Post Punk

RETROSPECTIVE: The Art Punk Blueprint Of Chairs Missing

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Nearly half a century after its release to a mixed response from fans and music writers , Wire’s ‘Chairs Missing’ continues to sound like a transmission from the future. While punk’s original fury has long since fossilised into museum pieces, this extraordinary second album remains as sharp, relevant and bewildering as the day it emerged from London’s art-school underground in 1978. No more punk of Pink Flag, synthesisers, atmospheric production and intricate arrangements had the hardcore punks scratching their heads.

What makes an album endure when so many of its contemporaries have faded into historical curiosity? How did four unassuming blokes in sensible jumpers manage to create a blueprint that’s still being copied today? And why does ‘Chairs Missing’ sound more modern than records released last week?

In this retrospective, I explore how Wire’s clinical precision, ruthless economy and gift for subversive melody created something that transcended its punk origins to become one of the most influential albums in rock history. From the metronomic menace of ‘Practice Makes Perfect’ to the gorgeous brevity of ‘Outdoor Miner’, ‘Chairs Missing’ didn’t just predict the future of guitar music – it wrote the instruction manual.


Looking back from our vantage point nearly half a century on, it’s almost impossible to overstate just how thoroughly Wire’s ‘Chairs Missing’ rewrote the rulebook. Released in that feverish summer of ’78 when punk was busy eating itself and disco was conquering the globe, this magnificent second album stands as the moment when four art-school oddities from London quietly laid the foundations for post-punk, alternative rock and about a dozen other genres that didn’t even have names yet.

What’s most striking today is how startlingly modern it still sounds. While the Sex Pistols’ once-revolutionary racket now feels like historical tourism (if you’re interested there is an actual Punk Tour of London), ‘Chairs Missing’ could have been recorded last Thursday. The clinical precision of ‘Practice Makes Perfect’, with its metronomic pulse and Colin Newman’s clipped vocals, created a template that bands are still copying today, whether they know it or not.

Wire’s great trick was ruthless economy. Nothing wasted, everything measured, not an ounce of fat or self-indulgence. When they emerged from the punk scene, they ditched the bondage trousers and safety pins while keeping the urgency and directness. To this unruly mix they added something genuinely new, a cool, analytical intelligence that treated the studio as a sterile surface lab and pop music as an experiment worth conducting properly.

‘I Am The Fly’ still buzzes with menace, Newman’s proclamation that he’s “the fly in the ointment” serving as the perfect manifesto for a band who were always happiest disrupting expectations. They were provocateurs, but never pranksters because there was too much serious intent behind those deadpan expressions.

The album’s great revelation was how Wire embraced melody without sacrificing their edge. ‘Outdoor Miner’ remains one of the most perfectly constructed pop songs of the era, its fabulous hooks and harmonies smuggled in inside a deceptively simple arrangement. At under two minutes, it demonstrated Wire’s other great talent, knowing exactly when to end a song. No three-minute pop formula for this lot, no siree.

‘Heartbeat’, once merely impressive, now sounds positively prophetic, its pulsing electronic textures and detached vocal style laying groundwork for everything from Joy Division to LCD Soundsystem. When Newman asks “How many heartbeats will there be?”, he’s not just confronting mortality but questioning the very mechanics of existentialism heady stuff for a time when most guitar bands were still bellowing about getting pissed or laid, or even being let out at all.

What’s become clearer with each passing decade is how ‘Chairs Missing’ represented a road map for what intelligent guitar music could be, cerebral without being pretentious, experimental without disappearing up its own backside and genuinely challenging without being unlistenable. In their forensic deconstruction of rock conventions, Wire created something far more durable than the three chord thash and bash of contemporaries.

The influence is simply everywhere: from R.E.M. to Radiohead, Elastica and Interpol, even Blur – they all owe some debt to Wire’s clinical brilliance. Even younger bands today, with their angular guitars and oblique lyrics, are still dipping into the well that Wire dug with ‘Chairs Missing’.

Nearly fifty years on, this remains the sound of a band operating with absolute clarity of purpose, creating music that existed entirely on its own terms whether that was jagged or etherial. While countless landmark albums from the period have aged like milk left out of the fridge, ‘Chairs Missing’ stands pristine and untarnished, still bewildering, still thrilling, still essential and still played.

