Fatboy Slim should be RIP. His populist party tunes, which were the soundtrack to so many top nights in the Nineties, seem as outdated as keying in your own mobile phone ringtone now we're in the Noughties.

It's surprising the king of superstar DJs hasn't joined pretenders to the throne such as Judge Jules and Tall Paul in the vinyl-black tar pit of obscurity, ready to be dug up like a Gang Of Four-thousand BC by a new generation eager for influences.

A few things did for the big beat, big name DJ scene. Firstly, September 11 brought the curtain crashing down on the carefree Ibiza-uncovered hedonism which marked the few years before the Millennium.

Then, the whole idea of dance music being the catalyst of revolution was nixed by Fatboy himself.

Sure, you can set up a stage on the beach and invite the entire globe round for free. The problem is the entire globe will turn up and the authorities will freak out and stop you ever doing it again.

Finally, though, the scene was killed off when people got some collective common sense and realised paying someone with sunglasses bigger than talent the best part of ten grand to spin someone else's tunes for a few hours is a silly idea.

So with all this said, Fatboy Slim's home fixture at the Concorde 2 was one big beat borefest, right?

Wrong.

It only takes one glance at Mr Norman Cook at work to realise why he's still carrying the glow stick for a fading genre and why he is so successful.

He really, really enjoys himself on the decks. It probably helped that his beloved Albion won its longrunning battle for a new stadium but the smile never left his face.

It helps he plays the kind of tunes that make you grin as well. A host of different beats, from funky soul to high-energy Balearic piano riffs, poured from his record box.

If dance music is on its last legs, at least Fatboy Slim will keep them jigging to the very end.