In the beginning, there was rhythm. Eventually, rhythm became flesh, pulled on its dancing boots, and got large. Somewhere inbetween, there was Stomp. For, way, way back at the dawn of Thatcherism, deserted factories started being pillaged for fun, good times and Art. Dole culture was the mother of invention, as music - and musical instuments - was forged out of inner-city debris, while the shells of what once were industrial estates became home to the new underground, where rhythm was king, queen, and everything inbetween.

Busking became about more than playing off-key Dylan on a five-string guitar, and soon, inspired by imported hip-hop and break-dancers, Covent Garden smashed and grabbed at a stylish and cheeky new sound, while the ICA reverberated to the sound of drills putting holes in its floor.

Nearly 20 years on, such shock tactics look daft, the ''alternative'' cabaret scene Stomp grew out of may have become the new light-entertainment aristocracy, and the social context be near-as-dammit unrecognisable, but Luke Cresswell and Steve McNicholas's back-alley ballet is no less exhilarating. From a gentle sweeping-the-stage beginning, the eight dancer/percussionist/ pugilists - all Doc Martens and utility chic - bring oil drums, water-coolers, paint strippers, lighters, matches, and eventually an entire junkyard orchestra centre-stage in a workers' playtime that leaves wussy tights and tutus on the floor.

There's something here about the dignity of labour, and there's something about how work and play interact. Mostly, though, it's meaty, beaty, big and bouncy non-stop fun, which even appreciates that, yes, silence is a rhythm, too.

If it looks dated it's only because it's over-long. On the other hand, if films like The Full Monty, Brassed Off, and Billy Elliot can show the world how creativity can come out of an altogether different kind of boot kicking working-class communities where it hurts, maybe there's a whole lot more leather left in Stomp's sole yet.