Sometimes you have to hunt for your heroes. They are a rare breed, these days; near extinction and scattered around the world. By contrast, there are many young bands I enjoy...but never, in my wildest dreams, could I regard them as 'heroes'. To whom is Pete Doherty a 'hero?'. Indeed, hideous is the thought that, out there, some young bod is dropping a burger wrapper on some high street while heaping lashings of hero worship on the irksome Liam Gallagher. (Even if, as advance reports suggest, the new album is something of a return to form).

No, I am talking about the genuine rock God! You don't see many of those about, do you? Well, I found one last week, but not in Padgate. In fact, I had to travel to the other side of Leicester to catch him in performance. (To the De Montford Hall, as it happens. One of the classic rock venues that, during the 70s, had housed just about everyone ... from Status Quo to Dr Feelgood, Joy Division to David Bowie. Having never previously visited the venue, I had assumed it to sit squarely in the centre of the city, no doubt languishing amid a swirl of litter and ticket touts.

No such thing. A stunning beautiful hall seemingly set within the university campus of dreams ... where students ambled amid the leaves, reciting poetry to dusky maidens while, in the background, rugby practice was getting underway. This idyllic 19th century scene was framed by a ring of architectural beauty. I mention this simply because it did seem to contrast rather sharply with the scene that greets you upon arrival to Manchester's Apollo ... where menacing car park attendants usher you into the rubble strewn post-apocalyptic nightmare they call a car park. Of course, you can opt to park on the roadside, where some spotty oik will scrape a coin across your bonnet should you refuse to provide him with the contents of your pockets to aid his Adidas trainer fund. No so in Leicester. We drifted serenely into the hall and glanced at the assembled hoards. These people, we mused, were the radicals of the late 60s ... and perhaps even the glam-pop folk of the early 70s and the punks of '76. And here they assembled, sipping Merlot and talking about BMWs.

Soon enough the lights dimmed and a voice filled the arena. This was the third time I had seen the man ... namely Lou Reed, in performance. On the first occasion, at Manchester's Free Trade Hall in 1974, the glammed-up Reed arrived as part of the Sally Can't Dance tour and his memorable set and notable belligerence instigated a stage front riot which, I like to think, helped usher a spirit of embryonic punk into the city. Although, in reality, it was just a few inebriated morons who kept demanding Walk On the Wild Side. The curious thing about it is that the very same nutters, albeit now of advanced years, appeared to be in the crowd at De Montford, last week. 31 years later, they appeared to be still waiting for a rendition of said ditty from the man. Needless to say, these shouts only served to rile Mr Reed and one felt sure that the set would flow past and include absolutely no hint of his glorious musical legacy. This, after all, was fully in the spirit of Velvet Underground, the constant shifting of material and time ... the endless search for a new area. It was little short of a miracle that one and a half hours flashed by and, with a few notable exceptions - Halloween Parade from his New York album among them - Reed and his astonishing band, complete with cello and jazz based drum patterns, provided completely new material. Much to our collective relief, this proved to be from the accessible end of his craft. What's more ... it was the voice. As soon as that glorious voice, which seems to have the spirit of Brooklyn's crumbling streets embedded within it, hurtled from the amps, we were held spellbound. I retreated to my 14-year old state ... totally adrift in blind adoration. I haven't felt this way since I saw Alvin Stardust buying a scone at Sandbach Services.

Speaking of heavenly voices. I was delighted to note, last week the comments of Nancy Sinatra. When asked who she was currently listening to, she replied: "I love the indie band, Starsailor. Their singer, James Walsh, has the greatest rock voice since Freddie Mercury..."

Who would have thought that Nancy could be blessed with such divine taste? Perhaps it's because they are Warringtonian, I don't know, but Starsailor have a greatness within them that, despite their success, has yet to be fully celebrated. On the subject of James Walsh, she is absolutely correct. Starsailor are empowered with that weapon ... and much more besides.