There’s something about the Camden area of London that has defiantly resisted gentrification and the seemingly inevitable advance of big corporate names. You’ll see the odd famous name coffee shop, but generally, the corporate giants feel like temporary intruders just passing through. The short walk from Camden station, over the canal and up to Chalk Farm for this evening’s entertainment feels bohemian and otherworldly. The area is home to the outsider and those rooted in the arts, with a hint of danger, amongst other things, hanging in the early evening air as you walk past the various chancers, reprobates and not one, but two charity organisations trying to make a difference by offering hot meals from temporary street stalls. For an artist such as Tara MacLean, who had an unconventional (to put it mildly) upbringing in the wilds of Canada fraught with danger and uncertainty - that would most certainly be considered outside the norm - it seems strangely fitting that she should find herself telling stories and singing songs in the Camden Club, an intimate venue with a blink you will miss it, black entrance staircase leading to a large door, complete with a ridiculously oversized door handle, that looks like it should have its own portcullis and a moat.