Orange rhymes with nothing
but we'll go there anyway:
Will the big guys get punk funk?
by PHILIP WHITE
To the relief of the fine wine makers of Orange, the vast majority of 'orange' wines are not from Orange. Nor are they made from orange juice. Nor, at least to this partially colourblind writer, are they particularly orange in colour. They are, however, generally murky fermented grape products, much in the manner of good old-fashioned scrumpy cider. Like cider, they vary widely in quality.
The cornerstone of the punk movement was its denial of traditional musicianship. Where complex jazz chord structures were beginning to sneak in to your standard old twelve bar rock'n'roll, any snotnose gutter rat could pick up a trashed Gibson, Fender bass or Rickenbacker, wind the Marshall stack up to eleven and bash away at one or two chords. Sometimes the only bars evident were ones in which the stars drank themselves to death. Attitude replaced scholarly musicianship and the untrained, largely bored marketplace soon enjoyed the brash cheek and audacious disrespect the new practitioners displayed in short aggro bursts between extreme drinking sessions and terminal drug consumption.
Broken equipment that sounded that way replaced the stifling rote standardisation of the studios with their impossible expense and clever, well-behaved producers.
Out of this, perversely, came the movement actually called industrial music, led by the likes of Throbbing Gristle and Cabaret Voltaire. Mockingly: a kind of full circle. Metal machine music.