Those who maintain that it was The Darkness who relocated British rock’s long-dormant pantomime instinct evidently have short memories. For a decent part of the ‘90s, The Prodigy were one of the biggest bands on the planet: a crudely effective hybrid of rave dynamics, stadium punk, Essex industrialism and, most pointedly, full-blooded daftness. The vision of Keith Flint, gurning like an amphetamined gargoyle, a badly-drawn Johnny Rotten in frayed kilt and villainous eyeliner, remains one of the most potent pop images of the last decade. Preposterous, but vivid.
The problem was, however, that The Prodigy never actually meant to be preposterous. Their great tragedy was that Liam Howlett always envisaged them as a genuinely dangerous countercultural threat, the antithesis of their vaudeville reputation. It is this embittered desire to be taken seriously that dominates “Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned”, the epically delayed follow-up to 1997’s “Fat Of The Land”. The amusing talents of Flint and MC Maxim Reality have been sidelined, with Howlett – not historically a man fond of self-parody – styling himself as a kind of jackbooted breakbeat renegade, a rave-generating menace to society.
The results certainly show Howlett to be an alienated figure, though probably not in the way he intended. “Always Outnumbered” presents a figure whose incalculable wealth, coterie of famous friends and intransigent taste have shielded him from the world and left him an anachronism. One who clearly believes a combination of Nine Inch Nails and The Bomb Squad is still the apotheosis of cutting-edge.
Howlett’s gear may have been radically upgraded since his bedroom beginnings – the gleaming, armour-plated bombast of his production is the most impressive thing here – but his aesthetics have not. That the freshest sounds on “Always Outnumbered” – notably the punchy "Girls", featuring forgotten Alan McGee protegées the Ping Pong Bitches – could just about be described as breakbeat electro reveals that Howlett has not spent the past seven years forging a path ahead for British dance music.
Instead, it’s easier to imagine him counting money, cultivating grudges and moving in the dubious circles frequented by his wife, Natalie Appleton. Fellow Appleton appendage Liam Gallagher clocks on for "Shoot Down", his lethargy inadequately disguised by punkish riffs, while Juliette Lewis snarls, postures and quotes from “Up, Up And Away In My Beautiful Balloon” to minimal insurrectionary effect on “Hotride”.
At least with Flint on vocals, Howlett’s pomposity was leavened – albeit inadvertently – by silliness. Now there’s no such respite. Twista raps quickly and passionlessly on “Get Up Get Off”, while Kool Keith (a man who’d grace your record if the cheque cleared in time) hardly distinguishes himself on “Wake Up Call”.
At times, there are glimpses of the brilliance that made 1995’s “Music For The Jilted Generation” so compelling. Howlett’s old trick of being simultaneously nimble and bludgeoning resurfaces on “The Way It Is” (sweetly – and surely accidentally – reminiscent of Jacko’s “Thriller”) and on the cut-up chimes of “Memphis Bells” (a less mainstream echo, here, of Fini Tribe’s “De Testimony”).
Mainly, though, this is a terribly weary album, tedious when it strives to be seditionary, trading on utterly devalued notions of attitude and aggression. Perhaps the hard graft of touring may remind Howlett where his true talents lie: in cabaret, not revolution.
