was always going to be forever tied to it, his visage and movement combining for a fever dream that you don't shake off easily.by suicide this week has reminded us all of an exceptional power and presence, one that terrified parents while gifting dextrous dance moves that only the most confident of Brylcreemed lads would dare attempt at the local teenage disco.They crafted, in their own words, music for a jilted generation. They gleefully took aim at authority.
Nobody sounded like them. Certainly not on the telly, anyway. Top of the Pops and Top 30 Hits felt like some kind of anarchist group had hacked in when they showed up all too briefly. Everyone had a copy of Fat of the Land. A mate had managed to tape the uncut version of 'Smack My Bitch Up'. Your brother lost his mind at some festival nobody ever heard of.
The Prodigy boasted real power. They were dangerous, and Keith Flint was terrifying. A scream made flesh with eyes that pierced civilised society, he wasn't out to corrupt, but to find some class of unity within combatively propulsive - yet populist - dance music.
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