Oil and water, they famously don’t mix. Pineapple on pizza is a big no-no. Milk and alcohol…that never ends well, according to the doctor. And so it used to be with pop and rock music, at least in my formative years. (Yes, I’m old.) In those tribal times, you wore your musical hearts on your sleeves, quite literally in the case of rock and metal fans in their patched denim jackets. You displayed your colours proudly, usually via your uniform, whether punk or indie kid, clubber or goth, pop fan or progger and never the twain shall meet. (Although, to be fair, in my own defence, I was dressing like a goth, going to Marillion gigs and listening to Aztec Camera; you just had to make sure those worlds never met.)
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