Sharon Van Etten's songs are stealthy creatures. They skulk through the dark, cry to the moon, lick their own wounds with fragile pride. When they attack, their emotion is pulverising. Frequently, Shepherd's Bush Empire feels too big for them: they want somewhere more intimate, where their smell of matted blood is inescapable. Halfway through this gig, Van Etten confesses that she has a cold, she's doing her best – and surely she is. Her performance is essentially faultless, subtle and complex. It's perfectly complemented by a backing band who play a straight country strum and arthouse noise with equal command and precision. But the venue diminishes them, making much of their set, particularly tracks from Van Etten's strongest album, Tramp, feel underpowered. All I Can surges in waves but never crashes over you; Kevin's pounds but never hits its mark.

But perhaps such weaknesses are necessary as a calm contrast to the storm that builds through the set, finally exploding in the icy blasts of Serpents and I'm Wrong. These are songs of fury and damage: Van Etten has talked glancingly in interviews of being locked in what sounds like an abusive relationship, and her lyrics address such experiences with an acuity that makes you wince. Give Out is quietly devastating: Van Etten's guitar is angry and viscose, her vocal resilient but scarred. With backing vocalist Heather Woods Broderick she trades howls and wails that communicate fragility as much as boldness. The most difficult song is the most exposed: Van Etten alone on stage, singing a work-in-progress with the chorus line: "Stab my eyes so I can't see that you like it when I let you walk over me." She isn't wallowing: she's testifying – and that simple honesty feels immense.

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