Spare a thought for your poor parents. Imagine how incredibly dull their teenage years must have been, with only the occasional school disco to look forward to. Not so for us, born after the birth of the modern club. We pay the cover charge, we get in, we drink, we dance. If your cash stretches far enough to get you into one of the big 'uns, the Fabrics and Matters of the scene, maybe you can dance to one of the superstar DJs that started popping up like pimples in the late 90s, dance music's awkward adolescence. On a good night, with the right ratio of blood to alcohol, it can be exhilarating.

But when my wallet starts to strain under the pressure of another £7 Red Bull and vodka, I sometimes start to feel like I've been sold a lie. Truth is, clubs were never really designed with music in mind, or even with teenagers in general. Our current licensing laws - the ones that allow venues to play loud music and stay open all night - were pushed through by the last Conservative government, in a desperate bid to put an end to the illegal raves that were taking place all over the country, in fields and warehouses, where Ribena was the drink of choice because liquor would ruin your ecstasy high, and where half the music you were listening to had been written the day before in the DJ's garage. The 'true' youth culture: hardcore.

It's an idealised picture, but it's one you'll find plastered all over FFF's album, which is a riot from start to finish in an almost literal sense. And would you really expect anything less from a resident of Rotterdam, a city whose 200 beats-per-minute gabba scene is notorious for pushing electronic music to its terrifying (and borderline unlistenable) limits? For me, then, the truly incredible thing about FFF (whose name doubles as the notation for as loud as humanly fucking possible in sheet music), is his ability to channel all the chaotic, sample-heavy power of hardcore into something that, inexplicably, makes total sense.

There's a lot to unpack in a track like 'Tek Back Na Talk', which starts up with a rapid volley of ragga vocal samples, before segueing into a typically brutal series of breaks. All par for the course as far as raggacore is concerned, and although it's done well, it's only at about the two minute mark, when he brings in a Miracle Maker vocal sample and places across an absurdly bastardised NWA beat, that you begin to really get a sense of FFF's prodigious creativity.

Other tracks are just superbly well worked. The rave piano of 'The Power' is wonderfully authentic. On 'Sensation', (one of the few tracks on the album without an overt ragga influence) the main break disappears for a full minute as the track builds, before finally crashing back in again to cataclysmic effect. Once again, there's a sting in the tail, as FFF layers not one but three hoover basses on top of one another towards the end of the track in a moment of pure mentalism. It's this sense of complete unpredictability that makes 20,000 Hardcore Members sound simultaneously nostalgic and cutting edge.

The album isn't perfect, a couple of tracks do feel a tad underwhelming in comparison to the belters. There's also the small problem that, if you want a physical copy, you'll have to import it from tsunami-torn Japan. If there is one major let down, though, it's that an LP is absolutely the wrong way to be experiencing this kind of sound. For those of you lucky enough to have tickets to the (resolutely underground) Bangface Weekender in May, you'll be able to hear FFF in something close to a 'natural' environment.

For everyone else, I urge you to at least give this a listen. If nothing else, it's a hell of a lot of fun.