Monday 14/04/08 Trentemoller @ The Forum, London

It's 10:45pm at the Forum. There's a thousand people in here and they're horny as hell. Like the visuals of Betty Page earlier in the set, Trentemøller has built the audience into a sexual frenzy, teased them with ambient rushes, lashed them with filthy electro. And then, just as the they're finally getting off, just as the last gushing thrusts of ‘Rykketid’ are due to burst forward like a massive volcano of electronic lust, he cuts the song, ends the foreplay, denies us our money shot. Anders Trentemøller, dressed in black, gothic fringe dripped in sweat, looks at the panting, shattered crowd, grins and walks off stage.

Any other artist would thrust to the very end, give the audience what they want and roll over and light up. Not Trentemøller. Intent on subverting our preconceptions about live dance music, Anders takes the seductive texture and moody electronica, so delicately crafted on his acclaimed debut The Last Resort, and crushes it into an infectious, raw experience that ranks alongside the best that Chemical Brothers, Primal Scream and the Prodigy can offer.

A bold statement, but when the crunching 'Evil Dub' gives way to the first evocative notes of ‘Moan’, it's as rapturous as being on the receiving end of any performance of Loaded or Block Rockin' Beats. Moan, an absolute classic of stirring, filthy analogue, intense dub and seductive melancholy, is just waiting for the world to catch up before it takes its rightful place as a festival classic. Hammering away at the banks of electronics and flanked by the incredible duo of Mikael Simpson and Henrik Vibskov on bass and drums respectively, Trentemøller turns such intricate electronica as Moan, or the David Lynch eerie-ness of ‘The Very Last Resort’, into a captivating experience.

‘Always Something Better’, bass punching you square in the back, beats pounding ever harder, takes the intensity ever further, and then ‘Rykketid’, with it's swirling techno bleeps and marching Seven Nation Army sample, builds repeatedly to that suggestive sexual-electro peak. Of course it never comes. Trentemøller, like some cruel techno lothario leaves us in heat, arched on our backs and longing to be finished off, knowing that we'll be back for more.