Every man has his master plan, but only some ever put it into effect; few finalise scattered details, collecting concepts to produce a tangible end result. El-P is one of those few, and tonight London turns out to party with a host with substantially more than the most.

Hip-hop entrepreneur extraordinaire, the polite man born Jaime Meline 32 years ago, or so, is a whirlwind of blurred limbs and ballistic beats; his band – a bassist, keyboard player, back-up rhyme-slinger and turntable whiz Mr Dibbs – craft a succession of holler-back-atcha compositions that demand to be met with hands-aloft appreciation; all I say hip, you say hop call-and-response-isms. It’s a party, pal: welcome to it.

Few are loitering in the shadows, afraid some burly attendee will spill their brew; many congregate front and centrally, backpacks an obstacle worth overcoming for a meeting with the man’s gaze. I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead, album two five years in the sort-of-making (it actually took two, but there’s a half-decade gap ‘tween solo records), is mercilessly plundered for setlist ballast – ‘Tasmanian Pain Coaster’ opens both album and show, while ‘Drive’, (“I’m not depressed man, I’m just a fucking New Yorker”) and ‘EMG’ get even the most rigidly angled squares sipping plastic-cupped lager busting at least half a move.

Shorn of attention-stealing guest stars, the aforementioned curtain-upper and recent single ‘Flyentology’ are allowed room to find their feet without being forcefully shoehorned into an audience’s ears courtesy of their four-bar fly-by scene-stealers. An exploration into the mind of a man capable of managing a successful business – Definitive Jux, thanks for asking – but unable to fully comprehend the physics of air travel, the aforementioned short-play standalone is an obvious highlight; cheeks camouflaged and with backers in fatigues, El-P masterfully directs those before and about face like a drill sergeant with a breaks addiction. He’s the only man in the building that eyes are able to focus on, projected flames licking at his shoulder blades and clouds of smoke drifting across the conquered many.

All of whom are bettered, against the odds, by the few. The exceptional go public only so often, so don’t skip El-P’s class the next time he swings by your town.