Yankee Doodling Dandies

This interview originally appeared in the NME dated 25 December, 1994
words: John Mulvey. pictures: Antony Medley.

Lasers shave the peaks off your skulls. On the screens all around you, dolphins leap gracefully out of the surf. Spotlights by your sides trace rapid arcs across the multitude. From up here, you can see everything.

Far beneath, the myriad tribes of LA clubland flock towards you, towards your totem pole of techno. Immaculately coutured rich kids, high on herbal ecstasy, flit around the base. Japanese students in motorcycle helmets, deely boppers and great shrouds of lurex, cluster by a speaker stack at the far side of the auditorium. Slick Hispanic youths, moustaches just spouting, pose haughtily in the shadows. Two pre-pubescent Bjorkettes, with knobbly knotted hair and tinfoil skirts, look grateful just to have been let in. And Traci Lords, former porn star turned techno starlet, holds court in the guest area, a pimp-styled Perry Farrell skulking in her wake.

Simply everyone down there has come here for you, down there, genuinely enraptured by the lights, by the sound, by everything. Surrounded, you feel incredibly exposed, but somehow very humble. It seems a bit soft when you think about it, but you perceive a real warmth from all these people, a welcoming, infectious sense of joy. "They were so... lovely" is the only way you can describe it all later.

Best of all, they're showing all this attention because of the music that's been playing in your head for years now. The music that sounds, right now, like some of the highest you've ever heard. You flick a switch and the sliding beats speed up a fraction, some kind of heavenly voice swoops in and out, beguilingly.

You look down at the adoring throng once more- before you, behind you, swarming to left and right, utterly transported- and decide to take them higher still.

You select a sample, a lyric that sums up this whole beautiful moment, so simple and yet so profound. Truly, an aphorism for the age. The beats cut out. Here it comes now.

"Oooh, baby, do you know what that's worth?/
Ooh, heaven is a place on earth/
They say in heaven, loves come first/
We'll make heaven a place on earth."

Like, transcendental, guys.

They don't mind a joke, Orbital. More than anyone else in the '90s, perhaps, their music proves that all the bollocks ever written about techno being a spiritually uplifting, primitive bonding music can be true. Sometimes, it really does seem as if these coursing melodies are as, yes, transcendental as music could ever be.

Then, thankfully, the silliness kicks in. Belinda Carlisle's none-too-dulcet tones gatecrash the mix, the lush eco-propaganda on the video screens is replaced by spinning kitchen utensils. People stop looking like they're having a close encounter and start laughing. One boy turns to his girlfriend, grins elatedly, kneels down and snuggles his head against her stomach... But why blame Orbital for that, when dodgy 'legal highs' are being sold by the proverbial shitload outside in the car park?

Instead, blame Orbital for making 4,000 wildly varying types of Los Angeles fans dance madly, behave a bit stupidly, and maybe- at least briefly- ponder the fact that the planet's in a bit of a shitty state. Blame them, too, for releasing the best and most thought-provoking album of the year, for turning the Saturday night at Glastonbury into the most downright fabulous rave of 1994, and for constantly, throughout the decade, proving that techno can be intelligent, stimulating and, frankly, totally excellent fun.

That, more or less, is what they've done. Take that album, 'Snivilisation,' a record that coolly and subtly analyses- with judiciously placed samples- the chronic condition of the world, toys wittily with the odd metaphysical biggie- does God exist? Can philosophy and technology be effectively reconciled?- and still sounds bloody marvellous at parties.

Consider, too, the way it seamlessly mixes pure pounding techno, rich and often neo-classical melodies, a frisson of fresh new jungle beats, a host of ethereal voices and some snotty old hardcore punk. 'Snivilisation' is the '90s record that finally, completely lives up to the hype: the one you can dance to without bothering to switch off your brain.

Even here, at the Shrine Auditorium- the Oscars venue- in downtown Los Angeles, in a country where techno remains largely marginalised and underground, the effect of Orbital is staggering. The local rave scene is fraught with problems: the original venue, in elegant Long Beach, had its licence revoked after a hysterical local newspaper columnist claimed that techno all-nighters were havens for increasing numbers of crystal meth (an intensely powerful. speed-like drug - Ed) users. The Shrine, in a far poorer area on the edge of the notorious South Central, is evidently a far more acceptable place for Californian youths to get f---ed-up.

There are whispered accusations of racism angled at promoters, too. Techno is increasingly popular amongst gangs of Hispanic teenagers, attracted to what they see as its pulverising machismo. But many fail to hear about raves, their names carved of mailing lists by bigots who weed them out by postcode. The dazzling variety of street kids, club flamingos, chancers and dancers here tonight is plainly the exception rather than the rule, testament to Orbital's crowd-pleasing populism.

