Prodigy and Carl Cox – and Thor, God of thunder – light up the sky at Wythenshawe Park

At the weekend, the Prodigy brought their Warrior's Dance mini-tour to Manchester, and it was probably the messiest gig I have ever experienced.

The last time I saw Howlett's hooligans was at the Warehouse Project. It was as loud and as brash as expected, but my friend and I took the wise choice to stand at the edge of the main crowd. It was more packed than a tin of sardines hosting a special sardine soiree at which a sardine was allowed to bring along a sardine friend for free.

This time, I was determined to get into the mosh pit, to become one of the sardines. This seemed much more feasible at a huge outdoor concert. It was a sold-out gig at Wythenshawe Park, Manchester, so the capacity was probably close to 30,000, but there was plenty of room to flap about. Sorry, still stuck on the sardine analogy.

But Fat Roland, I hear you ask, were your fishy wishes realised and did you mosh your way merrily to the front of the audience? Thanks for asking. Guess which one of these eventualities transpired:

(a) I dove into the mosh pit and was carried on people's shoulders then presented to Liam Howlett like a pig on a platter.

(b) I got one elbow in the ribs so I ran away crying and that's why I am currently eating four litres of Chunky Monkey.

(c) I was slowly bounced into the mosh pit epicentre, becoming one with a writhing mass of revellers muddied by a lightning storm that had briefly paused the gig, before losing my footing in a Jenga-style collapse of sodden bodies, landing fully on my back in the dank Wythenshawe gloop, at which point a ketamine-spaffed student tried to lift me up and, bearing my considerable weight, loudly proclaimed "f***ing hell".

So yeah, it was the last option. Silliness and shame, but mainly silliness. At one point in the melee, I think I damaged every bone in my body and some extra ones too. I was muddied from head to toe, and was still spitting out ground mucus on the post-event shuttle bus back to civilisation. 

The gig itself was fantastic: so much light and sound and awe. Maxim proved himself as a rousing frontman, doing a fine job cheerleading – probably more like cheer-threatening – a soggy crowd. I would have had Liam and his knob-twiddling more front and centre, or even with a dedicated screen showing his twiddles and, er, knobs. Keith Flint's ghostly apparition looming over Firestarter was a goosebump moment.

I loved the crowd daa-daa-ing to the keyboard melody of Voodoo People; when there are few vocals to sing along to, you've got to get your daa-daas out. The "everybody get down" command during Smack My Bitch Up felt like a logistical nightmare in a field with tens of thousands of people, but we obliged on our haunches. I don't think I've done that since James did Sit Down at GMEX back in '93.

Support act Yousuke Yukimatsu went hard, top off and muscular beats on. It was a bold move to mix in the vocals of Firestarter, especially as the Prodge have deliberately removed Keith's vocals from their own live version. Fellow support DJ Andy C took the crowd-pleasing route, with banger after banger, and actually I didn't mind his transition from Born Slippy into his own tune Indestructible. There was tonnes of other support acts, including a whole separate stage that I never even found.

King of the supports was Carl Cox (pictured top), the first name that comes up in lists of greatest DJs of all time. I was less convinced by Cox going rave at this gig, but Egyptian Empire's The Horn Track was a cracking archive drop, and I appreciated the more recent jump-up jaunts of High Contrast's remix of Eric Prydz' Pjanoo, and Brookes Brothers' Tear You Down. "The history of drum 'n' bass right here, Manchester," declared Cox over the Metalheadz roller Headz Up by Break. He was clearly enjoying himself. When he leans into his comfort zone of pounding techno, there is no-one better.

Cox was also playing [UNVRS] in Ibiza the same night. This is impressive. I get stressed having to remember two things on a shopping trip, never mind jet-setting across countries before bedtime. As I'm writing this, I've had to pause for a run to the shops because I forgot to buy cat food. I bet Cox's to-do list is really long, and written with a proper fountain pen and everything.

