Underworld remind us that moments and places that are disposable or debauched or transitory can be worthy of attention, or even be considered art, that these too are life, and in noticing them, you are honouring something deeper. This may sound worthy but the incidences themselves are not – the frantic dash for the last train, the drunken confessional moment staring at graffiti above a urinal, the glimpse of an illuminated room from a passing taxi, a shredded barely-legible poster or a neon sign above a backstreet door, a lucid moment in a ket-bumping pisshead’s lost night, a chant in a Romford street or a Manhattan canyon, a billboard on the A13 or Times Square, a whispered sentence from someone you will never see again.
