Dean Blunt @ Blade Factory, Liverpool, 30 November

For all the talk of ex-Hype Williams man Dean Blunt's fickle stage manner – there's a palpable air of trepidation in tonight's cold, minimally lit Blade Factory, as attendees who've travelled far and wide whisper among themselves as to whether he'll sing, just sit there or even show up – his performance tonight is an exercise in understatement; solemnity, even.

Minute after long minute, he stands invisible during the thick slaps of rain that open Walls of Jericho; looped and extended, the waters continue to pour, and an increasingly concerned crowd begin to murmur, uncomfortable in their own silence. When Blunt, in black cowboy hat and sombre poise, eventually steps into the half-light and sings The Pedigree – his part-talked vocals dusty and dry as sawdust, blotting up those seasick strings – a wave of relief, gratitude even, ripples to the back of the room. We realise, alarmed, just how quickly he'd assumed the power to possess.

It soon becomes clear that testing our resilience is an intentional element of his deceptively unassuming performance style; halfway through, and at odds with the lamenting brass, muffled traffic and askance vox of most of The Redeemer, a flashbulb goes off with a startling crack; it proceeds to blast a slow, single, nauseating strobe for an indeterminate length of time that seems to leak and bend. The effect rapidly overwhelms, and while some close their eyes, luxuriating in or withstanding it, others stagger to leave, feeling along the flattening, brightening walls to seek the exit. By the time we've found our legs and returned, Blunt has abandoned the space, leaving co-vocalist Joanne Robertson to carefully piece together a simple, sincere lullaby.

Later, amid the shrieks and streaked pavements of an indifferent Saturday night, it feels a stretch to remember the events of just an hour before; were we there? Were you there? It seems unlikely; Blunt a visitation, the night itself an apparition. [Lauren Strain]