seeing Faithfull dressed so quaintly and poised while shouting out, “Whyd ya do it, she said, whyd you let that trash get a hold of your cock, get stoned on my hash ?” That did it. The evening came into miraculous focus during this song. Her fierce snarl danced around the ska-inflected guitar and tore down any notions of artistic comfort to take refuge in. In just a matter of minutes, the whole being of Faithfull was on display—the delicate flaxen-haired flower girl of the ’60s, the homeless tramp of the ’70s, the drug addict, the smoky-voiced cabaret singer, the Weimar-era reenactor, the Shakespeare interpreter—all her incarnations summoned up at once. Before the last note hit, the audience jumped to their feet in an affirmation of a performer unafraid of showing both personal vulnerability and an incredible tenacity for overcoming life’s darker moments.

—Greg Garabedian