Ian Curtis: 35 Years To The Day Of His Death, Why The Enigmatic Joy Division Frontman Remains British Indie’s Greatest Unknown Pleasure

Every year, millions of fans shuffle up the Boulevard de Belleville in Paris and chart a course through the crumbling headstones and gothic mausoleums of the Pere Lachaise cemetery to pay homage at (and maybe pour a fifth of bourbon on to) the grave of Jim Morrison. Similarly, in New York, 72nd street and Central Park West is probably one of the city’s most loitered-on corners, jammed with tourists who stand in solemn contemplation at the spot outside the Dakota building where John Lennon was gunned down by Mark Chapman. And in Memphis, Tennessee, the Presley estate continues to turn a dime well over 30 years after Elvis’ death by traipsing busload after busload of Japanese tourists through the gates of Graceland.

On the face of it, there’s not a lot to differentiate Ian Curtis from any of those other dead rock stars, right down to the humble headstone in Macclesfield cemetery that attracts its own steady stream of disciples. The Joy Division frontman may not be a fully paid-up member of what Kurt Cobain’s mother once called “that stupid club”, his application having been expedited by his own hand at the age of just 23 rather than 27 – but he certainly deserves a certificate or something. Like many members of the club, he found far more success in death than he ever did in life – though admittedly he never gave himself much of a chance – and like all of them, he was a complex, tortured soul, who made some suspect choices, upon whose head deification does not rest easily.

All those aforementioned names are keenly missed of course, but thirty five years after his death, Ian Curtis remains possibly the most tragic figure of them all, a monumental waste of a once-in-a-generation talent.

Even by the standards of potted rock biographies, Curtis’ makes for depressingly brief reading. Born in Stretford in July 1956, he was a bookish youth who showed an aptitude for poetry, but ended up married at the age of just 19, with a job in the civil service. In 1976, he met Peter Hook and Bernard Sumner at a Sex Pistols gig and formed Joy Division. Two years later, the band signed to Tony Wilson’s Factory Records; a year after that, they released their seminal debut album ‘Unknown Pleasures’. After being diagnosed with epilepsy that same year, Curtis’ condition worsened with the pressures and anxieties of touring, and in April 1980, he attempted to kill himself with an overdose of barbiturates. The next month, on the eve of Joy Division’s first American tour and six weeks before the release of the band’s second album, ‘Closer’, he succeeded by hanging himself in his kitchen.
There’s an obvious answer as to why, three and a half decades later, Ian Curtis is still so mourned by so many. It’s because, unlike Lennon, Morrison, Hendrix, Jones or even Cobain, his flame was snuffed out before he’d really started. Joy Division’s final album and their first EP were separated by a gap of less than two years; that’s two years in which they managed to define British post-punk and change Manchester music forever. Had he lived even just a little bit longer, who knows what he may have gone on to accomplish. In any case, it seems a safe bet that we’d be writing these words in a very different musical climate.

But what-ifs aren’t enough to sustain the kind of legacy that Curtis has left behind. What endures about him isn’t some misplaced romantic notion of dying young enough to have never made a shit album, either. His suicide arguably amounts to nothing more than a default on an unlimited promise and – far more seriously – giving up on his young wife and child. Only ghouls and morons will find glory in that act; for the rest of us, it was merely the most selfish decision he ever made.

As far as ‘Realness’ – that most misunderstood of rock commodities – goes, Curtis meant it, alright. The pain and alienation he sang about, his explicit disgust and confusion with the world that drips from the lyrics of ‘Atrocity Exhibition’ and ‘Disorder’ like blood down a grey granite wall, is as authentic as rock and roll gets.

Lyrically, he held nothing back; his themes were wrapped in elegant, poetic phrasings, but even the most casual listener can discern the deep unhappiness and loneliness within them. Curtis placed no emotional distance between himself and the listener; listen to the lyrics of ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ and he paints you a picture of something as intimate and painful as the collapse of his own marriage, blowing the fourth wall to smithereens. The blunt honesty and brutal frankness of that song still sounds shocking no matter how many times you hear it – Curtis doesn’t even try to deflect blame; the only side he takes is against himself.

Yet few artists do open themselves up so willingly on record, and it’s a sad fact that many of those people – like Kurt, Richey or Elliot Smith – end up taking their own lives, after making ours that bit richer. But instead of making a martyr out of Curtis and celebrating him as some sort of self-sacrificial lamb, it’s his honesty and fearlessness that he should be lauded for, not his devastating denouement.

