Ingrid Michaelson collapsed all sense of expected genteel ladylike-ness on stage, throwing the audience with clandestine, backroom chatter in between songs that shot out in spastic spurts throughout her soft, honest set. Her voice is immutable, it speaks an old love song against a solo ukulele – the kind of ballad we don’t hear anymore, the kind our grandparents sing themselves to sleep with.

She really is timeless, talking love, inciting peace. Some Republicans might even call her socialist: “Don’t you worry there, my honey. We might not have any money, but we’ve got our love to pay the bills … Let’s get rich and buy everybody nice sweaters and teach them how to dance.”

In between songs, she was honest and paid no mind to whatever social tact we might be used to: “My girlfriends always tell me I shouldn’t talk about bowel movements onstage because it makes me seem less sexy. But I don’t really care.”

She didn’t care what she said or what we thought, and that’s really her message: Whipping up a carefree provocation to the rigid rest, to get loose and say what you feel.