You would be correct in thinking that Grade I-listed Georgian halls and brazen US rap-metal might make unorthodox bedfellows. Even Limp Bizkit frontman Fred Durst had his doubts about tonight’s setting. “Halifax, motherfucker!” he shouts. “I had no idea that the energy was gonna be this fucking dope”. Yet the nu-metal elders transform this elegant Calder Valley market hall into a cauldron of irresistible new-millennium noise. Back in 2000, the Jacksonville quintet’s third album, Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water, made them one of the biggest bands on the planet, and Fred Durst one of the most contentious characters in music. The band caught some retrospective flak again last year after the release of Netflix’s Trainwreck: Woodstock 99 – a docuseries capturing the carnage of that doomed festival. They were accused of inciting riots during their performance, though Durst has maintained his band’s innocence, saying the organisers were looking for a scapegoat. “All drinks are free for the next 45 seconds but water’s $10,” he quips tonight, in an apparent reference to the festival’s infamously inflated prices. Now 52, sporting a giant gold chain, oversized football jersey and a bushy, white beard, Durst looks like a rap-rock Santa Claus. “Play something that Tom Cruise would like,” he says to guitarist Wes Borland. He’s referring to the Mission: Impossible-infused Take a Look Around, which ushers in a whirlwind of mosh pits and airborne lager. They spoil My Way by shoehorning a couple of shoddy Nirvana covers into the mix, and the frequent interludes begin to grate. But an anthemic tonic is never far away. A stormy rendition of Boiler puts the spotlight on Sam Rivers’ dexterous and pensive bass playing. Borland is one of modern metal’s most esteemed players – more for his side projects and avant garde solo work – but he’s best known for Break Stuff’s laden, down-tuned riffs. Almost a quarter of a century on from its release, the song remains a rock club floor-filler, with its millennial angst and aggro rebellion. The entire courtyard of the Piece Hall is soon transformed into a sea of bouncing bodies. “Give me something to break!” thousands roar back at Durst. At this point, Limp Bizkit trade in nostalgia so completely that it’s almost admirable – you could make a lethal drinking game tied to Durst saying “party like it’s 1999”. But when it’s delivered with this much gusto and temerity, resistance is futile.