It’s been a decade since I first heard Ruth Theodore.  I remember a tiny girl playing in a tiny bar in Kentish Town to a tiny crowd.  Nonetheless, she made a big impression.  It was rare, at that time, to find a female singer-songwriter who wasn’t all insipid waif and whimsy (thanks, Dido) and Ruth Theodore, although blessed with a beautiful voice, backed it up with amazingly accomplished guitar skills, songs of substance and huge onstage cojones.  It felt like I’d stumbled upon Britain’s answer to Ani DiFranco, because, basically, I had.  She’s been a mainstay of the London circuit ever since and, living on a narrowboat deep in the East End, she’s a genuine troubadour of the capital.  I’m very heartened to discover that with her fourth album, Theodore has matured but lost none of her youthful bite.  Listeners ought to beware, Cactacus is a record with spikes.