I’m going to hazard a (totally unsubstantiated) guess here and say that Florence and the Machine’s debut album  Lungs is named so because of Florence’s massive set of lungs – that woman sure can belt out a tune. Delicate but primal, vociferous but eloquent, Florence and her band of merry man and women (The Machine to Florence’s fey Kate Bush-scapades) played a beguiling set of almost-instant favourites. I think half of the English-speaking community of Zurich was there for Florence – all around me I heard English, Irish, and American accents, with only a smattering of German.

Last time I saw Florence at the Mascotte last year, she was an Amazon in skyscraper heels and a batwinged leotard, but tonight she was barefoot and freeflowing, a more relaxed, confident performer, assured and graceful as she banged away stridently on her drum. Modest and sweet, Florence seemed genuinely overwhelmed by the love that was pouring forth for her that night (although I’m sure Zurich is not alone in its passion for her, the woman and her machine are playing almost every festival, on every continent, it seems).

Given the current ubiquity of almost all the songs on Lungs (the BBC in particular loves to use their tracks to soundtrack their ads and moments of sporting glory), Florence et al’s reportoire still sounded fresh and exciting, with the usually staid Zurich crowd up on their feet and jumping. Tom Monger, the Robert Smith-lookalike playing the harp was wonderful, his fragile notes and unassuming gaze capturing the crowd’s attention every time he leaned the massive harp back against his shoulder to play.

It was snowing gently when we came out of the building, tiny soft flakes drifting down through the neon lights, a quietness settling over the streets. Ears ringing, it was the perfect come-down from an energetic, vibrant evening.