How do you possibly begin a review of this magnitude? Prince would probably know, wouldn't he? It's two o'clock in the morning and I've hammered out countless opening paragraphs, gazed longingly at them, before hastily discarding them in disgust.

It's not often that I'd choose to revert to cliché, but it feels justified, certainly in this instance. Sometimes, without even needing to breath a single word to express it, you get swamped by a moment, overwhelmed, intoxicated, and simply want to celebrate music, the unadulterated fucking brilliance of it. I suppose it is forgivable for me to become a little disillusioned, oblivious to what artists can represent to listeners, but tonight's events leave me, and the rest of Camden, beaming, salivating, swooning. Essentially, alive.

Thankfully, tonight feels like a 'guerilla gig' in every sense of the phrase, from the ramshackle announcement (I'm still pondering as to how La Havas landed that one) to the startling scrum of dedicated followers that snaked the length of Camden, and still remained once I headed for home.

There is no trace of shabbiness, however, as the man himself, flanked by his new 3RDEYEGIRL backing band, struts into view, silhouetted, almost mythically, guitar slung over the shoulder, against a woozy backdrop of strobes and dry ice. Swathed in a sleeveless jacket and nursing an unkempt, Hendrix-homage afro, he's arrived armed with fistfuls of muscular, dizzying riffs to wrap around our eardrums. If he soaks up feverish endorsement by simply glancing in our direction, 'Let's Go Crazy' launches the Electric Ballroom into ecstasy, Prince exchanging meandering licks of guitar with his band with sumptuous relish. A wry smirk flickers across his lips from time to time, notably throughout 'I Could Never Take The Place Of Your Man's passionate singalong, as if soaking up every solitary handclap or fanatical roar of his name, and trust me; the racket is utterly relentless.

It was never going to revolve around what the setlist comprised of though, was it? Contrary to naysayers lurking in the shadows, Prince appears rejuvenated, brimming with trademark catcalls and venomous snarls, the delectable scraps of fresh material echoing with riotous promise. He appears focused on rejecting the notion that generation spanning artists lack the element of surprise or lip smacking appeal in 2014, and his unpredictability, inevitably, ensures that we witness him emerging hugely triumphant within the sticky throes of the Electric Ballroom. Amongst an arsenal of fifteen minute guitar solos and slinking improvisations, there's a distinct sense that Prince would fit far more comfortably alongside the flame cannons and withered rock horns of Sonisphere than his mooted headline slot at Glastonbury. Ridiculous as it sounds, it's Prince and, after tonight, I'm willing to believe that he can make anything work.

Despite being forced to feel like I'm thrusting a loaded gun in the man's direction when a photo opportunity arises (beefy security guards clutch hungrily at my wrist on multiple occasions), I feel gleefully privileged to have featured on this pilgrimage, to exchange goofy grins with disciples, some that appear giddily dumbfounded, while others eye up proceedings suspiciously, disbelieving. A handful even sport beads of shimmering teardrops, smeared across cheeks and sodden chins.

It is undoubtedly true; when churning out numerous reviews of every gig you attend, it's rather easy to lose sight of the sheer, indescribable power each one can have, the abrupt outpour of emotion that it stirs amongst even the stoniest faced onlooker, the comfort it can bring to the downbeat, the unrelenting adventure for the escapee, even the warmth it can send oozing soothingly through the outcast. Oh, and a hurtling juggernaut of a guitar solo, or three, don't go amiss either. Cheers for reminding me, Prince.