All I Do is my favourite Stevie Wonder song. It is two things at once, a succinct distillation of that duality of a crush: misery and euphoria, swirling for ever. The line “All I do is think about you” could be a declaration of love or a dire lament, a request to be freed from this overwhelming, life-crowding feeling. Tammi Terrell’s version is my fave; her sweet, bell-like voice exhausted but hopeful. “You made my soul a burning fire” sounds wretched, sure; but it also sounds like love, doesn’t it?

The other week, I was bellowing it out with a friend in Carnegie Hall at a singalong concert made up of Stevie’s almost flawless back catalogue. It was basically karaoke with the stars. As we cycled through the songs, I kept thinking about Stevie, probably the most influential songwriter of my life, and one of the best people to have arranged the language in its most pleasing manner and put it to song. I mean, I always knew this, but something about reading the words on a screen, and keeping time with a band and singers, drove it home on a freezing winter night.

The man has hits. And they’re by turns funny, hectoring, sexual and sweet. I remember realising, as a teen, that he co-wrote Tell Me Something Good by Rufus & Chaka Khan (sample lyric: “I’ll make you wish there was 48 hours to each day/The problem is you ain’t been loved like you should”) and blushing. But the music, too, is singularly good. At one point, a trio of string musicians performed a wordless Isn’t She Lovely? that gave me goosebumps. There we all were, singing along, laughing and clapping for no other reason than the joy of it. Communal joy, in this economy? What a concept.