Not bad for a bunch of art-school refugees who looked like mildly rogue bank clerks – which of course was also relatable to anyone making do outside of the Seditionaries clique.

RETROSPECTIVE: The Cure Pornography. Read The Health Warning

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Four decades on, Robert Smith’s darkest hour remains a towering monolith of despair

The Cure Pornography Retro Review

The year is 1982. A pre-Falklands War Thatcher’s Britain is strangling itself, unemployment queues stretch round the block, at RAK studios – the production home of Mickie Most… a mentally exhausted The Cure trio including an actually suicidal Robert Smith are busy raiding the local off-licence and dropping LSD while constructing Pornography. An album set to be a valedictory, instead the fourth of many but in retrospect the most unforgiving album in their catalogue. This is not a weeping song, it’s a weeping album of relentless despair deep in the trenches. I’m trying to think of more angst ridden vinyl before this, Leonard Cohen? he doesn’t touch the sides.

To pin down Pornography’s genre is like trying to nail jelly to the wall blindfolded. Is it goth? Well, it certainly helped birth the movement, though Smith and co. were likely too busy drowning in their own existential mire to notice they were creating a blueprint for a thousand even paler imitators. Post-punk seems closer to the mark, the album shares DNA with the abrasive experimentation of Wire and the introverted intensity of Joy Division, yet it possesses a peculiar self aware grandiosity that sometimes flirts with progressive rock’s theatrical impulses.

The opener, “One Hundred Years,” remains one of the most genuinely unsettling pieces of music committed to vinyl as confirmed by a thousand other reviews over the decades. Simon Gallup’s bass doesn’t so much play as it lurches, each note feeling like a death rattle echoing through a Victorian mausoleum. Lol Tolhurst’s drums don’t keep time, they mark the countdown to apocalypse with Swiss precision. Over it all, Smith’s open but discordant guitar work writhes and contorts like something in its final death throes, whilst his vocals deliver pronouncements of doom with the authority of a biblical prophet having a particularly bad day, ‘Stroking your hair while the patriots are shot’. Cheery.

Smith’s lyrics here read like dispatches from a post-nuclear wasteland, all “caressing an old man” and visions of flesh rotting in slow motion. “It doesn’t matter if we all die,” he intones with the casual indifference of someone reading the shipping forecast, before launching into imagery that makes JG Ballard’s crash fetishists seem positively life-affirming. The repeated invocation of “ambition” becomes less a call to achievement than a bitter mockery of human striving in the face of inevitable decay. It’s dystopian poetry delivered with the matter-of-fact brutality that only someone contemporaneously truly acquainted with despair could muster.

The album’s themes are hardly subtle. Death, execution, decay, sexual obsession, and psychological collapse aren’t just lyrical preoccupations here, they’re the very fabric from which the music is woven. The title track itself is a gruelling eight-minute descent into total madness.

What’s remarkable, and this is an album that has needed the space of time to fully appreciate – but listening back now, is how individual virtuosity serves the album’s suffocating atmosphere rather than showing off for its own sake. A polar opposite of prog. Gallup’s bass playing is masterful, his lines on “The Hanging Garden” provide both melodic anchor and rhythmic propulsion whilst never losing sight of the song’s essential bleakness. Lol Tolhurst, soon to eschew drums for keyboards, proves his worth with drumming that’s both primitive and sophisticated, knowing precisely when to pummel and when to restrain.

You’re drawn into the narrative so deeply that by the time The Hanging Garden begins the assumption is hung as in executed, then you think well, The Hanging Gardens of Babylon were decorative – but by the end you’re covering your face as the animals die. Oh well.

Pornography exists in its own ecosystem, hermetically sealed from the outside world. It’s an album that doesn’t court your affection so much as dare you to spend time in its company. The fact that it spawned a thousand goth clubs and launched a million black-clad disciples is almost beside the point, this is music that transcends subcultural boundaries through sheer force of vision.

Four decades later, as Britain – indeed the world once again finds itself wrestling with its demons, Pornography sounds less like a relic of its time and more like a prophetic statement. It remains The Cure’s most uncompromising work, a 43-minute journey into the abyss that somehow manages to be simultaneously utterly miserable and strangely life-affirming. A album that could leave you with a thousand yard stare. Give me your eyes that I might see, a blind man kissing my hand.

Essential listening, but if you’ve just begun a course of anti-depressants read the side effects first. 

