February 12, 1999

Newcastle Northumbria University

Such a sustained sensory assault leaves one gasping at even the most incidental features, notably the back projections of allusory phrases and images of the band members at play...

They make it look so bloody easy, these three scruffs with the 'World at their fingers, like anyone could do this. Just as punk's most powerful and immediate legacy was the sense of easy access, so Underworld impart a chummy aura of barely organised chaos upon the art of delivering this supremely orchestrated noise. When opener 'Cups' falls apart halfway through, they don't try and play the situation for anything other than it is: an almighty technical cock-up. "Things seem to have gone wrong!" laughs Karl Hyde, digging deep for his best fair-cop-guv bonhomie. "Why don't you give us five minutes?" And, of course, we're glad to. Deep down, people like to see their fave techno |bermenschen revealed to be human after all.

Therein lies the kernel of Underworld's appeal, quite apart from the persuasive allure of their stentorian beat carnival. 'Tis essentially happy music with a happy face. It isn't just down to Karl, either, though this sweat-drenched can-do mannequin-man does represent the group's emotional compass. Both Darren Emerson and Rick Smith are palpably on our side, too, with the former never shy of succumbing to the odd bout of goofish free-form arm-waving. Unshaven Rick, meanwhile, has the harassed bearing of a person hired to eradicate the Y2K Bug before the end of the evening, or else. Wherein he hunches over his console and frowns a lot, only to blink with some degree of incredulity at his mates as each thunderous missive descends safely. No-one could possibly regard the mildly wracked Smith and select knob-twiddling as the soft option over more trad forms of rock expression.

Evidently, Underworld retain the capacity to surprise themselves, so it should come as no surprise to anyone else that messing with the best and brightest young minds of Northumbria proves to be a doddle. Regrouping after that unscheduled early tea break, the trio emphasise the reserves of spontaneity in what most lay observers would assume to be a fairly preordained exercise. So 'Cups' didn't quite get finished? No matter. The song's second-third is simply held back until later, where it plays its part in the show's molten climax.

The central issue here is how 'Born Slippy' can get a look in without rendering everything else an irrelevance. If that tune hangs heavy around their collective neck, then Underworld have more than enough muscle power to cope. Such is the thumping redoubtability of new material from the 'Beaucoup Fish' LP like 'Push Upstairs' and 'Kittens' that there really isn't the time or inclination to sit tight and wait for that inevitable lagerful balm. The marvellously adroit 'Bruce Lee' demonstrates that these people can sidestep the groove just as easy as pummel its lights out. And 'Shudder/King Of Snake' is the new Underworld showstopper for sure, Karl skittering his tall tale of reptiles, mongeese and Tom & Jerry over its savage embellishment of Giorgio Moroder's 'I Feel Love' riff, on and on until we're sucked blithely - and far too late to reconsider - into '...Slippy''s (un)cerebral cortex.

And the efficacy of their design is suddenly all around. For obviously, not everyone can do this, not just anyone. With their consummate grasp on the emotive properties of sound, Underworld have married beauty to brute force, and in the process positively ennobled the act of punchbagging thin air for two hours.

A sinful Greatest Hits Medley encore of 'Rez', 'Pearl's Girl' and 'Cowgirl' consigns all further queries to the realm of the rhetorical. Such a sustained sensory assault leaves one gasping at even the most incidental features, notably the back projections of allusory phrases and images of the band members at play. One slide claims 'The World Is All That There Is'. Another says simply, 'Indivisible'. On such occasions, as Underworld depart having somehow made it through another night, it's difficult indeed to imagine a better advert for collective responsibility.