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

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