RETROSPECTIVE: The Discomforting Virtuosity Of The Stranglers Prescient Masterpiece

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The Stranglers’ genre-defying third album Black and White.

‘The album’s greatest achievement, visible only in retrospect, is how it managed to bridge multiple worlds simultaneously. It’s European art-rock disguised as British punk, progressive complexity wrapped in new wave accessibility, academic sophistication delivered with street-level aggression. This wasn’t difficult third album confusion, it was cultural synthesis of the highest order.‘

The Stranglers Black and White - Their post-punk defining third album.


The Stranglers in their original line-up have always been an awkward bunch to pin down. Too clever by half for the three-chord merchants, too hard for the art school crowd, and now, nearly five decades later, it’s clear that with Black and White, they were mapping out musical territory that the rest of us are still catching up to. This third LP finds Hugh Cornwell and his merry band of misanthropes wandering off into uncharted territory.

Make no mistake about it, this was never your standard punk fare, and time has only made that more obvious. The album’s position in their canon is rather like that of The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper or Bowie’s Low – it’s when the band stopped being what people expected and took a hard fork and became something else entirely. Where Rattus Norvegicus and No More Heroes could still be filed under “angry young men with guitars,” Black and White reveals The Stranglers as something far more prescient: a band of genuine musical ability who understood that punk’s three-chord limitations were a creative dead end. Dave Greenfield’s keyboards, which seemed so alien to punk orthodoxy in 1978, now sound like a direct line to everything from Joy Division’s atmospheric menace to Depeche Mode’s electronic romanticism.

The album’s opener sets a tone that, viewed from today’s perspective, feels remarkably contemporary. There’s a European sensibility at work here that becomes more significant when you consider Cornwell’s academic background, his time pursuing doctoral studies in Sweden had clearly broadened his musical horizons beyond the parochial concerns of British punk. This is music that breathes Continental air, influenced as much by krautrock and European art movements as by the Ramones or The Sex Pistols. It’s telling that while their punk contemporaries were busy becoming parodies of themselves, The Stranglers were quietly absorbing influences from across the North Sea. “Let me tell you about Sweden!”

The musical sophistication that seemed so controversial at the time now appears as the album’s greatest strength. Jean-Jacques Burnel’s bass doesn’t just anchor these songs; it prowls through them with a melodic complexity that prefigures the art-rock basslines of bands like Radiohead. His French background, combined with Cornwell’s Scandinavian academic experience, created a cultural perspective that was uniquely European within the context of British punk, something that seemed like pretension in 1978 but reads as genuine cosmopolitanism today.

Which brings us to the question of genre, now settled by history’s verdict. This wasn’t punk, it was post-punk before the term existed, nascent yet to be defined new wave, and death and night and blood darkwave a full decade before any Goths claimed it. The progressive rock DNA in instrumental passages and influences that so scandalised the Peaches punk faithful in 1978 now seem like natural evolution rather than betrayal. There’s art-rock sensibilities that align them more to Bryan Ferry’s Roxy Music than Brian James’ era The Damned. When viewed alongside the career trajectories of contemporaries who stayed “pure,” The Stranglers’ willingness to embrace musical sophistication looks like wisdom rather than sell-out.

The pre-Stranglers ice-cream selling Jet Black’s drumming is phenomenal and displays the kind of precision that made contemporaries envious and now sounds like a masterclass in restraint and power. His technical ability, which punk doctrine suggested was somehow inauthentic, has aged far better than the amateur enthusiasm of many of his contemporaries. This was always about more than attitude, it was about creating something genuinely new from the wreckage of rock orthodoxy.

The production, courtesy of Martin Rushent, has aged remarkably well. That claustrophobic intensity, the sense of menace lurking in the spaces between notes, a kind of negative space threat, points directly towards the atmospheric post-punk that would dominate the early eighties. Rushent understood what The Stranglers were reaching for, a sound that was simultaneously ancient and futuristic, rooted in European classical traditions but pointing towards electronic possibilities.

The European influences run deeper than mere musical technique. Cornwell’s academic sojourn in Sweden exposed him to Nordic social democratic thinking, Scandinavian cultural pessimism, and a Continental intellectual tradition that was light-years removed from punk’s British working-class romanticism. You can hear it in the album’s lyrical sophistication, its philosophical undertones, its refusal to offer simple answers to complex questions. This wasn’t just rebellion, it was critique, informed by a broader cultural perspective than most British bands or songwriters could muster.

