Hear the drummer get wicked

About this time every summer I get a bit of a thing for dance music. It normally comes before Brighton Pride. Anyway, you can set your clock by it. It passes and I normally slip back into Classic FM but at its highest point the car rattles and little children scatter on my approach. In fact, were it a BBC wildlife programme in glorious HD the money shot would be my head doing beats like a nodding dog. It's not big, it's not clever, it's your dad dancing.