Back in the days of acid house, it wasn't just drugs, new music and wideboy promoters with slicked-back ponytails and mobile phones the size of Essex that fuelled the party scene. Just as important was the surplus of empty commercial properties created by the recession of the late 1980s, making the setting up of soundsystems in disused warehouses and quarries a doddle. This event, part of the Ninja Tune label's ongoing 20th birthday celebration, wasn't an illicit rave as such, but its use of a previously derelict set of six railway arches in the middle of a recession went some way to recreating a bit of the old atmosphere.

Back in the days of acid house, it wasn't just drugs, new music and wideboy promoters with slicked-back ponytails and mobile phones the size of Essex that fuelled the party scene. Just as important was the surplus of empty commercial properties created by the recession of the late 1980s, making the setting up of soundsystems in disused warehouses and quarries a doddle. This event, part of the Ninja Tune label's ongoing 20th birthday celebration, wasn't an illicit rave as such, but its use of a previously derelict set of six railway arches in the middle of a recession went some way to recreating a bit of the old atmosphere.

Dubstep is everywhere – and if you will excuse a little self-promotion I have, in my small way, helped this state of affairs come about. The bass-heavy, rhythmically exploratory and very British electronic dance music genre has now – via Magnetic Man and Katy B – proved it can produce bona fide top-10 hits, and it has become the de facto sound of every summer festival to boot, while still keeping both feet in the underground clubs from whence it emerged.

Justin Kerrigan was only 25 when he made Human Traffic. A bristling portrait of rave culture at the dawn of New Labour, it did well enough commercially and enjoyed a cultish afterlife on DVD. That was 11 years ago. Kerrigan hasn’t made another film since. Or hadn’t. With I Know You Know he returns with a script from his own pen. Whenever a promising debut is followed by a long silence, the question is always the same: was the wait worth it?

Looking at posters outside the Apollo Theatre, where the West End transfer of Jez Butterworth’s award-heavy Royal Court success opened last night, you might be tempted to start humming: “And did those feet in ancient time…” But such nostalgic sentiments are unlikely to survive the opening scene of this phenomenal play. Soon after the curtain, a symbolically faded flag of St George, rises, we see a familiar rural scene: under-aged kids stoned out of their minds, dancing in a thumping rave. It’s a nocturnal bacchanalia of house music, gyrating girls and drug-addled wildness.

Orbital occupy a singular position in the pantheon of Nineties dance live acts that made it to arena-show status. Paul and Phil Hartnoll's trademark shaved heads and specs-with-headlights gave them a massively spoddy image that belied an everyman quality to their music, but although their early releases unquestionably helped form the distinctively British sounds of rave and hardcore, they never quite became part of those scenes.