Live review: The Prodigy at Congress Theater

Photo: Ryan Mitchell

Saturday night and I'm in the pit at the Prodigy show as a pogoing white-polo-ed Euro clubber is using my shoulders as a piece of gymnasium equipment—so this is what it feels like taking a night off from the History Channel, eh? The Prodigy's comeback with an album-length return to form on Invaders Must Die and a massive tour schedule (the band headlines numerous U.K. festivals this summer) hasn't banked solely on the benefits of now rampant ’90s nostalgia—these phasers aren't on stun.

The band, their studio sound engineer tells me, is even on a workout kick, running or biking on its days off and generally keeping fighting fit—a good thing too as its stage show is a physical affair with the towering MC Maxim Reality running the length of the stage and marching around in the crowd and mohawked Keith Flint raging whether he has the microphone or not. The crowd looked heavy on the black T-shirted grown-ups and slightly agitated dudes, but there were also rave babes and electro kiddies. A friend observed, "This is the new working-class music," and I was at a loss to argue. Opener Tiga's slamming DJ set of electro-techno and bass music might have run a bit long for some—but it built up the intensity.

The over-the-top energy was technologically enabled—the band brought a massive sound system (including numerous subwoofers positioned under the stage to produce "trouser-flapping bass" at various points) and light rig for a show that sounds and looks better than anything I've witnessed at the Congress. A member of their entourage tells me the monitors are so loud on stage that they make your eyeballs wiggle so the musicians basically can't see anything. For an electronic act, the Prodg turns out a visceral live show with a guitar player stalking the stage and a drummer hacking away—but Liam Howlett's synths and rhythm tracks still dominate sonically. The intermingling of hits from the Fat of the Land with new anthems such as "Warrior's Dance" was basically seamless, and the band's material tended to bleed together. The group does, I'm told, sometimes improv or change directions depending on what loops Howlett chooses within its tracks, giving it a measure of spontanaeity. The Prodigy may have the rave comeback on its side, but the band is certainly not wasting that momentum with a tired sequence of MTV faves—rather it's a snarling alpha-dog leader of a subculture of the perennially misunderstood.