The show is a series of vignettes, rather than a cohesive narrative, drawing on Crombie’s life. These are interspersed with her songs, which range in style from gospel, country and blues.

She performs on guitar while Amaru Derwent accompanies on keyboard.

The simple set comprises just a couch, which creates a sense that the warm-hearted Crombie is yarning with you in her lounge room.

At times, she breaks the fourth wall, checking in with the audience after she has narrated a tale of sexual assault. “Who needs a hug?” she asks. And embraces a woman who raises her hand.

There are tales of pain and loss - of her best friend since childhood, her brother and, a few months ago, of her beloved Nan. That pain is so recent Crombie pauses to collect herself.

There are happier, comic memories of travelling through outback Australia with her Nan, mother and boys.

It’s her boys who are most on her mind. How to raise them to be proud of their culture. She is scared, she admits. Scared of what can happen to young indigenous men, even in broad daylight.

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And there’s blazing anger too. This reaches a crescendo as she relates how her young sons were detained by police. She segues into a searing song about indigenous youths who have died in police custody.

The show, directed by Kirk Page, is raw and ends abruptly, but the songs are delivered with passion in a voice that ranges from melancholy to fury.

This Sydney Festival production seems in dialogue with Thomas Weatherall’s Blue, which has just opened upstairs at Belvoir, and deals with a young indigenous man’s struggle with loss and grief.

As we consider an indigenous Voice to parliament, Crombie has raised hers to sing of a struggle to survive and thrive – so history does not simply repeat.

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