In this job, there's always a danger, whenever you set about the task of reviewing an artist whose work you hold in particularly high regard, that what you'll ultimately end up writing will emerge less as journalism, more as hagiographic homage. Any writer can, at some stage, find themselves guilty of this: at the time, it can often seem like the only honest evaluation available, and you don't always realise until after you've published it that that's wot you've gorn an' dun. By which time, it's too late- especially in cold print.

In the case of Albert Lee, who arguably plays guitar better than any living British rock n roller bar his old friends Richard Thompson, Andy Fairweather-Low and Peter Frampton, it's especially hard: his performance, delivery and skill are of such indisputably high calibre, one is often given to wonder precisely what by the way of so-called 'criticism' the bloke even requires. How precisely do you go about evaluating the work of someone who is to all intents and purposes flawless, and what can you say about a guitarist that's played with everyone from the Crickets and the Everlys to Rodney Crowell and Emmylou Harris, who comprised an integral part [alongside Chas Hodges and Tony Colton] of the UK's greatest ever country rock outfit Heads, Hands & Feet, and who is so highly regarded in his field that even Clapton used to employ him to play the bits he couldn't? Let's face it, kids – after six solid decades of recording, touring and performing, the bloke is so beyond reproach as to render any comment I might make practically irrelevant…

In which case, the best I can do is take the above as read- and happily confirm that, as anyone not present might have hitherto suspected, the ever-dependable Mr Lee did play the proverbial blinder. Admittedly, I was a leetle worried how things might go down this time, given that he and his spiffing beat combo [that's Davey Chamberlain on bass, Johnny Greathouse on keys and Herm Matthews on drums] had specifically requested a stand-up show: being cognisant of the age of much of his audience, and having recently seen him twice in seated form in both Birmingham and Bilston, I did briefly harbour visions of knackered hips and tumbling walking sticks, but strangely, the great man seems to have attracted, by and large, a younger crowd tonight, hovering somewhere roughly between my own age [50] and 65, and the way the band feed off their evident energy is palpable. In other words, it worked.

Plus, while a seated Flowerpot might work well for an artist of slightly lesser popularity [Ian McNabb, Steve Forbert, John Otway] for the likes of Lee, the reduced capacity would have sold it out within an hour: and while that's great for the lucky few able to jump online and grab them first, it would have been decidedly ungroovy for everyone else. No, far better that as many Derbarians as possible get to witness the bloke in the flesh: and the fact that he's also sold out the STANDING capacity by the time doors open at 7pm proves he was right all along.

Besides, timeless tunes as ebullient, bouncy and joy-making as the aforementioned Everlys' Price Of Love, Gram Parsons' Luxury Liner, Ray Charles' Leave My Woman Alone and Buddy Holly's Rock Around With Ollie Vee deserve to be swayed, shaken and shimmied to, not sat through – especially when played by a band as tight, enthusiastic and effortlessly propulsive as this. And with Lee, even the slower numbers, such as his ventures into the fascinating world of said Mr Crowell, swing like motherfuckers: in his vision of musical history, where Reinhardt, Eddie Lang and Davey Graham are just as important as Tampa Red, Rosetta Tharpe, Scotty Moore, James Burton, Hank Williams and Boxcar Willie, rhythm and melody combine seamlessly into one, and interpretation is just as paramount as original composition, and if you don't already realise that now, you will do by the time you get home.

In many ways, his is a strange, parallel world, where Zeppelin, Sabbath, Floyd and even Hendrix never existed yet the players who influenced them remain writ large: where the melancholy of Jimmy Webb [The Highwayman] slots in nicely with the ribald English folk-rock twang of Thommo [Tear Stained Letter] , where distortion pedals are verboten, and where Hammond organs are there to evoke moods rather than show off their owners' chops. And at 80, with his voice huskier than ever, his frame increasingly craggy and his mage-like Romani features now flanked by an unruly mop of silver hair not unlike that sported by the Dogme-era Lauren Bacall, the Blackheath boy makes a most unlikely star. But a star he is, and a worthy one at that: quite possibly the most talented musician [John Etheridge and that aforesaid Fairweather-Low chappie notwithstanding] to ever set foot in this building, he is truly one of a kind, and the sheer love the audience display is one he repays threefold. Apparently, he's retiring next year, with this year's ever-extending run of dates representing his final farewell: as with everyone else currently blowing that trumpet as an incentive to accelerated ticket sales [Quo, Purple, Al Stewart, Jeff Lynne etc] I'll believe it when I see it, but if it does turn out to be true, you can't say he hasn't earned it.

Primarily renowned for interpreting others' compositions he may be, but it's his self-penned HH&F anthem Country Boy that inevitably brings the house down most: sadly, as he explains, he's the only member of that band still with us, but if anything, that only serves to heighten its impact. And if as has oft been lamented, that peerless Cockney combo never did quite receive its rightful recognition, it's reassuring to know that in his own right, Albert Lee consistently does: as he bows out with a graceful piano diversion via Glen Campbell & Paul Westerberg's A Better Place [an especially poignant piece for yours truly, who was present at Campbell's final British concerts in 2011] followed by a tireless thrash through Johnny Burnette's Tear It Up, it occurs to me that never before did the titles of two consecutive songs more aptly describe their execution. Not least of all because right here, right now, there is no better place to be in the Midlands than this, watching a master craftsman do what he does better than anybody else.

Will he be back? He'd better be, as I seem to have unwittingly convinced the geezer [simply by dint of an off the cuff remark made when having my photo taken with him] to have a crack at doing Delaware for the first time in five decades. Until then, watch this space- if, that is, you can stop yourself from boogieing and playing air guitar for long enough. Lee-ve it aaaht, I'm orff for an orange staaaht.