I left the Phoenix Theatre last night with the premonitions of an emotional hangover brought on, in part, by St. Vincent’s soaring, soul-ravaging, quasi-feminist art rock. It was a good time to see Annie Clark, though: in the throes of the post-release high of her seemingly unanimously acclaimed record, one that’s pushed this nouveau guitar god into a wider spotlight.

I got put on to Clark late via her third record, Strange Mercy, released September. Listen to a few older songs on YouTube and it’s easy to see why this album feels, and is critically considered, most accessible; the songs are more structurally straightforward, hummably pop, and quotably poetic. Take the hook on floaty, retro-pop “Surgeon” for example: “Best finest surgeon, come cut me open.” It’s a line borrowed from Marilyn Monroe’s diary. Clark’s long been a magpie, scavenging public vulnerabilities and moments of cultural resonance – from Arrested Development to Disney films – to line her own style of off-kilter, open-book storytelling. The guitar, which Clark clings to like a shield on stage, is always up front, always competing for the spotlight with her quavering, classically beautiful singing voice (that her voice matches her physical appearance goes unnoticed by no one, for better and for worse). It imbues her music with that hard/soft, clean/dirty dichotomy that would feel like a crutch on someone less talented.

Clark, once part of Sufjan Stevens’ touring band, has a distractingly bouncy crop of curls and wore a roomy ivory knit and black leggings – house clothes, but nicer. She opened with the previously cited “Surgeon,” then moved into one of my favourite songs from Strange Mercy, “Cheerleader” (The song opens with this gut-wrenchingly real bit: “I’ve had good time with some bad guys, I’ve told whole lies with a half smile.”) What threw the night off, for me, was the way so much of Strange Mercy’s material got stacked upfront rather than spread it out through the 90-some-minute-long set. Here is another weird observation from my notes: “Mad dudes are getting off on this shit.” Indeed, there were many men around me – lots of girls too, though! – staring open-mouthed at the stage, besotted by the guitar-wielding beauty.

It was a good show; probably great if you’ve been a fan of St. Vincent since 2007’s Marry Me. Like, there was this one journalist/former music critic who bumped into me on his way out for a smoke and turned to the stage saying, as if she could hear him, “Don’t do anything awesome!” I think that cigarette might’ve fucked it up for him though, because shortly after, Clark gave the night’s best moment: she turned around and fell back onto a bed of upheld arms, soloing all the while.

Anupa Mistry writes regularly about music for Toronto Standard. Follow her on Twitter at @_anupa.