The Orb

A decade ago this gig would have been an event; this evening it’s merely another option for Friday night clubbers.

Bearing in mind the largely indifferent reaction afforded the group’s most recent album Cydonia, for the first quarter-of-an-hour or so it feels like all your worst fears about their decline into anonymity are going to be confirmed. It passes by in an unremarkable blur of electro clicks and bleeps, with only the impressive stage set – two video screens flanking one of those giant white spheres that used to intermittently chase Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner – retaining your attention.

However, when one member takes leave of the decks and straps on a bass guitar, things shift decisively into a higher gear. There follows a blissed-out ambient jam, which cuts abruptly into an ancient country and western track, which in turn merges into a gradually ascending techno beat. Then – bang! – you’re in the middle of a monstrous, pumping house tune, and the crowd of shuffling individuals that had previously been the audience are transformed into a gyrating mass. This is a powerful reminder of the communal euphoria that made this music such a cultural phenomenon in the first place.

It’s an absolute pleasure to report that the show catches fire over the next few minutes, as bubbling reggae rhythms jostle for supremacy with full-on slamming techno. After a short chill-out section, they pick up the pace once again. At one point – when the bass guitar comes back into the equation – The Orb kick into an acid house number so profoundly danceable that the entire venue can’t help but party like it’s 1989. It’s a breathtaking sight. The show ends in a cataclysmic collision of pounding beats and industrial squall, which segue with perfectly fuzzy logic into a coda of the ultra-kitsch Fifties standard ‘Mr. Sandman’.

A hugely enjoyable night then, but leaving the venue it’s nonetheless still hard to escape the nagging feeling that The Orb’s true heyday was a long time ago.