I mentioned the lightning storm. The weather was kind of okay until that point; a corrugated grey sky, and just the right side of humid. In the lead-up to Andy C, I'd gone to the VIP zone for a nice sit on a bench. Even in the midst of acid-tweaking techno mayhem, you've got to appreciate a nice bench. As I approached the bar for my first pint of the evening, the heavens opened. Or rather, the heavens smashed the bloody doors off with a sledgehammer, then ice-bucket-challenged the crowd so suddenly, we were all drenched in seconds. The downpour was loud enough to make it difficult to order a pint, which crossed a line, and I will be writing to Thor God of Thunder in complaint. The thunderstorm necessitated a half-hour shutdown of the gig.

As I found myself in a field with lightning bolts crashing around me, my brand new trainers morphing from pink to sloppy brown, I though: Keith Flint would have loved this.

In their publicity, the Prodigy promised "pure ruckus". Yeah, they delivered on that promise. This was the last of the Live From Wythenshawe Park series, a short run of "summer" concerts by big names. If I was made of money I would have (a) died due to replacing my basic human body system with ten pound notes and (b) also gone to Pulp and The Cure. But I'm not so I didn't. Maybe next year, I should budget and go to a bunch of the concerts. I would end up practically living in the field – which I'm pretty much doing anyway considering the amount of Wythenshawe Park mud still clogging my orifices.

Top photo from Carl Cox's social media account

Further Fats: No Bounds Festival 2024 – a review (2024)

Further Fats: Crabby birthday – The Prodigy's Fat Of The Land turns 25 (2022)

Grand Theft Roland: Fingers and ears crossed for the new GTA VI soundtrack

Rockstar Games have released an extended gameplay trailer for Grand Theft Auto VI, the very long-awaited follow-up to the multi-billion dollar smash hit GTA V. People have waited years for this: it's a comeback akin to Massive Attack, Boards Of Canada or that terrible album that Guns 'n' Roses did once.

Game bros everywhere must be wetting their y-fronts over this news. That or they're fuming in their skinny jeans because the new game has the audacity to feature a female character with agency. I bet loads of them call it 'woke' even though they've no idea what the word means because they only understand words of less than one syllable.

Where was I? Oh yes. GTA VI. I should say that this is not a gaming blog. Yes I own a PS4 and two PS1s and an Atari and a Commodore and an old Spectrum and a very dog-eared Cluedo with several pieces missing, but honestly I don't really know my Minecraft from my Minesweeper. So this is not a blog post about gaming.

What I am interested in is electronic music. The GTA series has had in-game radio stations since its debut in 1997. They started off with music made by the game developers themselves, which sounds potentially terrible, but they made some brilliantly atmospheric tunes. Snappy techno rollers, a bit of piano house, and a spacey electro highlight called Automatic Transmission by Meme Traders. Oh the nostalgia.

By the time GTA V came about, there was a whole ecosystem of radio stations. There were shock jocks, country hicks, and proper electronic music artists like Flying Lotus and Soulwax curating their own playlists. Listen long enough and you would have heard tracks by Moodymann, Joy Orbison, Jamie Lidell, Carl Craig as The Paperclip People, The Gaslamp Killer, Four Tet, !!! (Chk Chk Chk) and SBTRKT. And DāM-FunK. And Lee 'Scratch' Perry for goodness sake.

It wasn't just the radio stations. You know the music that plays when you get a three-star wanted level, that urgent electronica that slightly unsettles you as you escape the trigger-happy yet hapless police? Or that airy, uplifting loop that floats in whenever you're flying an aircraft way above Mount Chiliad? That music's by ambient royalty Tangerine Dream.

With all that in mind, my expectations for GTA VI are through the roof. And by that, I mean a really high roof that you get on a building, not a low roof like the sun one you get on a car. From what I can spot so far, we have the return of !!! (Chk Chk Chk), there's a bit of Depeche Mode, and there are bleepy headnodders like Elderbrook's Inner Light (previously featured on a FIFA soundtrack). Sounds promising. But there's also Phil Collins and Cliff Richard, so I also want to blast off my ears with a boopy gun.

