Grandmaster Flash, Elektrowerkz, London

Master of the wheels of steel

Like many musical pioneers, Joseph Saddler has had his share of setbacks. Born in Barbados, he spent the early Seventies in the Bronx, earning his sobriquet by developing the twin-turntable technique that provided the foundation for hip hop's future. But Flash was beaten to his recording debut by the Sugarhill Gang's "Rapper's Delight". Although he soon found fame on the same label (Sugarhill records), the relationship was short-lived, Flash leaving his Furious Five behind in an acrimonious dispute over royalties.

When the Clash chose him as a support act in New York in 1981, he was showered with paper cups, the sort of opprobrium the punk band had experienced a few years before.

Respect, as they say, is long overdue, and it is gratifying that a rare London appearance sees Flash hailed as a living legend. The acknowledgement spans generations – a fair portion of the warmly enthusiastic audience packed into a north-London warehouse weren't even born when Flash released his Adventures on the Wheels of Steel masterpiece.

At first, it seems he's happy to rest on his reputation. An elaborate introduction, slowly rolling up his sleeves, carefully pulling up discs from the vinyl arranged about him, is followed by a 10-minute, largely indecipherable thank-you speech. Another delay follows when he changes his slip-mats, the turntable technician's equivalent of repairing a guitar string.

He seems to have broken the cardinal rule of DJing, stopping the music completely. But when he eventually lets loose, the wait is justified. Flash examines, fondles, kisses and cuddles discs throughout the two-hour display of audacious scratch mixing and breakbeating that follows. By exerting control and redirecting rhythms on records by the obscure (the Incredible Bongo band) and the unfashionable (Queen), Flash teases and challenges the dancers. Eventually, even dancing is futile – jaws drop and the crowd bursts into applause as he works his magic.

"He's 43 years old!" exclaims one young admirer, bowled over by his energy. Another plants a kiss on one of the many monitors. Midway through the set, Flash recalls how he and his associates began as "three crazy black guys out to change the world... and we did it." The history lesson that ensues shows how: he plays an unnamed disc of early Seventies Afro-funk, and his fingers massage the deck until he finds the G-spot, and the recording's pleasure centre explodes. He does extraordinary things to Jimmy Nolan's guitar licks on a James Brown disc, makes the music talk in tongues, performs sound surgery that constantly uplifts and mesmerises.

"This is history," he tells us. "History, right here, right now." When Flash is in full flight, it's easy to believe his hype.