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When it comes to Fatboy Slim, British musician Norman Cook's disc-spinning alter ego, U.S. dance scenesters are split. One camp sees him as a terrifically entertaining personality who's introduced untold thousands of tailfeather shakers to a vibrant type of music. The other reviles him as a performer who's sold out the genre via pop-oriented electro-smashes that steal attention from the form's true innovators.

This division is particular to the States, Cook says: "A lot of the American underground DJs don't want this music to be played on the radio, because they want it to remain theirs -- kind of ghettoized. But that only happens in America. In England, we don't want to be cold. We want to get paid. We want to make a living, so crossing over into the pop media isn't considered to be a bad thing."

Nevertheless, Cook sees some merit in these disparate viewpoints. "I'm not sure where I stand on whether I'm cool or not," he concedes, laughing. "My motivation is to just make music that gets people to smile and dance. I sometimes wish I was a bit less accessible, but that's what comes out. When I try to make a really nasty, underground track, it always ends up with a catchy chorus. So, to be honest, they're both right, apart from the sellout thing -- because I've never promised anything apart from what I've done. I was a sellout to start with."

Cook's irrepressible humor and self-deprecating manner help explain why he's one of the most distinctive individuals in the often faceless dance universe. That's especially true in England, where his unimposing build and rapidly receding hairline haven't prevented him from becoming a major celebrity. His relationship with Zoe Ball, a star in her own right thanks to a prominent gig on BBC radio, has been big news since their 1999 wedding; Cook jokes that "we're the Posh and Becks of the acid-house generation." When the couple briefly separated about two years ago, the press frenzy escalated appreciably, with Cook discovering at one point that his phone had been tapped. In later statements, he downplayed the incident, but he admits that "I wasn't relaxed about it at the time. It was scary. Still, I'm very wary not to bite the hands that feed me when it comes to talking about the English tabloids. The more you wind them up, the more they do to you. If I said rude things about them and went off on what fuck-alls they were -- hypothetically if I did that, you understand -- they'd say doubly rude things back. So I'm quite reserved."

Despite this wise course of action, the paparazzi keep coming around -- no surprise, given that Cook lives next door to none other than Paul McCartney. Cook says he and Sir Paul "never talk music. I'm such a Beatles fan that if we did, I'd bore the pants off him." Rather, "we compare notes about dodgy figures. If there's a photographer prowling around, we phone each other up and say, 'Watch out.'"

Such tales show how prescient Cook was when he decided to call the second Slim full-length You've Come a Long Way, Baby. The 1998 disc spawned a pair of the era's most infectious dance singles, "Praise You" and "The Rockafeller Skank," but it also raised expectations for his subsequent work to a level that he's had a hard time meeting. His newest album, Palookaville, issued last October on the Astralwerks imprint, earned lukewarm notices and underwhelming sales, although Cook is quick to point out that "it's only a relative failure, because You've Come a Long Way went quadruple platinum. It's still a hit record in my head, and half a million people went out and bought it. A lot of dance artists would give their eyeteeth to sell that many records."

Indeed, numbers like these are more common among acts that surf the musical mainstream, as Cook has done for much of his career. Born in 1963, he came of musical age during the earliest blush of punk rock and new wave, back when people played instruments instead of sampling them. His proficiency on the bass and guitar won him membership in the Housemartins, a British cult combo that was more successful in its homeland than on these shores. As the replacement for founding Housemartin Ted Key, Cook contributed to a couple of well-regarded LPs, 1986's London 0 Hull 4 and 1987's The People Who Grinned Themselves to Death, before the band dissolved. The divorce was reportedly prompted by creative differences, and that dreary cliche appears to have been true in this case, since Cook's next project, Beats International, largely eschewed the Housemartins' catchy jangle. Instead, the Beats' 1989 debut platter, Let Them Eat Bingo, attempted to bridge the gulf between pop and dance by mating pounding rhythms with contributions from guest stars such as Billy Bragg -- hardly the most disco-friendly performer.

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Michael Roberts has written for Westword since October 1990, serving stints as music editor and media columnist. He currently covers everything from breaking news and politics to sports and stories that defy categorization.
Contact: Michael Roberts

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