I would be brilliant as a GTA main character, by the way. I've not done loads of armed robberies or carjackings or anything, but I do hang around on street corners looking tough and insulting passers-by. I think it's the clogs that do it. People are afraid of my gangster clogs. They're in my gang colours (pink).

Let's see what happens. About the new soundtrack, I mean, not about me being the new Trevor. I'm all ears for GTA VI. 

Further Fats: The Designers Republic vs B12 Records – are the 1990s dead? (2009)

Further Fats: Blade Runner 2049, Jóhann Jóhannsson and an origami cow (2017)

Music, Charli, Listening, Argos

Despite her name comprising mostly Roman numerals, there’s something refreshingly zeitgeist about the British pop sensation Charli XCX. Or as Julius Caesar would have called her, Hundred Har Fifty-one Ninety Ten. 

Before now Charli has piqued a certain level of interest in me but not much. A passing distraction but something that wasn’t aimed at me, like the BBC Proms, incontinence pads or Buzz Bowls. However, the other day I found myself in a bored stupor while I was waiting to collect a vacuum cleaner at Argos, so I took the opportunity to listen to some XCX. 

I listened to her latest album Music, Fashion, Film twice – it’s a short album. And then I did something I had never done before: a 720-twist standing backflip. No wait, not that. I listened to her neon green iconic long-player Brat. 

This blog post is not going to be a review of those albums. Sorry to disappoint, but I need to be brief: the Argos server is giving me side-eye. So here are a few comments about both albums. Everything Is Romantic is sublime. 360 is an earworm. SS26 is an even bigger earworm. No-one Lasts Forever revives a classic era of 90s pop experimentalism. There. That'’s all you’re getting. 

What impressed me most was her easy adoption of rave and hardcore with pant-juddering BPMs and sweaty synth energy. She can lay down a candyfloss melody then jackhammer the dancefloor until our toes are paste, sometimes within one song. The juxtaposition does not jar; it’s like we're being gaslit, but the gas has the sweetest smell. 

In the wake of the Monster Capital anthology, I’ve been pondering about the death of subculture. The idea of the death of capitalism, and culture now feeding itself in a continual loop like a snake eating its own tail. Things that used to be on the fringes of culture – drum ‘n’ bass, tattoos, happy hardcore, queerness – are now mainstream, commodified and renting a £1,250pcm flat in the centre of town. Charli encapsulates this: she is sub-culture and mainstream culture combined.

I’m glad I listened to Charli XCX. I will listen to her again, despite a great many other albums competing for my attention – new Arca, new Nia Archives, a live Front 242 thing. In fact, you can’t stop me listening to more Charli: this isn’t imperial Rome, and I can do what I want without you sticking a gladius up my jacksie.

That brings my Charli chatter to a close. I must go. Argos have given me my six-slot solar-powered toaster. It's not what I ordered, but the server is drooling at me and it's time to get out of here.

Further Fats: Totally gay for Scouting For Girls (2011)

Further Fats: This got me: the infuriating pizza pop (2022)

Klingfully klangtastic: bleeps and Blackpool and other live treats

Contrary to popular belief, I am actually allowed out on my own. Here are some recent-ish music events I have attended while I've been allowed out.

Kraftwerk's multimedia tour was klingfully klangtastic. Ralf Hütter led his team of robots through a stonking greatest hits, the highlight being the terrifying Radioactivity (pictured) with its massive nuclear visuals and their tear-jerking cover version of Ryuchi Sakamoto's Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence.

I've just got back from The Black Lights, a multi-venue festival in Blackpool put on by Manchester's White Hotel. I'm going to hold my powder dry – is that the phrase? – and save my review for Electronic Sound. However, there is one thing I want to say. Seagulls are massive, aren't they. Seaside seagulls are right old heffers. If one landed on your head, you'd be pancaked in seconds.