Lyrically, the album now reads as remarkably prescient social commentary rather than simple provocation. The themes of dystopian late stage capitalism, existential threat, social breakdown and cultural exhaustion that seemed left field shocking in 1978 now feel like accurate prophecy. The Stranglers weren’t just chronicling the decline of British society, they were anticipating the cultural fragmentation and the rise and fall of the Internet and social media that would define the following decades.

The album’s greatest achievement, visible only in retrospect, is how it managed to bridge multiple worlds simultaneously. It’s European art-rock disguised as British punk, progressive complexity wrapped in new wave accessibility, academic sophistication delivered with street-level aggression. This wasn’t difficult third album confusion, it was cultural synthesis of the highest order.

Looking back across the landscape of late-seventies music, Black and White now appears as one of the most innovative albums of its era. While The Clash were already retreating into reggae and rockabilly nostalgia and The Sex Pistols had combusted spectacularly, The Stranglers were quietly creating a template for alternative music that would influence generations of musicians. From the atmospheric post-punk of Joy Division to the electronic experimentation of Kraftwerk’s British disciples, the DNA of Black and White can be traced through decades of innovative music.

In the end, history has vindicated The Stranglers’ refusal to stay within punk’s narrow confines. What seemed like betrayal in 1978 now looks like vision, a recognition that musical progress required synthesis rather than purity, sophistication rather than simplicity, European cosmopolitanism rather than parochial nationalism. Hugh Cornwell’s Swedish academic experience, Jean-Jacques Burnel’s French cultural background, and the band’s collective refusal to be constrained by British musical traditions created something genuinely unique in the landscape of late-seventies music.

Black and White remains uncomfortable listening, but for different reasons now. In an era of algorithmic predictability and focus-grouped lo-fi rebellion, there’s something genuinely subversive about music that refuses easy categorisation. The Stranglers were always outsiders, even within punk’s supposedly inclusive chaos. With Black and White, they staked out territory so far from any mainstream that it took many decades to recognise its importance. Uncomfortable listening for uncomfortable times, which is exactly as it should be, and exactly why it matters more today than ever. What’s that in the shadows?

#NowPlaying – The Stranglers – Toiler On The Sea

ART POP / POP ART: Genesis P-Orridge and Throbbing Gristle

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The Birth of a Proto-Industrial Provocateur

Having grown up around the bleak industrial landscape of Hull in the late 1960s, a young Neil Andrew Megson, later to become Genesis P-Orridge, found himself at the Hull School of Art. Amid the pollution-stained buildings and dockyard silhouettes, this artistic institution became the crucible where Megson’s transformative journey began, a journey that would eventually lead to pioneering work in industrial music, performance art, and radical explorations of identity. Perhaps the most extreme example of the experience of art school manifesting in popular (sic) music.

The port city’s stark contrasts, its bleak post-war architecture juxtaposed against a vibrant underground arts scene provided the perfect backdrop for Megson’s early artistic development. Here, surrounded by the rhythmic machinery of Hull’s factories and the distant calls of ships, the foundations were laid for what would become a revolutionary artistic vision that challenged conventional boundaries of music, gender, and consciousness.

“I never wanted to be an artist in the conventional sense,” P-Orridge would later reflect. “I was more interested in using whatever medium seemed most effective to challenge control structures and question the assumptions underpinning society.”

At Hull, P-Orridge encountered the writings of William S. Burroughs and Brion Gysin, whose cut-up technique would become a foundational methodology not only in P-Orridge’s literary experiments but eventually in the sonic assaults of Throbbing Gristle. The technique involving the physical cutting up and rearranging of text to create new meanings represented a form of artistic détournement that challenged linear narrative and conventional meaning.

Perhaps most significantly, Hull provided P-Orridge with a first taste of institutional resistance to provocative art. While studying there, P-Orridge began mail art projects and early performance pieces that deliberately pushed boundaries of taste and acceptability. These early forays into confrontational art would establish patterns that would define the rest of P-Orridge’s career.

It was during the Hull years that P-Orridge formed COUM Transmissions with Cosey Fanni Tutti in 1969. Initially conceived as a fluid musical and performance art collective, COUM represented a direct application of P-Orridge’s art school philosophy: art should disrupt, challenge and provoke rather than merely decorate or entertain.

