I walked in with some dirty prejudgments on the crowd. I was proved right, to an extent, but it’s Manchester so it’s bound to – almost guaranteed – to be 50% student population. Winner. I wasn’t sure how popular the Saïan Supa Crew were gonna be because I thought I was pretty special having heard about them. Apparently they stormed a smaller stage a couple of yards yonder 3 years yester, so I guess I’m not as special as mummy tells me.

My mood was already grim but I figured I’d already paid the cash so I might as well hang around. 2 hours wasn’t gonna get rid of the fever. Sweating it off with a couple of curative whiskies seemed a good option. I needed something to relieve me tonight of my unwitting viral captor. I was waiting in dubious expectation for this one-man human beatbox who’s meant to sound like an amalgamate of playoff DJs. I didn’t believe it could be.

Five fervent Frenchmen frequented this fine stage with flair and funk unseen in this fucking country. See? I can’t match their rhymes for love nor money. It is well understood that the basis of hiphop music is the rhyme. The backing music is simply that: backing. It is unimportant in the eventuality of analysis. It is the rhymes of the band of heroes garnishing our minds that incarcerate your heart and make you feel like dancing. It is what matters.

Constantly addressing the crowd as if, perish the thought, it was they that were to be entertained tonight, the Saïan Supa Crew peered over the heads with euphoric love and anxious expectance in equal measure. I hadn’t experienced such a showing of pure interaction before. While I am used to being able to watch a band from half way back, it was like a tractor beam tonight as I was lured frontward by jubilant foreigners rapping and singing with endearing attitudes free of all animosity. Strangers though they seemed to be, saying no was not an option.

My highlight came. Winner. It was fifteen minutes of some of the greatest showmanship I had ever witnessed as one man ground, scratched, twiddled invisible knobs, switched imaginary radio stations, mixed and twisted his words and other voices in style, with copious fashion. To be stood any further away than I would inevitably lead to confusion as to the wonder of where on earth all this noise was coming from, in the absence of any turntables onstage. It wasn’t about looking like you’re a gangsta. It wasn’t about pumping your pecs and snarling into the mic. The ultimately endearing modesty and humility of the entire Crew served only to spread the love, so to speak. True magnificence. Believe.

You missed out. Learn from your mistake. It’s for your own good.