TWENTY four hours earlier, Gregory Porter was filling the Royal Albert Hall. Would Tuesday in York have a Boxing Day feel with all his toys played with on the floor? We were quickly reassured. “A concert is not the building, it’s the people,” he said.

The stage was bare. No tour bus nor convoy of trucks outside. Only the Barbican’s bulbs in use. The band set up as if to play an intimate club.

A beaming gentle giant appeared in a pick'n'mix of tailormade livery. From the first note the sound was phenomenal; a credit to York sound engineers JSS.

The auditorium was a mixture of Radio 2 and hardcore jazzers. Both would be catered for. The venue clapped together to Liquid Spirit and hearts melted to Hey Laura. Porter’s generosity to his band allowed each to shine as he stepped into the shadows.

When stripped down to just him and piano, Porter’s voice connected with every hair in the room. Wolfcry made us realise we all had the golden ticket.

Porter played 1,500 gigs tonight, each to one person. It felt that personal. Few singers would dare sing a cappella in the Barbican, but Porter has it all: the soul of Bill Withers, the smooth class of Nat King Cole and the energy of Sammy Davis Jr, but his finest talent is him and his genuine warmth. Afterwards he met fans in the bar.

It felt like we had drowned in the richest, darkest chocolate; with a performance as amazing as this, who cares why he wears that hat!