AT the home of the Good Old Days, Irish-French chanteuse Camille O'Sullivan evokes the good old days of the carnival, as much as The Wizard Of Oz and Judy Garland, in the echoing sounds and voices that pepper her haunting dream of a cabaret show.

Her three-piece band on keys, percussion and guitar has gathered already on a crowded stage bedecked in fairground lights, as they find space beside a doll's house, a toadstool mirror ball, a lit-up bunny, a chair with a fireside rug and three stark white, metal-framed fairytale figures with pig, wolf and rabbit heads.

As she glides in through the auditorium, Camille's stage attire becomes a show in itself: a glittering red cape and hood making way for a coat of lights and a debut for a catsuit that she swiftly regrets having purchased online without a fitting. More ow than miaow! Maybe it can join the discarded party dresses she has been known to suspend high above her.

The pig doesn't make it intact through the two sets, the head becoming a Camille headpiece; the chair twice takes a kick across the floor; Camille goes on the prowl by the front row; she miaows; she bunny hops. Yet all this is but a sideshow to her Joplin and jazz voice, especially when she sits still on the stage apron for Nick Cave's Into My Arms.

The second act becomes a vibrant, vital retort to the Grim Reaper's terrible toll of 2016 as Camille, in a memorial black dress, channels Cohen, Prince and a four-song salute to Bowie. "It feels different singing these songs now," she says, looking to the heavens each time. More reinvigoration than requiem, her glorious hymns of praise matter all the more.