Overstuffed with record-geek enthusiasm and overwhelming in its insistence on flaunting it, Fatboy Slim’s second and biggest album is also so obviously fun and joyful that it almost feels like a trick of some kind. It’s not — Norman Cook just hit right at the heart of about fifteen different things that made fifteen different scenes tick, synthesized it all into a sort of omnigenre that sounded like a mash-up mix of songs that nobody knew but somehow already loved, and took itself so unseriously that getting mad at it seemed like falling for an even more diabolical trick. A lot of this stuff still hits as pure nostalgia for the late ‘90s’ fizzy optimist frivolity — and as resoundingly popular goofball novelty goes, the world-conquering centerpiece “The Rockafeller Skank” stays charming by fully committing to the bit without ever letting slip if its funky-surfer-spy-a-go-go vibe is being deliberately silly or not. That un-self-conscious playfulness benefits the lion’s share of the tracks here, where even the more potentially obnoxious conceits — the gelatinous, inebriated lurch of gratuitous f-bomb conveyance system “In Heaven,” the Playskool Troutman electro-acid-bossa cha-cha “Kalifornia,” the DJ Muggs-does-Silly Symphonies b-boy bounce “You’re Not from Brighton” — are too cheerfully magnanimous to ever be irritating. If that seems like faint praise, the best stuff here deserves more a unreserved variety, and not just for the Camille Yarbrough-reworking warmth of the unguarded soulful sincerity of “Praise You”. There’s legit beauty in the opening salvo of “Right Here, Right Now” and its ascent into orchestral psychedelia, the Cold Chillin’-caliber “Gangster Trippin” revives the giddier side of ‘88 hip-hop beats in the midst of the shiny-suit era, and the closing 303 barrage of “Acid 8000” boasts the kind of wait for the drop dynamics that still set nervous systems fluttering more than a quarter-century later.