Orbital: Architects of Rebellion

On Saturday June 28, Orbital - brothers Phil and Paul Hartnoll - will close our Concert Hall with a live set. For over 35 years, their name has been synonymous with electronic music’s most thrilling contradictions: euphoric yet cerebral, anarchic yet precise, rooted in rave culture yet endlessly inventive. From their 1990 breakout Chime to their explosive Glastonbury sets, Orbital has never followed a script. Unlike all their peers, they only do live shows, for example. Although they do not like to be called so - they are true icons. This is the story of how two working-class siblings from Kent became heroes of electronic rebellion and why their music still ignites dancefloors - and imaginations - decades later.

Orbital’s origin story reads like a punk manifesto written with synthesisers. In the late ’80s, Phil (a trained bricklayer) and Paul (a former folk dancer) transformed the space under their parents’ stairs in Kent into a DIY studio filled with discarded analogue gear: a Yamaha four-track recorder, a Roland SH-09 synth and a secondhand TR-909 drum machine. When everyone else upgraded to digital, these two would buy all the ‘outdated’ gear for pennies. “We weren’t musicians,” Paul recalls. We were composers with screwdrivers.” This messy approach defined their sound. When their battered Jupiter-6 synth started making boiling kettle noises during sessions for Belfast, they sampled the malfunction rather than fix it, creating one of their most haunting tracks. “That’s the Orbital way,” Paul explains. “Turning broken gear into art.”

Their 1989 demo Chime, recorded in a single take, became an accidental anthem. Its metallic melodies and jackhammer beats fused Detroit techno’s futurism with the raw energy of UK punk. “We didn’t want to make club tools,” says Phil. “We wanted songs - something that could soundtrack both a warehouse rave and a pissed-off teenager’s bedroom.” The track’s DIY grit caught the ear of many DJs at the time, but Orbital’s refusal to conform almost derailed them early. When Chime hit number 17 in the UK charts, label executives demanded a follow-up. Instead, they released Satan- a nine-minute industrial funeral song inspired by Thatcher-era disillusionment. “We were told it was career suicide,” laughs Paul. “But that’s when we knew we’d made it.” It’s this devil-may-care attitude that made the duo so damn enjoyable.

Orbital’s name nods to London’s M25 orbital motorway—the artery of the ’80s free party scene. Paul still remembers illegal raves in King’s Cross warehouses, where punk bands shared floorspace with acid house DJs. But the scene had a dark side. In 1989, Paul was beaten by police during a raid, an incident captured in the documentary A Trip Around Acid House. “They trashed our gear, arrested everyone,” he says. The trauma seeped into their music: that 1991 protest track Satan we just mentioned samples his younger self describing the attack.

These experiences shaped their political edge. “Rave was resistance,” says Phil. “Thatcher tried to kill it with the Criminal Justice Act, but we outlasted her. Now, we’re fighting Brexit and austerity. The beat goes on." Political rebellion also defines their DNA. In 1990, they wore anticapitalist t-shirts on Top of the Pops - a middle finger to Thatcherism. “We’ve always been agitators,” says Paul. “If we did Top of the Pops today, we’d probably wear ‘F*** Brexit’ shirts.”

By 1994, Orbital had become festival pioneers. Their Glastonbury sets - performed in front of 40,000 people, many of whom had never seen electronic music on a main stage before - rewrote the rulebook. “Indie kids dragged there by mates left as converts,” Phil laughs. “We were the Trojan horse for techno.”

Their 1994 performance, sandwiched between Björk and Pulp, became legendary. Armed with their signature ‘torch glasses’, they unleashed Halcyon+on+on, a euphoric mashup of Opus III’s It’s a Fine Day, and Bon Jovi’s You Give Love a Bad Name. “The crowd went silent, then exploded,” says Paul. “That’s when festivals realized dance music wasn’t just for tents.”

Orbital’s career isn’t a straight line—it’s a zigzag of break-ups and rebirths. After splitting for a while in 2004, Phil tried DJing but faced brutal criticism. A 2005 DJ Mag review sneered: “My two-week-old baby can mix better than Phil Hartnoll.” The culprit? A ketamine mix-up before a Radio 1 Essential Mix. “Someone offered me a ‘line’ - I thought it was coke!” Phil recalls. “I was so wonky, I trainwrecked every transition.”