The influence of Fluxus, the avant-garde art movement that emphasised the artistic process over finished products, was evident in COUM’s approach. Like many art school graduates who formed bands in this period, P-Orridge saw little distinction between visual art, performance, and music; all were simply different vehicles for expressing ideas and challenging established norms. The entire Art School system served as an incubator for artists and creators to produce work for a burgeoning post-war consumer society

COUM’s performances grew increasingly provocative, incorporating elements of self-mutilation, pornography, and occult symbolism. Their development paralleled similar explorations in Vienna Actionism and other radical performance art movements, but with a distinctly British working-class inflection that added both grit and humour to their provocations.

The culmination of COUM’s art school-inspired approach came with the infamous “Prostitution” exhibition at London’s Institute of Contemporary Arts in 1976. The exhibition, which included pornographic images of COUM member Cosey Fanni Tutti from adult magazines alongside used tampons and other provocative items, caused a national scandal. Conservative MP Nicholas Fairbairn famously denounced the group as “wreckers of civilisation,” a title P-Orridge and company wore with pride.

When COUM Transmissions evolved into Throbbing Gristle in 1976, it represented not an abandonment of art school principles but their logical extension into sound. The four members—Genesis P-Orridge, Cosey Fanni Tutti, Chris Carter, and Peter “Sleazy” Christopherson approached music not as trained musicians but as conceptual artists working in sound.

Throbbing Gristle’s sonic palette of distorted electronics, found sounds, atonal improvisations, and disturbing samples directly reflected art school methodologies. Their approach to music production paralleled the mixed-media assemblages and collages taught in art foundation courses. The band’s very name, Yorkshire slang for an erection, indicated their continued commitment to provocation and their working-class roots.

P-Orridge explained their approach: “We wanted to see if one could make music like an art movement, like Dada or Surrealism, rather than as entertainment… We were interested in information war, in using sound as a weapon, as a tool for change.”

The group’s establishment of Industrial Records and their coining of the term “industrial music” represented a conceptual art move as much as a musical one. The label’s logo, a photograph of the Auschwitz crematorium and slogan “Industrial Music for Industrial People” explicitly positioned their work as a commentary on post-industrial Britain and the mechanisation of society.

Beyond their own creative output, P-Orridge and Throbbing Gristle became nexus points for a wider network of art school graduates working across disciplines. Their association with publications like RE/Search helped disseminate ideas from the European avant-garde and postmodern theory into underground music circles.

P-Orridge, in particular, became a conduit through which concepts from critical theory, occultism, and poststructuralism entered the post-punk musical landscape. The band’s Industrial Records label released work by fellow art school provocateurs like Monte Cazazza and SPK, creating what amounted to a distributed art movement operating under the guise of a record label. This intellectual approach distinguished Throbbing Gristle from many of their contemporaries. While punk often expressed its dissatisfaction through direct, emotional expressions of anger, TG’s approach was more analytical, using strategies of détournement, appropriation, and conceptual framing derived directly from their art school backgrounds.

After Throbbing Gristle disbanded in 1981, P-Orridge continued to apply art school methodologies in the formation of Psychic TV and the Temple of Psychick Youth (TOPY). These projects further developed the idea of erasing boundaries between art, music and life, now central to P-Orridge’s philosophy.

TOPY, in particular, functioned as a kind of alternative art school in itself, with P-Orridge as the provocateur-teacher at its centre. Through publications, rituals, and networking, TOPY disseminated techniques of collage, sigil magic (itself a form of symbolic visual art), and conscious mythmaking to a generation of followers.

In these later projects, the influence of P-Orridge’s art school background remained evident. The cut-up technique first encountered through Burroughs and Gysin became central to TOPY’s magical practices. The network’s visual aesthetic, a mixture of occult symbolism, industrial imagery, and pornography drew on the same transgressive visual language developed during the COUM/Throbbing Gristle years.

Perhaps the most profound expression of P-Orridge’s art school thinking came in the later Pandrogeny Project, undertaken with second wife Lady Jaye Breyer P-Orridge. This project, which involved both partners modifying their bodies through plastic surgery to resemble one another, represented the ultimate extension of art school principles into life itself.