So big, so widescreen, so celebratory has it become, in fact, that a strange thought sneaks up. With contemporaries like The Orb slowly but surely disappearing up their own arses, isn't it conceivable that Orbital could, in the next couple of years, grow way beyond the confines of the club world and ultimately, become the first of a startling new behemoth breed - a stadium techno band? If, of course, they wanted to......

Are we here? Midnight, 24 hours earlier. It is far colder than any of the TV shows made you believe Los Angeles could ever be. Out on Hollywood Boulevard, the sidewalks crawl with America's most fashionable new underclass- mohawked and green-haired middle-class punk kids. One of them has attacked Doris Day's star on the Walk of Fame. It now reads 'GREEN Day'.

Meanwhile, elf-like, preturnaturally happy Scientologists scurry around a cosy hardboard cottage set in a landscape of purest white: L Ron Hubbard's Winter Wonderland. Christmas in California, and everyone- as some old friends of Traci Lords almost claimed - wants to walk in the fake snow and not leave a footprint.

The Roosevelt Hotel stands across the road from Mann's Chinese Theatre, an ornate leftover from '20s Hollywood decadence slowly and inexorably sliding downmarket. There, sipping pina coladas in the lobby and surrounded by their faithful entourage, sit Paul and Phil Hartnoll, readying themselves for the last gig of an abbreviated American tour.

Today they have shaken off touring blues to turn into excited kids at Universal Studios, ducking attacks by Jaws' great white shark and King Kong, surviving an earthquake an, most horrifically, being patronised to the brink of death by the failing actress-cum-guide. They have played an immaculate hour-long live set for KCAK, a radio station in Santa Monica, before an audience of approximately seven people. Now they want to eat, drink, get wrecked and sit in the hotel's outdoor spa pool, as any budding stadium star would when in California. First, though....

You can tell Orbital are family. It's in the way they bicker, the way they've been around each other long enough to pick petty arguments with each other and not worry about the consequences. Often, you have the distinct feeling that their strategies for life are gradually moving apart, and that the band is being stretched as a result, for better or worse. Phil, the elder, is strikingly open and friendly, eager to please, endearingly naive in his appreciation of the fans and his hatred of music biz machinations. He thinks a lot about his family.

Paul is just as friendly, but wry and cynical, too. He's much more to the point than his amiably waffling brother, and you sense, through tiny glimpses of irritability, that he can get a lot angrier, too. He thinks a lot about Star Trek.

Together, they seem unlikely studio boffins, but also unlikely international superstars. That, perhaps, is the point.
It has, by any standards, been an extraordinary year for Orbital- something that they'll agree on.

"It definitely exploded after Glastonbury," says Paul, reflecting on 1994 in his poolside room, "but it kicked off at the beginning of the year, getting the NME award (Vibes Best Dance Act). I found all that very odd, finding myself at an awards ceremony I just thought, 'Wow, this is really glitzy, and they've got Vic and Bob presenting them.. . I want to win! I want to win! 'Cos I want to go and shake their hands!'"

"But the penny dropped for a lot of people with Glastonbury," adds Phil.
Paul: "There was just this massive, massive crowd, and the only way we could tell whether they liked it was when we stopped for a moment. I heard this roar, and I thought, 'F---in' hell!' It was far too huge not to get to you."

"It makes it worthwhile," says Phil earnestly, slipping into the soul-searching mode that seems characteristic, " 'Cos sometimes you wonder why you're doing it. Occasionally, I worry about being part and parcel of the whole industry, 'cos I think it's pretty f---ed. It's a very male-dominated, bollocks industry. It's very closed-minded. All they're interested in is making money."

"But I've known that from the outset," says Paul, dryly scornful. "That's no surprise. The thing that surprised me this year is that, because of winning the award, getting Glastonbury, getting to Number Four in the album charts, there's all these other- in record company terms- territories. They've ignored you so far, but all of a sudden there's a massive demand on your time. All of a sudden you've become a pawn in corporate power games between press officers in different countries. It's like, 'God, I hate flying, and you want me to fly to Germany for three hours?'"

"There is so much shit you have to suffer," Phil continues, "and sometimes you wonder, 'What the f--- am I doing this for? I can make music, I don't have to sell it. OK, I might have to take up another job so I can survive, but...'"