There was a brilliant night of dark synthwave at the Peer Hat basement club in Manchester. It featured Berlin's statuesque RUHR alongside Newcastle's Vigilance State and Manchester EBMist Cyber Corp. It was organised by Romantic Fiction (Berlin) and Solid Pleasure (Manchester), and if you like your synths all punkish and raw, keep an eye out for a second iteration of the night in September.

Shout out too to re:shape, an event which brings back the spirit of those classic chillout nights that combine analogue synth noodles with other artforms. In the past, re:shape has brilliantly paired live bleeps with vintage cartoon films, while their May event teamed spoken word artists with electronic music makers. I got to perform a weird fiction piece over the analogue washes of Oscillioscope and it was proper fun. The next event is on 24 July.

Marconi Union put on an ace ambient extravaganza at Manchester's The Yard, a wonderful venue just beyond Manchester Arena. MU were melodic and thrilling, and I loved the new layout of The Yard. Support came from Apta and Antonymes. UB40 were playing the Arena the same night – I had to elbow my way through the crowds – but I reckon I made the right choice. They don't even have Ali Campbell any more. Come to think of it, Marconi Union don't have Ali Campbell either, so I guess things are even.

What else? Oh yeah. there was Sounds From The Other City, Salford's multi-venue grassroots music festival, which is always a social highlight of the year. I ended up seeing Zolatec twice because I am totally down for anyone who combines electronics with steel drum. Her cover of the Prodigy's Out Of Space was a festival highlight.

And there was also Outwards Festival with Orbital and The Orb – a joyous occasion which saw The Grid's first performance since the passing of David Ball, and Tom Middleton playing some of his classic Global Communication ambient bangers. The event was dampened only by the rain and the over-officious security staff. Honestly guys, if you're going to have bag restrictions, mention them in advance – you owe me the £15 taxi ride I had to take to store my bag. Pfffrt.

I am now very tired and will spend the whole of July asleep.

Further Fats: Banjo beats 'n' techno treats – oh my goodness, it's The Grid (2024)

Further Fats: Chosen Words: K is for Kling Klang (2010)

Boards Of Canada's Inferno review – hot stuff or hot air?

After a publicity campaign of mysterious hexagons, Boards of Canada finally ignited their Inferno album. So is it any good? Are the Boards fires still burning, or are they poking an old campfire with a stick as their old embers fade?

It is worth leading any review with an unfortunate truth. No album is worth a 13-year wait. Sorry, Canada lads. Nothing is worth the hype BoC have received, especially as there are other albums equally worthy of publicity. The Black Dog have followed up their Loud Ambient album. The Knife’s Olof Dreijer has dropped his first solo album. Luke Vibert has revived his Plug project. Rival Consoles has a new game soundtrack. So let’s acknowledge that the hype is all hot air. Okay? Good. Now on to the music.

Their melted analogue synths are, of course, front and centre. Although the familiarity is welcome, herein lies a risk. This is only BoC’s second album since Armando Iannucci gifted us his satirical studio show Time Trumpet. I spent not an insignificant amount of time expecting Kevin Eldon to pop up singing Machadaynu. By relying on such a recognisable signature sound, one that has been copied and parodied for literally decades, BoC are putting themselves at risk.

The good news is that what they do with those detuned circuits is so satisfying. They are very expert knob twiddlers, and not once do they forget that they are here to entertain us. We all know the satisfying “aaah, they’re back” drop in Prophecy At 1420 MHz. Check out also the melancholic harpsichord of Blood In The Labyrinth. The saturated sass of Arena Americanada. The heavenly nostalgia of You Retreat In Time And Space, perhaps the track that most calls back to previous albums. It’s familiar territory but that’s no bad thing.

The surprises come with the album’s theme. I’m hoping the title Inferno refers to Dante’s famous 14th-century poetry and not to Dan Brown’s 2013 novel of worthless word fudge. Like any good inferno worth its inferning, I’m delighted to reveal that the album stays true to its title theme: this Boards Of Canada work is a portal to hell.