The project explicitly referenced conceptual art precedents like Duchamp’s alter ego Rrose Sélavy and drew on theoretical frameworks around gender and identity that had become staples of advanced art school education by the 1990s. In becoming the artwork, P-Orridge fulfilled the ultimate art school ambition of erasing the boundary between art and life.

P-Orridge described the project as “breaking DNA control,” a phrase that encapsulated their lifelong artistic project of challenging biological, social, and cultural determinism, a project that began in the studios and classrooms of Hull School of Art.

Genesis P-Orridge and Throbbing Gristle exemplify how art school education provided not just technical skills but conceptual frameworks that musicians could deploy to revolutionary effect. Unlike many rock musicians who attended art school but ultimately produced conventional music, TG maintained an uncompromising commitment to the avant-garde principles they encountered in their education.

Their influence extends far beyond the immediate industrial music scene they helped create. The analytical, theory-informed approach to making music pioneered by Throbbing Gristle became a template for generations of experimental musicians who approached their work as conceptual art rather than mere entertainment.

When P-Orridge died in March 2020 (from leukaemia), the obituaries rightly positioned h/er not just as a musician but as an artist whose primary medium happened to include sound. In this, the art school had done its job, not producing a conventional artist, but nurturing a creative revolutionary who used every available tool to challenge, provoke, and transform.

The story of Genesis P-Orridge and Throbbing Gristle reminds us yet again that sometimes the most profound musical innovations come not from conservatories or traditional music education, but from the conceptually rich, boundary-pushing environment of the art school. In their noise, distortion, and transgression, we can hear the echoes of critiques first encountered in the classrooms and studios of provincial British art schools transformed into sounds that would change musical history forever.

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Art Pop / Pop Art: a study of the influences of art school, famous artists and movements on pop and rock music. Those institutions where failure is motivation, where the eccentric and pretentious emerge into the fascinating space where art and music meet.

ART POP / POP ART: Peter Saville, Joy Division & New Order

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The Man Who Framed Post-Punk: How Peter Saville’s art history and graphic aesthetic defined the visual language of Manchester’s most enigmatic bands

In the damp, grey streets of late-seventies Manchester, a revolution was brewing. Not the kind involving barricades and manifestos, but something far more enduring: a marriage of sound and vision that would define an era. While Ian Curtis’ baritone and Bernard Sumner’s clinical guitar lines carved out new sonic territories, another figure, working in silence with Letraset and photographic plates – was busy creating the visual alphabet through which their music would speak to the world.

Peter Saville, 1978 Polytechnic graphic design graduate, typography obsessive, and Factory Records’ design director never actually listened to Joy Division’s debut album before creating its now-iconic sleeve.

“I was given the diagram by Bernard, I had no bloody idea it was a visualization of pulsar waves from a dying star. I just thought it looked… correct.” Peter Saville.

“Correct” is perhaps the understatement of the decade. Reversed so it became white on black and reduced in size, that stark, minimalist rendering of radio waves from pulsar CP 1919 (originally published in the Cambridge Encyclopedia of Astronomy) adorning Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures has become one of music’s most recognisable and relentlessly appropriated images, a visual shorthand for post-punk industrial decay that adorns everything from t-shirts worn by teenagers who weren’t born when Curtis died to coffee mugs cluttering the desks of advertising executives.

The beauty of Saville’s approach was its magnificent detachment. While his contemporaries were slapping together ransom-note typography and day-glo splashes to capture punk’s anarchic spirit, Saville looked elsewhere – to European modernism, to the Bauhaus, to suprematism, futurism and constructivism. His influences weren’t the Sex Pistols but Fortunato Depero, Jan Tschichold and Herbert Bayer. The result was a visual language that felt both timeless and startlingly new: clinical, austere, and brutally elegant. If you’d never been to art school or studied art history this stuff was totally new and refreshing.

“The thing about Factory was that nobody told me what to do. Tony Wilson just handed me a chequebook and said ‘Make something appropriate.’ Can you imagine that happening now?” Peter Saville.

This freedom allowed Saville to create a body of work that functioned as a perfect visual analogue to the music it contained. The frosty minimalism of Joy Division’s “Closer” sleeve featuring a Bernard Pierre Wolff photograph of the Appiani family tomb in Genoa seemed to anticipate the tragedy of Curtis’s suicide rather than react to it. The sleeve was designed before the singer’s death, yet its imagery seemed eerily prophetic.