Paul: "I always pose one question to people who do creative things: 'Would you still do it if you were the last person alive? If there was nobody to listen, would you still do it?' And I don't know the answer to that, I don't know if I would. . . "

How close have you come to packing it all in?
"Oh, very close," answers Phil, disconcertingly fast. "A lot of times. It's difficult for me, 'cos every time I'm away on tour I'm forcing my wife Rachel to basically be a single parent with two very energetic children. She's a career girl, and she wants to do her own thing, and I feel like I'm forcing her to be the woman at home. And I never ever wanted to force her into that position. That plays on my mind quite a lot. But she's been brilliant."

His brother, predictably, is more positive.
"Even if something goes wrong and somebody f---s up, we're still in a better position than we were one year ago. You do get stressed out, but it's like, 'Hang on, you're in a seriously lucky position, don't worry about it. Just enjoy it...."

For the most part, in spite of the angst and griping, you get the impression Orbital have enjoyed 1994. After all, they've succeeded without compromising their sleek, eclectic techno, without bowing to the dirtier, funkier, hip-hop influenced grooves that have dominated the dance world - apart from jungle - this year.

That success has, for one thing, allowed them to tour Britain, Europe and bits of America, headlining shows and bringing with them their own paraphernalia - notably the tower that places them in the middle of dancefloors, drawing the audience around them. And for another thing, it got them invited to Woodstock.

"That was funny," says Paul, treating the ridiculous mudfest with more tolerance than most other survivors. "It was a little too much how I'd imagine an American football game to be, just full of pizzas and Pepsi. It wasn't bohemian enough for my liking, after being used to Glastonbury for ten years."

"I thought, on the whole, Ravestock was brilliant," Phil agrees. "I wandered around, saw all the corporate shit, the mobile satellite dishes, everything like that, and I thought, 'This is dis-gusting. But then I thought, 'Well, we're in America, why should I expect anything different? This is a 20th-century festival. The festival will be televised. But it did seem to be organised in quite a headless chicken fashion. Nobody seemed quite sure what they were doing.
"That's Americans, though," continues Phil. "They walk around with their utility belts and clipboards and timetables..."
"...And radio mics..."
"And uniforms, and they look so efficient, but when you try and get them to organise something it just doesn't happen. We got the impression every time someone picked up a walkie-talkie they were saying, 'Excuse me, can anybody tell me why I've got a walkietalkie?'"

After that, the first headlining tour of Britain must have been less of an ordeal, surely?
"I enjoyed it," says Paul, "but I found it daunting."
Phil looks baffled. "In what way?"
"The responsibility. It was quite freaky."
His brother's agitated now. "But in what way? Why was it freaky? 'Cos we took the bull by the horns and said, 'Let's do our own night'?"
"It wasn't unpleasant, but I didn't quite feel I was acting myself. I was quite reflective, a but tense, a bit apprehensive, a bit concerned. I felt that if someone had a problem I was responsible."
"But it was a celebration. It was a hundred times better than we ever expected it to be. Even on a Monday night in Bangor. It was f---ing brilliant."

Strange the way the brothers take up antagonistic positions and sometimes the opposite ones to those you expect. So Phil can worry about being away from home and totally glory in the success of the tour. So Paul can be more pragmatic about taking care of the business, but then worry about the minutiae and pressure far more, and then sounding exactly like his brother:
"I feel like the place I live in is a bit of a guest house, like a hotel I go to regularly in London. I miss the ability to relax properly. It's like we've been interailing a few months......."

There is a violent banging on the door. Orbital's manager is stood outside, near-naked, soaking wet, and, perhaps, drunk. He has been thrown out of the hotel pool by a security guard. He is shivering. He is shouting. And, most obviously, he is not in an ideal mood for listening to his protégés reflecting on the complex nature of fame. The interview, it seems, is over.

The next day is the last day of the tour. Orbital are interviewed by Traci Lords, branching out into journalism for the first time. There is, apparently, no end to the woman's talents. Afterwards, we drive up to the Griffith Observatory, high above Los Angeles, where part of Rebel Without A Cause was shot. Far beneath, the city stretches out for miles through ghettoes and malls, through suburbs and business centres, through movie lots and crack houses, all the way to the beach and to the sea. Besides the clubbers and starf---ers and proto-stars and wannabe gangbangers, all human life really is here.
Just like they did at the gig, Orbital look down at it all, at the shrunken boulevards filled with traffic, at the great pall of smog that epitomises western snivilisation. It, too, is, undeniably, mind-blowing. Up here, though, there's no contact, no warmth, no sense of community. Top of the world, for sure, but maybe, just maybe, right now they're not quite sure any more that it is the happiest place to be....
Time to climb down and go home.

[ Also: Suburban Spacemen, Orbiting the Feile and interviews ]