Sort of. We’re navigated down the Styx by its samples, a new-age melange of religious mumbo jumbo. It’s this stuff that provides the album’s moments of delight. Naraka’s simple synth line lurks in shadows before becoming a haunting Hare Krishna chant. The woozy and slightly bonkers Father And Son chops up a documentary about the Children Of God (“I love you, but I love the Lord”). A televangelist pops up on Age Of Capricorn.

Some will find their samples on-the-nose. The Guardian called the Krishna material “ghastly”. But I have never been happier to listen to a head-nodder like The Word Becomes Flesh in which samples evoke Snivilisation-era Orbital, only with added robot voice and chick embryo bants.

I’ll wrap it up here. Maybe it needed fewer interludes and perhaps hidden inside Inferno is a really tight 12-track masterpiece. And yes, it’s on-the-nose, with BoC honking their familiar retro schnozz over and over again. But consider this: comebacks are a risk. Previous big-name career revivals gave us Chinese Democracy (eeeugh) and The Second Coming (don’t @ me), so the fact Boards landed this return so solidly qualifies Inferno as a triumph.

Play it. Play it lots. Play it so much that the needle on your record goes on fire, and in the ensuing blaze of smouldering synths and melted hexagons, be assured that the world is a better place for Boards Of Canada’s extremely listenable devilry.

Further Fats: Orbital's Wonky – a review (2012)

Further Fats: Remember when Boards of Canada remixed Colonel Abrams? (2018)

Time flies: Massive Attack return and bring Tom Waits with them

If there's one thing we have learned from Massive Attack's new single is that Tom Waits loves flies.

Boots On The Ground is Massive Attack's first new single in ages. It's a dimly-lit, seething electronic stomp that pours ire on the militaristic and fascistic state of US geopolitics.

The track features the vocals of Tom Waits. Obviously, he’s best known as the serial killer bunny owner in the 2012 film Seven Psychopaths. Apparently, he’s done some music too. His voice is brilliantly gruff: a tipper truck of gravel poured into Massive’s moody quagmire.

This is proper political. When “federal pricks” is one of the more polite lyrics, you know things have got bad.

Says Robert Del Naja: “Across the Western hemisphere, state authoritarianism and the militarisation of police forces are fusing again with neofascist politics… this track contains pulses of callous impulse and abandoned mind.”

Very poetic but also absolutely furious. It’s good to have the Attack chaps back.

Del Naja was arrested in Trafalgar Square last week after showing support for Palestine Action. The government has now arrested thousands of people on similar grounds, including people with disabilities and pensioners. The wrong placard, the wrong t-shirt, but it’s alright to pour cash into genocidal bombing campaigns. This isn’t a political blog, but jeez, I can see why Massive Attack are so narked.

The forthcoming 12-inch of Boots On The Ground will feature a spoken word track called The Fly. It is… well, I’ll let Tom Waits explain.

“Man’s folly of fiascos is a feast for the flies. Hence, the b-side of Massive Attack’s upcoming 12-inch The Fly features my appreciation for the winged nuisance.”

Very poetic but also absolutely off-the-chain. I never knew how much Tom Waits loves flies. Rabbits, maybe, what with all those rabbits he owned when he was a psychopath. But flies?

As I kid, I used to befriend spiders on the way to school. I gave them names and counted their legs to make sure everything was in order. No, really. I wonder if Waits does the same with houseflies.

Maybe I'm wrong and it's a cover of U2’s leather-and-shades reinvention The Fly. That would be a disappointment. Or the best thing ever. I can't decide.

Watch the video for Boots On The Ground.

Further Fats: Massive Attack got soul but Ceephax got swing(ing lampshades) (2010)

Further Fats: Does Donald Trump listen to music? (2017)

Hannah Peel goes stratospheric, and I'm just tagging along

The cover feature for issue 136 of Electronic Sound Magazine is my interview with Hannah Peel.

