ALTERNATIVE PRESS Feb. 1999
Modern rock music has a surplus of questions whose answers may never be revealed. Was Kurt Cobain murdered? How would the next Guns N Roses album have sounded if Moby had produced it? Why can't Courtney Love keep a songwriter on retainer like she does her lawyers?
Orgy, a bunch of well-dressed SoCal pups, don't have a knowledge of forensic medicine, repressed memory therapy or an overblown sense of self-worth. But they do offer enough smart melodies, head-banging crunch and electro-kicks to impress even the most fickle music fans. The band obviously called their album Candyass because they wanted to cut off mongoloid rock dullards at the pass, and secondly, because Billy Corgan refused the title for his own record. In one uninterrupted dose, this disc sounds like Marilyn Manson and Duran Duran raging against the pretty hate machine-the band members prefer the term "death-pop."
Candyass' 12 tracks are marinated in digital studio sheen. Guitarists Ryan Shuck and "Space Station" Amir Davidson grapple for control of the songs, but end up serving both headbangers and electronic rivetheads. Jay Gordon affects a British accent in his vocals that makes Gavin Rossdale sound like a native from Iowa. On "Fetisha", the band bear down on a midtempo groove and still heighten the pulse accordingly. Unlike the iceburg-sized morass of industrial rockers out there, Orgy emphasize songwriting ("Stitches" is a rare treat: a hit single with integrity)over the strictly defined parameters of industrial rock. And where do these smug bastards get off stomping metal all over New Order's finest hour, "Blue Monday," a song that was released back when Orgy's members were worrying more about getting their driving permits than hanging out in import record stores...
The cynic is mesays that Orgy are nothing more than hype victims dressed up with hi-tech digital gear and flash wardrobes. But as Modern Rock gets even more regimented in its factions, Orgy have the ability to hold their ground in front of a mosh pit or a dance club, drinking their competition under the table while receiving hummers from the girlfriends of myopic nitwits who still wear KMFDM t-shirts. Tune in, plug in, rock out. -Jason Pettigrew