Nevertheless, Ian Curtis continues to fascinate us because we inevitably want to know more about him than we’ll ever be able to. His is a well-preserved but enigmatic ghost; his pale, haunted eyes stare out at us from a finite number of starkly beautiful black-and-white Anton Corbijn shots, a handful of television appearances, one music video, and very little else. He never lived long enough to be overexposed.

Or to explain himself. Curtis was a man of deep, deep contradictions; a sensitive artist with a taste for bohemian writers like Burghs and Ballard, he was also a loyal Tory voter, who vehemently opposed immigration and flirted with fascistic imagery. In her 1995 biography Touching From A Distance, Deborah Curtis characterized her husband as a man who veered between good-natured generosity and selfish control-freakery, and who she once suspected of having homosexual affairs.
He was certainly adept at living a double life, and not just from Deborah, who he was unfaithful to for long periods of time with Belgian journalist Annik Honore. With the benefit of hindsight, we can see Ian’s inner turmoil exert itself through his lyrics and manic performances, but away from the stage, his welling melancholy was well-hidden from the bandmates he didn’t want to alarm or disappoint. Even as he was planning to kill himself, he convincingly feigned enthusiasm for Joy Division’s upcoming American tour, so much so that drummer Stephen Morris has admitted that, “Looking back, I wish I’d helped him more. I think that all the time… But we were having such a good time, and you’re very selfish when you’re young. Epilepsy wasn’t understood then. People would just say, ‘He’s a bit of a loony – he has fits.’”

Peter Hook, meanwhile, was more characteristically blunt.

“I couldn’t believe it,” he said. “He must have been a pretty good actor. We didn’t have a bleedin’ clue what was going on.”

Only Curtis himself can offer clarification of what went on in his head and well… Because when it comes to the past, the truth is often subjective, dictated by those with axes to grind or agendas to protect. We’ll never really know who Ian Curtis was. But that, of course, won’t stop us from wondering.

Even Anton Corbjin’s acclaimed 2007 biopic Control raised more questions than it did answers. The film was praised in many quarters for portraying Curtis in a distinctly human light and not as a tragedy waiting to happen. But for his daughter Natalie, the film didn’t go far enough. “Control’ doesn’t go far enough to convey my father’s mental health problems,” she says. “His depression and mood swings are simply not addressed. Given the fervor to discover why he killed himself, this is something of an oversight.”

Yet, for all the unanswered questions, for all the failings he may or may not have been guilty of, Ian’s legacy is one of rock n’ roll’s most fiercely guarded and respected, and rightly so. You certainly won’t see an Ian Curtis avatar spasming awkwardly around a pixilated stage to the strains of ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’ in the next edition of Guitar Hero. Even something as well intentioned as Peter Hook’s decision to mark the 30th anniversary of his friend’s death by playing ‘Unknown Pleasures’ in its entirety with his new band at FAC251 in Manchester was met with tuts of disapproval – though having been there and lost something in the process, who are we do judge how Hooky choose to celebrate his friends life?
Ultimately however, we should be bothered about how Ian is remembered. If we didn’t the absolute worst-case scenario would be a wave of tasteless, commercialized nostalgia that cheapened his achievements.

Musically, Joy Division aren’t quite as in vogue as they were a few years back, when the likes of Interpol, Editors and Bloc Party mined their brand of kinetic new-wave guitars and baritone melancholy for ideas; paradoxically, it’s New Order who are the big thing right now. But such is Joy Division’s importance, they never stay out of fashion for very long. And with the gloom that’s currently enveloping this country (if you believe the daily papers at least), it surely won’t be long before another generation of pale, undernourished and disenfranchised youths in three quarter-length overcoats prick up their ears to the cataclysmic rumble of ‘Transmission’ or ‘She’s Lost Control’. They may well already have done so.

It seems ironic that it’s the date of Ian Curtis’ death – May 18th – that has been chosen to celebrate his life. As Peter Hook once said of his suicide, “It was a permanent solution to a temporary problem,” and an unfortunate decision that brought him the worst kind of immortality. You can speculate endlessly on how different things might have been had he lived, what kind of person he really was, or what his final thoughts were in his still-unpublished suicide note. But in the end, the man himself remains rock n’ roll’s greatest unknown pleasure. The music is all that’s left of him, and what a body of work he left behind.