I chat to Hannah about her new album The Endless Dancewith percussionist Beibei Wang, her nocturnal Radio 3 show, the emergence of a space-themed ballet, and how 2026 will be a meteoric year. Oh and hiccups. We talk about hiccups.

I last spoke to Hannah nine years ago: we hung out at the glorious BlueDot festival where she was performing alongside a full colliery brass band. My recollection is that it was a sunny day, although that could have been Hannah's disposition.

In the intervening years, Hannah's CV has not only expanded, it has exploded into a colossal supernova of radio presenting, soundtracking for telly, BBC Proms, doing stuff at the Barbican, and even a cosmic-themed ballet. We cover as much of it as we can in the interview.

For one of our chats, we were joined by her album collaborator, Chinese percussionist Beibei Wang. I say 'percussionist' - the term doesn't really do her justice. She creates instruments in the most complicated ways possible: vegetable tom-toms; Coca-cola xylophones; leaky colanders.

"I just bring whatever I have from my pocket and then join Hannah’s party," says Beibei of working with Hannah, and that pretty much sums it up. There's a wild creativity between them, but then a real ease, as if they were destined to make tunes together. Impressive.

Enough gushing. If you like my words, such as "gushing", do pick up a copy of the mag. You can even get a limed-edition accompanying single if you're quick enough. In this issue, you'll also find me banging on about the Eurovision Song Contest. An excerpt:

"This year’s UK entry is Look Mum No Computer, which coincidentally was the slogan of my short-lived IT repair company aimed solely at members of the Icelandic indietronica band Múm."

Yes, I am an idiot.

Shout out too to Mike Lindsay who produced Hannah and Beibei's album. I last spoke to Mike in 2018 about modular basslines, not having rules, and moving to Margate.

Shop for lovely ES magazines here.

Further Fats: 'Scoping out the 2017 BlueDot festival (2017)

Further Fats: No-one wants songs about the moon these days (2017)

Janus Rasmussen's snappy new album is super, super ert

Janus Rasmussen, him out of the rather wonderful Kiasmos, is cooking up a stunning solo album.

I've covered Kiasmos before. I declared their self-titled debut album the Third Best Album Of 2014, which undersold it something horrible because it was most definitely the number one best album of that year. Ólafur Arnalds and Janus Rasmussen's amazing collaboration still twangs my brainstrings even if I catch a single note.

Rasmussen's new solo album Inert, released on 9 June 2026 on Berlin's Embassy One Records, will delight anyone who wants a bit more oomph to the Kiasmos sound. It’s called Inert but it's super un-inert. Ert?! It's made for the club – tip top trouser-wobbling, clog-clomping, elbow-waggling fayre.

He says of the album: "Inert is my attempt to break out of a mould I somehow found myself in while writing music. I felt a need to open things up, to sing, and to let the songs move freely between genres without overthinking where they belonged.

"Lyrically, the album is very open-ended, almost like meditations on guilt or feeling bad for no clear reason, which makes it the most revealing body of work I’ve written so far. It feels like an honest reset, both creatively and emotionally."

Consider the mould successfully broken. It's so dang SNAPPY. Full of ear-tickling wubbles and bubbles. There's the delicious arp curves of Murk, and a full-on synth pop stomp called Fumes complete with EDM synth giddiness and sassy call-and-response vocals.

The tricksy moments are pleasing too, such as the de-spannered found-sound beat of Tomb or the scampering rolling percussion of Blame.

It's one of those sad vocal albums, with lyrics like "I thought you were there in a puddle of mud" and "fingers trace where the tracks decay." But as long as you can cope with the tuneful moping, you'll be fine.

It'll appeal to people into James Blake, Modeselektor and Bicep. Pre-order here.

Pictured: Janus Rasmussen with Inert album cover

Further Fats: Best electronic albums of 2014: three (2014)

Further Fats: Listen to Bicep's Glue – it'll stick with you (2017)