When Joy Division metamorphosed into New Order following Curtis’s death, Saville’s aesthetic evolved alongside them. The band’s gradual embrace of electronics and dance music found its visual counterpart in Saville’s increasing use of vibrant color and an almost fetishistic approach to production techniques.

“Blue Monday,” New Order’s seminal 1983 12-inch single, came housed in a sleeve that mimicked a 5¼-inch floppy disk, complete with die-cut holes and coded colour blocks. It cost so much to produce that Factory reportedly lost money on each copy sold, despite it becoming the best-selling 12-inch single of all time. When mentioned to Saville nowadays he shrugs with indifference:

“I wasn’t running a business, was I? I was making something beautiful.”

This beautiful impracticality became something of a Saville trademark. For New Order’s “Power, Corruption and Lies” album, he appropriated a classical 19th-century floral painting by Henri Fantin-Latour and juxtaposed it with a colour-coded alphabet of his own devising a system so arcane that even the band couldn’t decipher it without the provided key. The result was a tension between romanticism and modernism that perfectly mirrored New Order’s own fusion of emotional intensity and mechanical precision.

Throughout the ’80s, as New Order’s sound incorporated more elements of New York club culture and Italian disco, Saville’s designs became increasingly sophisticated. The “Technique” sleeve featured saturated Mediterranean blues and architectural elements that nodded to the album’s Ibiza influences, while “Republic” showcased Saville’s growing interest in digital design techniques.

What makes Saville’s work with both bands so influential is not just its striking appearance but its philosophical underpinnings. In an era when most record sleeves were exercises in literal-minded marketing, screaming the band’s name and image at potential buyers, Saville’s designs operated on the radical assumption that the audience was intelligent enough to meet the work halfway.

“I wasn’t interested in selling records,” I was interested in making objects that belonged in the world.” This approach transformed album covers from mere packaging into cultural artifacts in their own right, objects that demanded the same serious engagement as the music they contained.

Four decades on, the partnership between these Manchester bands and their reluctant visual architect remains one of pop culture’s most fruitful collaborations, a case study in how design can amplify rather than merely illustrate musical ideas. In an age of streaming and digital ephemera, when album artwork has been reduced to a postage stamp-sized afterthought, Saville’s monumental sleeves for Joy Division and New Order feel like transmissions from a more visually literate time.

Now adorning tee shirts and mugs, Saville’s designs have assumed a life of their own. “That’s the thing about symbols, once you release them into the world, they don’t belong to you anymore. They have their own lives.”

Much like the music they were created to accompany, Saville’s designs have achieved that rarest of cultural feats, they’ve become both of their time and completely outside it.

Peter Saville studied graphic design at Manchester Polytechnic 1975-78.

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Art Pop / Pop Art: a study of the influences of art school, famous artists and movements on pop and rock music. Those institutions where failure is motivation, where the eccentric and pretentious emerge into the fascinating space where art and music meet.

ART POP / POP ART: Introduction

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The introduction to my book Art Pop / Pop Art: a study of the influences of art school, famous artists and movements on pop and rock music. Those institutions where failure is motivation, where the eccentric and pretentious emerge into the fascinating space where art and music meet.

The Art School Revolution in Rock

It begins with paint splashes before guitar slashes. Hands stained with pigment before calloused by strings. Art school corridors have pumped more revolutionary blood into rock’s system than any conservatory ever could.

Consider the transformative parade of daubers-turned-rockers: Townshend with his windmill arm and operatic ambitions; Ferry, the suave pop-art provocateur; Bowie, that “chameleon, comedian, Corinthian and caricature”; Eno, the polymath dismantling sound like a child with a particle accelerator. This holy lineage stretches from The ‘Stones’ Keith Richards to Pulp’s Jarvis Cocker, with countless visionaries between.

What these visual thinkers brought wasn’t mere decoration but destruction, the impulse to tear down and rebuild. While classically trained musicians polished scales, the art school brigade posed a more subversive question: “Why make music this way at all?”

Canvas and Chord

The art school mentality transformed how music was conceived, packaged, and performed. Album artwork became an extension of the sonic statement. Warhol’s banana for the Velvet Underground announcing its art-house credentials before needle touched vinyl; his provocative zipper for the Rolling Stones. Consider too The Factory, not just Warhol’s silver-walled playground but the Manchester institution founded by art graduate Tony Wilson, who understood that bands like Joy Division and New Order needed proper framing.