This piece originally appeared in NME, May 22 2010

Zum 35. Todestag von Ian Curtis: Joy Divisions Vermächtnis

Kaum eine Band ist so klar in ihren düsteren Gesten wie Joy Division. Leid, Schmerz, Verzweiflung und Ausweglosigkeit ziehen sich durch ihr Werk von den frühen Tagen bis zu den letzten Aufnahmen. Zwei Alben reichten für ein Vermächtnis, das seit mehr als 30 Jahren die Popkultur beeinflusst. Unsere Titelgeschichte der Dezember-Ausgabe 2013.

Am 18. Mai 1980 nahm sich Ian Curtis das Leben. Seitdem ist viel geschrieben worden über Joy Division – Curtis’ Band, die seit nunmehr über 30 Jahren die Popkultur beeinflusst. Zum 30. Todestag von Ian Curtis am 18. Mai 2015 veröffentlichen wir an dieser Stelle unsere Titelgeschichte aus der Dezember-Ausgabe 2013 in voller Länge. Damals titelten wir: „Joy Division – Die Band ohne Zukunft lebt für immer“. Ein Satz, der heute noch genauso stimmt.

me.HELDEN Joy Division: Shades Of Black

Kaum eine Band ist so klar in ihren düsteren Gesten wie Joy Division. Leid, Schmerz, Verzweiflung und Ausweglosigkeit ziehen sich durch ihr Werk von den frühen Tagen bis zu den letzten Aufnahmen. Zwei Alben reichten für ein Vermächtnis, das seit mehr als 30 Jahren die Popkultur beeinflusst.

Day in, day out. Day in, day out.

Tagaus, tagein. Tagaus, tagein. Jeder Tag. Immer gleich. Day in, day out. Das Rein, das Raus. Das Schwarz, das Weiß. Anders könne er sich Joy Division nicht vorstellen. Hat Anton Corbijn gesagt, als er gefragt wurde, warum er „Control“ in Schwarz-Weiß gedreht hat, seinen Film über das kurze Leben und schnelle Sterben von Ian Curtis, des Sängers der Band. 1979 war der Holländer Corbijn nach London gezogen, weil er sich in die Musik von Joy Division verliebt hatte. Im November lernte er die Band bei einem ihrer Konzerte kennen und schoss am nächsten Tag bei seinem ersten professionellen Shoot sein erstes Foto von ihr – das berühmte mit Joy Division in der U-Bahn-Station Lancaster Gate. Es ist schwarz-weiß. Das Schwarz, das Weiß. Der Weg, der in die Band weist.

Es fällt nicht schwer, Fotos oder Filmmitschnitte im Netz zu finden, auf denen Joy Division in Farbe zu sehen sind. Aber das sieht immer so fake aus. Falsch. Weil es nicht passen will zur Vorstellung, die man von dieser Gruppe hat, die gerade einmal zweieinhalb Jahre existierte und es mit gerade einmal zwei Alben und ein paar Singles geschafft hat, zu einer der nachhaltig einflussreichsten Musikformationen aller Zeiten zu werden. Das Schattenspiel von Finsternis und Licht hat sie definiert, ihre Musik, ihren Sound, ihr Image bestimmt. Der extreme Kontrast, Gegensätze, Konfrontation.

Aber nicht die graue Schraffur. Und ganz gewiss nicht Farbenfreude. Das beginnt bei den ikonischen Covers der Alben: Das schwarze – Unknown Pleasures von 1979. Das weiße – Closer von 1980. Es setzt sich fort in den bekanntesten Fotos der Band, die die vier jungen Männer stets in Schwarz-Weiß zeigen. Es manifestiert sich auch ganz implizit in den Texten und Liedern, die von dunklen Seelen erzählen, von Schattenspielen und Isolation. Joy Division ist eine Band der kurzen Wege und einfachen Bilder, klarer Strukturen und deutlicher Bilder. Aber sie ist – und das hat sie mit guten Schwarz-Weiß-Filmen gemein – nie simpel, sondern entwickelt gerade aus ihrer Klarheit eine Komplexität, die sich unweigerlich einbrennt, je mehr man sich mit ihr beschäftigt. Das Schwarz, das Weiß. Und dazwischen unendlich viel Raum, in dem sich nicht nur die Musik auf mannigfaltige Weise entfalten kann, sondern eben auch noch Platz für den Zuhörer bleibt, der unmittelbar teilnimmt an den abgründigen Dramen, die sich in jedem einzelnen Song abspielen.

