Ghostpoet/Alt-J @ Koko, London

The first act was Alt-J. Now, I'm going to have to mute my ire here, much like I wish (I still wish it) that they had muted their entire set. It's not merely that they sounded like a diabolical mish mash, it's that they sounded like a diabolical mish-mash that not even a deaf incontinent employed by the devil would piss on.

The singer sounded like Daniel Bedingfield inside a really dense sponge cake that had been infiltrated by a still-broadcasting defective aircrash control transmitter; he had a kind of simpering, reedy voice which sounded like it was very sinisterly trying to both apologise to you and sexually proposition you, while trying to pronounce Welsh villages. I don't know whether any of you have experienced the Blaenau Ffestiniog contrite titwank bandit at his full transgender, lusty potency... but I have.

Anyway, his 'singing' occurred occasionally over some rather disjointed comatose reggae dub rhythms, which could have continued idly, like smooth polyfilla but which were often interrupted by doom dirges on the keyboard for 5 seconds, at which time the keyboardist would break into an interlude of such fine quality as 'TRA LA LA LAAAA' that it can be justly described as a timid bridesmaid trying to impersonate Bohemian-Rhapsody.

This was done in utter disharmony with the aformentioned aircrash casualty ghost of Bedingfield and was so alarmingly jarring, I could only view its incongruous inclusion with the kind of dumbstruck absurdism one might have for, say, a full stop occuring at the start of a sentence. Megalomaniacally multi, would perhaps be a fitting couplet to summarise their music; it chucked so many elements together in its mission to seem different, I felt like a blender had been set off in my bloodstream.

Musicians? Resist Alt-J as a support at all costs, for fear of your fans alt-just fucking off before you come and play your own, probably better, music.

Now to the real star of the show, Obaro Ejimiwe aka Ghostpoet. Mercury Prize robbed, he appeared on stage along with a string and brass section as well as lead guitarist and drummer Ejimiwe providing the vocal and electronic element to his sound.

I had a reservation about seeing Ghostpoet performing live; I am never sure how solo artists who use speech as their primary instrument and electronic devices as their second are going to fare. I harboured a doomed hunch that I would be decidedly crestfallen due to a stiff, minimal performance, the artist introspectively disconnected from the audience.

This stiff, minimal performance over which I had fretted slightly, I resoundingly did NOT receive. Ejimiwe's steady psycho-physical concoction of the earnest intensity he demonstrates in his album manifests itself via a perfect, fluidly organic duality of contemplative minimalism which segued into a majestically bounteous pallette of lusher, more multifarious sounds.

His performance was life-affirming, I guess, for anyone who has tunnelled through shit to get to a brighter light. When you listen to his sounds, he incorporates a jazz-like understanding of how to employ the malleability of his voice; he can clip it, elongate it, hum it, shout it and syncopate it so it teasingly moves smoothly over an echoed beat, only to retreat back into the instrumental ether.

Some guest performances punctuated the show; Lianne La Halvas sang in perfect compliment to Edimiwe during 'Survive It', while Tawiah, who arrived onstage for 'Us Against Whatever', attacked the stage with the ferocity of a child who had consumed twenty track-suited gallons of hip-hop sugar. Meanwhile, Edimiwe simply continued to artfully communicate his thoughts, and while clearly happy to have her with him, charmingly shone through her garish upstaging attempt as an conspicuously talent-superior entity.

The last encore song involved Ghostpoet's final female vocal partnering; Katy B. She was, and to my mind simply is, unnecessary. To discredit her unequivocally is a disservice as the premier verse of her performance on 'Cash and Carry Me Home' was dulled due to, presumably, a technical error with the audio equipment. However, all she seemed to do was look self-righteous and make a sort of rave-hungry totemistic finger point into what she seemed to think was an engaging portion of vacant air. She was the proverbial spare bellend in the corner, and, darling, FYI, you're not the white female Dizzee either. Ghostpoet did not need her.

As the lights dimmed, towards the closure of his biggest London show, I forgave Ghostpoet for his final oversight. The guy oozes a unique yearning to create and communicate in audio form; he makes the act of making music seem so goddamn necessary. He makes it seem like one's duty. He truly is a force against 'whatever'.