I didn’t enjoy the 90s much but that was mostly my fault. In January 1994, I was a student. It was dark by half past four thanks to the UK winter. Due to a clerical error, I had been allotted a room that did not exist. It was less Franz Kafka and more Carry On. So I found myself in post-grad accommodation with a bunch of people more serious about studying that I was. It could have been an opportunity to mature.
I bought dubnobasswithmyheadman on cassette. I absolutely caned that album. The angst of “Dirty Epic”, the rhythmic compulsions of “Cowgirl”, the dreamy surrealism of "Mmm…Skyscraper I Love You", the deranged turbulence of “Spoonman”, the warm embrace of "River of Bass". This was an amniotic surround sound with paranoia leaking in from the side like meconium.
I didn’t see Underworld for 25 years. In 2019, they were playing a residence at the Opera House. The place was full of aging ravers. Karl Hyde was working the crowd, occasionally projected on a screen at the back. He looked… old. I saw them again a few months ago. Karl Hyde still working the crowd. Karl Hyde is 67.
I’m not really a fan of “Born Slippy”, their biggest hit courtesy of Trainspotting. It was everywhere in 1996. I don’t begrudge them the fame or the sales. I just wish it had been “Rez”.
Underworld were always strange. A postpunk artschool version of techno. Their music was never sexy. Hyde is not an R&B diva but he might be the finest poet of where East London shades into Essex (Romfordia) since Ian Dury. But whereas Dury played characters in tightly observed and structured narratives, Hyde is more like Roky Erickson. You gotta open up your mind and let everything come through.
At their best they could capture the euphoria, the transcendence of the dancefloor. The rush. And the comedown.
Lose yourself. Go with the flow.