A smattering of tote bags toting the virginal faces of various Disney princesses scattered throughout the audience reminds me of a comparison impetuously made by myself at SXSW way back in March; one to which ascendant songbird Natalie Prass quite rightly didn’t take too kindly. A backhanded compliment if ever there were one, here’s hoping she’s allowing bygones to be bygones, because thanks to a rather more helpful Jools Holland cameo and a similarly beneficial Ryan Adams tour support, big things now await the nascent siren…

Of course, Prass has, since March, gone on to accrue widespread, and with that wild acclaim at pretty well every turn; and tonight, at the eminently salubrious Islington Assembly Hall, she turns in another thoroughly scintillating (and, incidentally, star-studded) performance. Dedicated to those “princesses” that once presided over the castles scattered throughout this ostensibly green and agreeable land, It Is You – the track at which that rash quip aforereferenced was first directed – sees a sass added to its recorded counterpart, Prass directing her band with brash aplomb. “Like that snare,” “That was a good [solo]” and so on, she chirrups. But whether this be by dint of her adorable demeanour or the conviction lavished upon each and every song this evening – a hometown humility may remain, although she has total control of this particular stage; one on which she is, by her own candid admission, “really comfortable,” having played it twice alongside Jenny Lewis just last summer – it has become impossible to have a bad word to say about this brassy a shebang.

But with that said, Matthew E. White’s scrupulously prepared brass arrangements – heard throughout Prass’ eponymous début album – have been ditched in favour of similarly meticulous rearrangements. This is made all the more readily doable by virtue of Trey Pollard – who did to the strings what White did with the horns – featuring on guitar tonight, the recalcitrant Fender Rhodes which threatened to blight her time in Austin unceremoniously dumped in favour of what is, at times, a straight-up, out-and-out rock show. For instance, with Ryan having recurrently covered the aforementioned Your Fool on that aforementioned tour, Prass returns the favour by revising one of her very favourites, Adams’ Winding Wheel rockin’ and a-rollin’ like never previously. More rootsy than bluesy, at times, it toots, too; the inevitable split 7” really cannot come soon enough…

To revert to rearrangements in the meantime, those lesser moments of Natalie Prass really come into their own this time out, with a spare Never Over You beguiling, before Christy evokes the poise and stasis of a smokin’ jazz bar standard. Gone is the string quartet, replaced instead by a cantankerous, and somewhat extraneous guitar solo courtesy of Pollard; but if the song is proceeded by the divulgation that “Christy’s a bitch,” a perfectly chirped Bird of Prey is positively bitchin’. The album’s absolute high-flier, it too has been jazzed up a touch, benefitting from a more loose, freeform execution. Here, with her curly locks and svelte figure, Prass could be said to resemble St. Vincent circa Marry Me; but this would ultimately be another contemptibly indolent comparison on my part.

Because although those albums grand, and grandiose as Natalie’s début often fail to translate, or to be successfully translated, live, it’s tonight both reconceptualised and recontextualised exceptionally. Which is, quite incontrovertibly, to she and Pollard’s incredible credit: despite a comparable paucity of material to pull from, it rarely feels like Prass is filling, or for that matter killing, time; and there’s enough of that, what with her playing for no fewer than ninety minutes. Inevitably therefore, this evening isn’t all to do with Natalie Prass: Last Time, heard for the first, sounds as though it’s been about for decades already; and that’s said in the most complimentary sense imaginable. A smooth continuation on from the record’s successes, the only bass is lent by the thrum from within a thick kick drum, imbuing the song with a gentle, if firmly classic feel. The divergent Jass, by contrast, recalls Vampire Weekend on the Afrobeat bender that so obviously inspired Ezra Koenig & Co.’s respective début all those years ago.

And there are then a number of cover versions, which see a slightly unlikely galaxy of aforesaid stars align: Adams strums aloofly through an eminently steamy rendition of Anita Baker’s Caught Up In the Rapture, before the duo are then joined by Jessie Ware, the trio riffing on Janet Jackson’s Any Time, Any Place with sultry purpose. But such is the readily perceptible intelligence of Prass that it’s hard not to feel this could well be a purposefully surreptitious response to the ‘are they/ aren’t they’ mutterings surrounding she and Adams, amorously speaking, of late. Passionately sung into one another’s eyes, Jackson, Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis’ unashamedly loved-up lyrics paint a considerably more explicit picture: “I don’t wanna stop just because/ People standing ’round are watchin’ us/ I don’t give a damn what they think/ I want you now” they swoon in chorus, Prass then professing: “Damn, I gotta catch my breath – [Ryan’s] so handsome.” Deduce from that one whatever you will, although neglect she and Alva Leigh’s reciting Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides Now at your own ignorance, because this is as compelling – and for that matter synergic – a performance as the improbably cobbled-together supergroup of one or two songs before.

However, it’s when Prass then reverts to her very own material – namely a skeletal take on My Baby Don’t Understand Me – that her versatility really starts to shine through. Met with profuse whooping, so forlorn a song of longing may be at odds with the loved-up interlude detailed above; but unlike, say, Sharon Van Etten, who’s been in and out of heartbreak with the apparent regularity of Pete Doherty’s yo-yoing between reality and rehab, Prass seemingly feels that bit better about life these days. As for this, her livelihood, she’s every reason to be cheerful: for if Natalie Prass seemed much like a meditation on “how cruel love can be” for the most part – as is suggested during what is a nigh on impossibly slinky Why Don’t You Believe In Me – then in the space of these ninety minutes, she’s shown how many more strings to her bow she’s amassed in recent months, switching between an irreproachable soul vocal, R&B belting that’s as strong as Ware’s, if not more so, (hushed) Disney-ish prissiness and world-weary prescience with complete ease. And, with nigh on each and every number shooting straight for the heart, only a fool would bet against her installing herself in your most vital of organs posthaste…