For all that the Wainwright family history is littered with fairly well-publicised spats, when two of them get together and sing they can't half harmonise.
The version of Love Hurts that Loudon Wainwright sang with his daughter Lucy, who opened the concert with her agreeable, innocent songs and friendly presentation, was up there with that other troubled tribe, the Everlys, two voices finding the mutual sweet spot.
Four generations of Wainwrights figured here. Mum and dad Wainwright were respectively recalled through the wry White Winos and several Life magazine columns delivered as monologues that showed where Loudon got his talent for succinctness and description.
Then the offspring and their offspring – "who'd've thought it?" asked father of son Rufus's entrée into parenting – were variously sung about, remarked upon, and re-introduced.
But while the attention was generously shone on others, including fellow American Peter Blegvad for the cover of his superbly wrought Daughter, the real focus here was on Loudon's continuing mastery as a wordsmith. Songs old and so new he still hadn't quite memorised them hit nails on heads with roughly equal doses of excoriating wit and warm humanity.
Observations on the challenges of ageing, the responsibilities of dog ownership in cities, and homelessness, taken from the point of view of a beggar feeling sorry for a commuter facing boring routine, mortgage payments and family pressures, produced poetry set to folk-blues music.
Best of all, although not every American would agree, was I'll Be Killing You This Christmas, three or four minutes of perfect, ironic angst that shone a brilliant white light on the madness of a guns-for-all policy.
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