Their 2009 reunion wasn’t much smoother. During a “farewell” tour, tensions flared. “We’d argue over tempos, synth patches… even tea,” says Paul. But fans stuck with them. “Our crowd’s loyal,” Phil notes. “They’d yell, ‘Just hug already!’ during fights onstage.”

Orbital’s live shows have become legendary for their chaos. Using vintage sequencers, modular synths, and an iPad rigged with custom buttons, they improvise arrangements on the fly. “Our sets are 50% preparation, 50% panic,” Paul admits. Memorable mishaps include muting the drums and bass simultaneously during a headline slot.

This punk spirit extends to their disdain for anything polished. “Too many electronic acts sound like their CD,” Phil scoffs. “We’re rough, raw - like a garage band with £10,000 synths.” Tracks like Belfast and Satan morph nightly, evolving from ambient hymns into industrial freakouts. Even their lighting is anarchic: they’ve swapped flashy LEDs for stark white beams inspired by Queen’s A Night at the Opera. “It’s about the music, not the circus,” says Paul.

COVID-19 forced Orbital into their first hiatus since the ’90s. Paul dove into ’90s West Coast breaks and cooked at a Brighton sushi restaurant (“DJing and chopping fish require the same focus”). Phil, meanwhile, embraced solo production. “Lockdown taught me to finish tracks without Paul nagging me,” he jokes. Their 2023 album Optical Delusion - their 10th - reflects this duality. Tracks like Dirty Rat (with Sleaford Mods) channel post-Brexit rage, while Ringa Ringa reimagines a plague-era nursery rhyme with medieval vocals. “The pandemic made us fearless,” says Paul. “We’ve stopped giving a damn about trends.” “It’s our most personal work,” says Phil. “Like opening a diary we didn’t know we kept.”

In 2025, Orbital is leaner but hungrier. Their current tour features stripped-down production (“More punk, less prog”) and a setlist spanning Chime to Optical Delusion. Yet their legacy looms larger than ever. A ’90s rave revival - driven by Gen Z’s welcome obsession with analog grit - has reintroduced Orbital to new audiences. “My 23-year-old son plays me tracks that sound like 1992,” Phil says. “It’s surreal, but it proves good music is timeless.”

Vinyl reissues of their early albums, Orbital 1, and Snivilisation, have topped indie charts, while TikTok teens dissect their Doctor Who theme remixes. “We’re suddenly cool with people who weren’t born when Chime came out,” Paul marvels. “Maybe we’ll outlive the Beatles.”

Orbital’s genius lies in their contradictions. They’re rave pioneers who sampled Gregorian chants. Working-class lads who scored Paralympic ceremonies (fact). Synth nerds who headlined Glastonbury. Their secret? “We’ve always been outsiders,” says Paul. “Punk kids who loved Donna Summer. Techno producers who quoted Doctor Who.”

Their influence stretches from stadium acts like The Prodigy to avant-garde experimentalists like Four Tet. “Orbital made electronic music human,” BBC Radio 1’s Pete Tong once said. “They brought humour, politics, and mistakes into a genre obsessed with perfection.” As they prepare to headline Paradise City, their message remains unchanged: dance music isn’t about perfection - it’s about feeling. Whether you’re a crusty raver or a TikTok addict, Orbital’s live set promises something rare: a communion of chaos, a celebration of flaws, and proof that dancefloors can still be revolutionary.

Their 2025 festival sets will debut a new track, The Day the Algorithms Died - a frenetic jam critiquing AI-generated music. “It’s our punkest thing yet,” Phil says. “All analog, no laptops. Take that, ChatGPT.” But don’t call them retirement-ready. “We’ll stop when we’re dead,” says Paul. “Or when Phil finally learns to sync a 303.”

We are thrilled to have Orbital at 10 Years of Paradise City for an exclusive live performance at the Concert Hall on Saturday, June 28. We encourage long-time fans and newcomers alike to come and enjoy the ride, wherever they may take us.

Interested in diving deeper into the world of Orbital? Follow the links below:

• 'This is Orbital' Playlist on Spotify.

• Orbital 1 - a remastered version of their original breakout album from 1991.

• Orbital live at Glastonbury 1995.

• Orbital - Snivilisation - a remastered version of another signature album from 1994.

This article was written with the input and quotes of dozens of other previous publications and interviews. Including this piece by Nigal Carr for Louder Than War, this Mixmag interview by Isaac Muk, and this article from The Guardian written by Harriet Gibsone. We highly recommend reading these publications for those who want to dive deeper into the life and work of Orbital.