![]() ![]() For a band built on elasticated samples, arcade-machine mania and hooks sung by Smurfs, they've managed to hit middle age without letting their creativity slacken or their menace dissolve into cartoonish caricature like Marilyn Manson of John Lydon. The Prodigy have long been bookmarked as the techno Sex Pistols, but it is remarkable how vital, vitriolic and visceral they remain, 20 years after their ragga-rave behemoth Out of Space united the jilted generation. Overseen by Maxim Reality rousing the crowd, and with Keith Flint as the maniacal totem, it's a midnight black mass that worships warfare, arson, intoxication and insanity. Meanwhile, "noisemaker" Liam Howlett is conducting a racket – a cacophony of demonic bass whomps, industrial guitars and hyperactive Nintendo melodies – that's threatening to cause us haemorrhage. Beneath a carnival backdrop welcoming Brixton's "warriors" to "the scene of the crash", a snarling electro-punk nightmare of a band emerge at midnight, barking "celebrate the noisemaker!". I f you thought the Pogues' annual swillathons were Christmas at its most hardcore, think again.
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