The Cortinas
MK. 1

The whole story begins with this guy Frederick Taylor who, instead of being an engineer, decides to theorize the scientific organization of work.

And already at this point, it's clear that disasters will follow.

Because when someone theorizes about work, they always end up theorizing about the work of others, never their own.

It’s a bit like the story of all those people who give good advice when they can no longer set bad examples; and also of all those people who teach what they cannot do, because otherwise they would do what needs to be done themselves and wouldn't pretend to teach it to others to do it for them.

And there’s no denying this, and anyway, even when it rains, Engineer Taylor and the likes – such as Accountant Casoria – always have an umbrella at hand and someone to hold it for them.

So it goes that Taylor has the unwavering certainty that you, as a worker, are better off doing the same things every day, day after day after day, and you gain even more if you reach the point where you are no longer even aware of what you are doing.

So, in January of '25, when the big boss comes up with the term “popolo bue,” he wasn’t inventing anything new; he just expanded the concept from the worker to the entire population, or almost.

Then, imagine if at some point an enlightened individual doesn’t suddenly appear from who knows where, feeling inspired to test Taylor's theories, always on someone else's skin, never their own.

This guy actually exists, he has a first and a last name - his first name is Henry, last name Ford – he has a bunch of money left by mom and dad, which never hurts, he is an industrialist and has little factories scattered all over the globe, meaning he has quite a few underlings on whom he can practice the theory, and so he invents the assembly line, which is scary just to say.

And maybe they are even geniuses, both Taylor the theorist and Ford the practical one.

But maybe even more genius is a talented handyman who in a few minutes risks toppling the theory and practice.

Except that the guy, named Charles Chaplin, is both behind and in front of a camera, and that trinket of an assembly line is a piece of cake to him.

So things go as they must; and it ends up that in 1962, when Henry has been dead for fifteen years, a big car comes out of the factory in England – because this is assembled in the late Henry's factory, a big car – to wage commercial war against those of BMC, who just a few days earlier released that Mini box.

That big car is called Consul Cortina, later just Cortina, and it continues to emerge from the little factory for another twenty years, in four series.

MK.1, MK.2, MK.3, and MK.4.

The last series, the MK.4, exits the gates of the small factory in 1976; precisely when, on the streets of England, a strange fauna appears, shouting against the queen, claiming there is no future, and that they will never rot on an assembly line.

And you can imagine that such fanatics would at least overturn a Cortina.

But things don’t always go the way they should.

It ends that the Cortina becomes “their” car.

Like the Clash.

They make a song called "Janie Jones" and even put it at the beginning of the first album, so it's the first thing you know about them.

It essentially talks about someone who hates their job and escapes as soon as possible in their Ford Cortina.

Like Tom Robinson's gang.

They make a song called "Grey Cortina" and put it on the first album, not at the beginning but almost, it’s still fine, the meaning doesn’t change.

It essentially talks about someone who wishes to have a gray Cortina.

If two clues make a suspicion, the third gives you certainty.

Like The Cortinas.

They are five young lads from Bristol and don't feature that big car in a song, but they choose it as their brand name, just to stay on the topic of little factories.

And they even come before that guy who's obsessed with Janie Jones and also that other one who wishes to have a gray Cortina.

1976, indeed, the year the MK.4 exits the gates of the late industrialist Henry Ford's little factory.

In Bristol, everyone knows the Cortinas, also because it’s not like there are many other bands around.

However, even if on the geographical map for punk Bristol counts for nothing, one day the Stranglers end up playing there, who are actually a hot name; the five Cortinas follow them closely, get familiar with them, and finally hand them a tape with some tracks recorded on it; they even leave a contact, but it's like when you're looking for a job and you send your resume, you already know that no one will ever reply to you or at most whoever responds does it to tell you they’re sorry but blah blah blah.

Then imagine the scene when the contact gets contacted by an errand boy, because "The boys like what you're playing, what do you say to opening for them at the Roxy in a couple of days?"

And the errand boy hasn’t even hung up the receiver, when the five have already crushed the kilometers separating Bristol from London, and they are in front of the Roxy with only one thing in mind, "Damn we’re opening for the Stranglers…" repeated like a mantra, "…and then we'll find ourselves like stars drinking whiskey at the Roxy…"

However, things don’t always go the way they should, and sometimes you feel like adding a thank goodness.

The Cortinas don't break through – and thank goodness – because otherwise, I would have been less fond of them, for sure; and I wouldn’t have always brought up this story that when I go to a concert, I go with the Cortina; because I don’t have a Cortina, but I would like to have it, gray or any other color.

The Cortinas don’t break through, because they spectacularly miss the big opportunity; and their first and only album, "True Romances," is a disappointment; more due to those who had a hand in it, they say, than the quality of the offering.

1978, and the common history of the five young lads from Bristol is already over.

So the Cortinas remain forever what they were before "True Romances."

Two blazing singles; especially the first, "Fascist Dictator / Television Families," June 1977; but also the second, "Defiant Pose / Independence," December 1977.

Raw and ignorant punk rock, without any frills, simple and direct as it's played in those days; because we are here to bury them, the hippies and other groovy types swinging down the streets of London and beyond.

Despite the prevailing winds, the Cortinas don’t break through, and thank goodness.

Unless "break through" means passing briefly under the spotlight of the stage.

Because to someone who's faded from the scene, the lyrics of "Fascist Dictator" weren’t palatable; and so let’s bash the brutes who don't give a damn about the love of their sweet partner and instead seek it in the arms of a whore; and then come back home disgruntled, looking for a reason to smash the sweet partner's face; because those five young lads are really despicable bastards, they say so themselves that they’re fascists, and dictators too.

They mislead the right-thinking and the usual paraphernalia.

Like those four hooligans who beat infants with baseball bats, and even brag about it.

The controversy makes the rounds during the evening edition of the Bristol neighborhood’s most peripheral sheets; the Cortinas dream of the ruckus stirred up between the Pistols and Bill Grundy.

Yet, sometimes things go the way they should.

Hence, in 2010, I find myself holding this vinyl, "MK.1," like the first series of the Cortina that's on the cover, and the five lads from Bristol beside it.

Inside there are all four tracks included in the two great singles and also ten other tracks recorded before the deluge and on the same tenor.

Nice record, for those who like the genre.