B-Side Sunday.

Saints be praised! In these days of drag, with the recession’s sickly shadow looming across every nook and cranny of the interweb, it is with some pride and not inconsiderable pleasure that B-Side Sunday rises once again and, stigmata-dripping, turns its attentions to saving 09 for those who just ain’t ready to stop believin’ – armed only with a single nugget of ‘Side Two’ salvation and a cheeky trouserful of charm. The semi-religious ceremony so prodigiously peerless that it hangs the competition from a flagpole before biting the head off a passing dog, drinking its Winalot-flavoured blood and giggling like a teenage girl knee-deep in the Jonas Brothers’ stinky kecks. Your weekly wanderlust in musical magic that puts the ‘pop’ in poppers and the ‘mental’ in religious fundamentalism, plucking you by your ears from the downward pull of a culture geared only to leave you fat, content, controlled and miserable as Sky+ boxes twinkle merrily in the background. Choice ain’t just a button on your TV remote, baby.

If neurotics build castles in the air, psychotics live in them and psychiatrists charge the rent, then Underworld certainly provided the soundtrack for more than a few of the castle’s E casualty residents, certified head-snapper ‘Rez’ being a fantastic track that even appeared in the club scene of head-scratching psycho-romp Vanilla Sky. Recognising that dance music’s fundamental tenet is that the artist isn’t the star; the audience is, Underworld steered an inimitable course until they had charted a legacy far beyond the navel-gazing meanderment of most 90s dance. Flipside of the ‘Cowgirl’ single, ‘Rez’ is ample proof and any clubber worth their poppers can tell you why.

Sure, it might sound about as cutting-edge as a Sinclair C5 spluttering noisily into life but back in the early-90s this wedge of electrobop managed to sound more intoxicating than gaffa-taping a bucket of poppers to the underside of your nose and doing a headstand. Whirry bleep-tastic nonsense with a warm fuzzy centre, ‘Rez’ builds steadily like a slow train coming until you’re numbly clawing at your own nipples with vinyl-encrusted fingers in wide-eyed remembrance of those MDMAzing days of yore.

Of course, the whole shebang is utterly useless if you’re not totally pickled on industrial-strength pharmaceuticals, but then so is tipping cows – and we all do that. Besides, once the track has rattled to a close and all that remains is the memory, are you left scratching your chin in beardy befuddlement or body-popping like Bobby Brown on day release? Thought so.