Stage design reflected this visual thinking. Bowie’s transformations weren’t costume changes but conceptual renovations, each persona a living installation. Talking Heads’ David Byrne expanded concerts into performance art with his oversized suit and mechanical movements, a visual commentary no conservatory graduate would likely conceive.

The Clash’s aesthetic – sartorially and musically – owed everything to collage techniques from art school. The Pollock splattered Paul Simonon, a serial truant whose father assigned him to copy artistic masters, brought this sensibility to bass playing. Even Malcolm McLaren emerged from art school understanding bands as living artistic movements. Situationist provocateurs with amplifiers.

Conceptual Experimentation

Art school didn’t just transform music’s appearance, it fundamentally altered its sound. The dismantling of rock orthodoxy owes its framework to the experimental ethos of the art studio.

Brian Eno, having ‘Crashed his plane and walked away from it’ emerging from art school with concepts borrowed from John Cage, approached sound as malleable material. His Oblique Strategies cards instructing musicians to “Honour thy error as hidden intention” represented pure art school methodology. His ambient works treated music as environment rather than event, as gallery installation rather than narrative.

Pete Townshend’s concept albums weren’t mere song collections but gestures toward larger meaning, rock equivalents of installation art. His generation’s rebellion against rock’s three-minute constraints paralleled the art world’s expansion beyond traditional frames.

Post-punk’s angular assault on convention (prefigured by Eno’s “Third Uncle” from 1974), Wire’s stark minimalism, and Gang of Four’s razor-sharp deconstructions reflected critical theory central to 1970s art education. These weren’t just songs but sonic arguments – musical essays slicing through cultural assumptions with surgical precision.

A Lyrical Lens

The art school contingent’s most distinctive contribution may have been their observational sharpness. Ian Dury’s Pop Art tribute “Reasons To Be Cheerful, Part 3″ and Ray Davies’ character studies offer forensic examinations of English society, affectionate yet unsparing, finding universal truth in specific detail, 20th Century Hogarth .

Jarvis Cocker brought similar precision to his dissections of class dynamics and sexual politics. His lyrics function as short films, zooming in on telling details with Kubrickian focus. “If you called your dad he could stop it all, yeah!”

Even punk’s compression owed something to art school techniques, the ability to convey volumes through minimal means, musical guerrilla marketing. Steve Jones’ power chords and Joe Strummer’s manifestos demonstrated economy of expression. Bowie’s cut-up lyrical approach borrowed directly from Dadaists and William Burroughs. Creating meaning through collision rather than exposition.

A Broader Brush

This cross-pollination wasn’t merely stylistic but ideological. Pop Art’s appropriation of commercial imagery found its musical equivalent in sampling. Dadaism’s absurdist protest resonated through punk’s deliberate confrontation. Bauhaus principles influenced post-punk’s stark functionalism, literally embodied in the angular sound of that eponymous band.

Perhaps most crucially, art school’s emphasis on vision over technical prowess gave permission to prioritise expression over virtuosity. Three chords became sufficient if they were your three chords, played your way, serving your vision. This democratization of music-making owed everything to art school’s validation of the authentic voice; an ethic continued by Art Brut with their song “Formed a Band.”

A Continuing Legacy

This fertile cross-contamination continues today, though institutional pathways have multiplied. Digital landscapes enable new visual-sonic collaborations, while genres like hip-hop have developed visual literacy and sampling aesthetics paralleling art school methodologies, albeit minestrone of intellectual property. 

What remains constant is the revolutionary potential when visual thinking collides with sonic exploration. When the eye informs the ear and conceptual frameworks shatter musical conventions. From The Beatles to Blur, popular music’s most interesting corners have been mapped by those who see sound as colour, approach composition as collage, and understand music as a multi-sensory experience.

The art school radicalisation of rock wasn’t merely accidental but a necessary infusion indeed rock’s periodic salvation from its own orthodoxies. Long may paint-stained (or mouse-clicking) fingers reach for guitars, synthesisers, and samplers. As you will realise from the following chapters, our ears and entertainment depend on it.

From Art Pop / Pop Art.

Copyright Steve Coulter / 45renegade 2025