It doesn’t matter, for example, if you are supposed to be reviewing Manchester Kicks and yet can see sod all because the tiny, sweaty venue is so rammed with punters. It doesn’t matter that Guy and Mark from Elbow turn up after I Am Kloot (who sound like a stoned Crowded House) and do a hitherto unannounced set. It doesn’t matter that this is Nine Black Alps’ first ever acoustic performance, and they declare it a "disaster", or that Mark Riley speaks of being so close to his former colleague that "short of having sex with him", they knew each other as well as is humanly possible. And sure, Damon ends his set with Silent Sigh, but there are bigger things going on this evening. It doesn’t even matter that Mike Joyce - with the quip of "It’s not Morrissey, it’s me" - is the one to introduce him. In fact, the only thing that does matter tonight is that the spirit of the man that this is all for, and in turn, the spirit of the music that he stood for, is alive in the heart and soul of every single person in the building. Keeping it Peel? Too right. | 
