It's August 1996. Oasis have sold out Knebworth, and have made a seemingly incongruous decision to have Prodigy as their main support act. 150,000 lads and ladettes, all essaying the Liam Gallagher swagger, are standing around, expecting to be annoyed by these cartoonish rave lunatics that have gatecrashed their Britpop zenith and that are the only thing between them and their moment in the sunset. The Fat Of The Land is still ten months away from being released.
Smirking, Liam Howlett walks out onto the stage and up onto his riser, behind a bank of synths and laptops. His hair is a spiked up mess, the colour of the insides of a Crunchie. He's wearing a pair of camouflage shorts. The gigantic screens beam his face across the far flung fields as he stands there, sneering, smirking. There is a discontented "how long til Oasis?" type chuntering in the massed crowds. What's he smirking at? What does he know that we don't? How long will this go on for?
He leans forward and down, crouching over a console. Presses a button. A strange Casio-style looped chopped bunch of notes stutters out of the speakers for about five seconds, followed by a flattened out non-bass bass note for another ten or so seconds. What's wrong? Are the speakers all underpowered?
What's going on? Plenty of confused looks. Pretty much nobody in the crowd has ever heard this before, whatever "this" is. Still, Howlett smirks. because he knows what we don't know. He knows what's coming, and nothing will ever be the same again once it arrives.
Because these are the first few notes of "Smack My Bitch Up".
BLAM! The bass kicks in. Swirling, flailing, Flint, Thornhill and Maxim careen onto the stage.
150,000 lads and ladettes, in boot cut jeans and plaid shirts, all explode. They have no choice. They don't own their limbs or their bodies any more. They are the Prodigy's to do with as they will. Beer everywhere. Bodies everywhere. Mayhem.
For a generation - a generation half a step behind that Jilted Generation, life would never be the same again.
I was there. I'll never forget how it made me feel. That vicious hedonistic cocktail of fireballs and fury and pantomime lunacy was a perfect moment. Whatever possessed them to do it, to take that direction, it never would have happened if one of the four of them hadn't been there. Thornhill, all elastic limbs and Matrix style slow-mo dancing to full-tilt beats. Maxim, staring down the whole crowd, the intimidator, the hype man. Howlett, the wizard behind the curtain. And Flint, Satan's own glove puppet, sent to petrify every parent, every grandparent, every child, and half of the rest of us too.
We came, we played his game.
It felt life-changing to me that day. I think in some ways, it was.
Jump forward some 19 years on, to May 2015, I was able to take my younger step-son - an out and out rock and metal head - to see Prodigy at Birmingham's tiny O2 Academy as they warmed up for the arena tour that would follow later that year. Live, they remained every bit as vital, as visceral and as comic-book violent as they had been the first time. The torch had been passed to a new generation, and still it burned with all its original fury.
RIP Keith. And thanks for the memories.