THE power of the human voice to arouse the deepest emotions is a quality often overlooked in an age defined by the 20-second YouTube clip, or the Tweet.

Equally disregarded is the celebration of real talent, with headlines devoted instead to the personal lives of a million fame-hungry wannabes.

Welcome back, then, Beth Orton, a singer who vaulted into pop’s premier league with 1996’s Trailer Park, a fragile record of heartbroken songs sung in a cracked, delicate voice that filled the O2 Academy on Saturday with surprising power.

But it is the title track of her 1999 offering, Central Reservation, ushered into the set as an encore, almost as afterthought, that steals the show.

Few performances can be regarded as truly memorable, but once in a while, one is lucky enough to share something truly transcendent.

Voice cracking, eyes closed, pin sharp in the wash of the spotlight, it’s a miracle Orton finishes the song without breaking into tears.

Instead, she contents herself with a half-smile and quips, “That was quite nice.”

To the several hundred silent, seated listeners this is understatement personified, and one left feeling it was a performance that had surprised even the performer.

Peering from beneath a fringe, wearing a simple white blouse beneath a black cardigan, an acoustic guitar resting on her pregnancy bump, Orton’s physical presence is as beguiling as her vocal range.

By turns little girl lost, exultant mother, exasperated lover, her vocal ability is sufficient to make authentic the range of her subject mater.

There are shades to Orton’s voice, by turns the girl from Norfolk, heir to Vashti Bunyan, and on new song, Candles, the suggestion of an American accent.

But it is all recognisably Orton, a female singer first feted in a musical era dominated by laddish guitar bands.

With the scene’s current love for Amy, Adele, Duffy et al, perhaps Orton’s return will remind us all of the pleasure of unmediated talent.