Der Mythos Joy Division

This is the way, step inside. Der Mythos Joy Division rankt sich zunächst und ganz besonders um Sänger Ian Curtis und seinen Selbstmord am 18. Mai 1980. Den Tag vor der ersten Amerikatour der Band hatte er allein in seinem kleinen Reihenhäuschen in Macclesfield verbracht, einer beschaulichen Vorstadt 20 Kilometer vor Manchester. Er hatte die Nacht über ferngesehen, Werner Herzogs „Stroszek“, schrieb einen langen, fiebrigen Brief an seine Debbie und hörte Platten an. Das letzte Album lief noch, als er aufstand, in die Küche ging, eine Schlinge über einen quer durchs Zimmer verlaufenden Stützbalken warf und sich erhängte. Als die anderen Bandmitglieder von ihrem Manager Rob Gretton informiert wurden, hielten sie die tragische Nachricht für einen Witz. Curtis hatte zwar bereits einen Selbstmordversuch hinter sich und in seinen Texten seine wachsende innere Verzweiflung mit der Welt geteilt, aber wann immer die Gruppe Curtis angesprochen hatte, kam die stoische Antwort: Mir geht’s gut. Das Gegenteil war der Fall.

„Billy rapped all night about his suicide / How he’d kick it in the head when he was twenty-five / Speed jive don’t wanna stay alive when you’re twenty-five.“ Ian Curtis’ Faszination für den Tod reicht zurück bis in seine Jugend. Einer seiner erklärten Lieblingssongs war zu dieser Zeit „All The Young Dudes“ von Mott The Hoople, geschrieben von David Bowie. Für den bei Erscheinen des Lieds im Sommer 1972 gerade 16 Jahre alt gewordenen Jungen, der Ballard las und Burroughs, der Keats frei Hand rezitieren konnte und Jim Morrison verehrte, war Bowies Ankündigung, auf keinen Fall älter als 25 werden zu wollen, Programm und Verheißung. Als Bowie im Januar 1973 seinen 26. Geburtstag feierte und keine Anstalten machte, seinem großspurigen Statement entsprechende Taten folgen zu lassen, war Curtis von seinem Idol enttäuscht. Dass dessen Idee vom Rock’n’Roll-Suicide darin bestand, die jeweilige Kunstperson, die er gerade bis zum Exzess zelebriert hatte, zu töten und sich nach der Häutung neu zu erfinden, empfand Ian Curtis als Betrug an den eigenen Idealen. Obwohl er Bowies Haltung nachempfinden können musste: Zu seinen Songs und dem noch gewagteren Artrock von Roxy Music posierte Ian Curtis vor dem heimischen Spiegel und stellte sich vor, wie es wohl sein könnte für einen armen Jungen aus dem englischen Norden, in einer Rock’n’Roll-Band zu spielen. Das war natürlich Wunschtraum pur, reiner Eskapismus, wie er typisch ist für Jungs in seinem Alter. Teenage Rampage, aber eben hinter verschlossenen Türen daheim. Sicher empfand sich Curtis als anders als die Masse, als Außenseiter – das legen seine kulturellen Interessen nahe: Ballard, Bowie, Dostojewski, Velvet Underground, ein morbides Interesse an den Untaten im Dritten Reich. Dabei war sein Leben Spießertum pur: 1975 heiratete er mit gerade einmal 19 Jahren seine Freundin Deborah Woodruff und zog mit ihr in ein kleines Häuschen.

Die Aussicht auf Ausbruch kam am 4. Juni 1976: Bernard Sumner und Peter Hook gehörten zu den 43 zahlenden Gästen, die die Sex Pistols in der Free Trade Hall in Manchester sahen. Am nächsten Tag kauften sie Instrumente und suchten nach einem Sänger. Ian Curtis ließ sich von ihrer Begeisterung anstecken. Als er selbst die Gelegenheit wahrnahm und die Pistols bei ihrem zweiten, deutlich besser besuchten Konzert in der Free Trade Hall am 20. Juli sah, mit den Buzzcocks und Slaughter And The Dogs im Vorprogramm, brannte er lichterloh. Punk war die Rettung. Die Möglichkeit. This is the way, step inside. Musikalische Limitation war kein Manko, sondern eine Möglichkeit, unkonventionelle Ansätze zu finden, wie man Musik macht: Die Idee zählte, nicht das Können. Es war der Weg fort vom eigenen Wohnzimmer.

Der Abgrund der menschlichen Seele wird das bestimmende Thema von Joy Division werden

Der Spiegel sollte künftig ein richtiges Publikum sein. Curtis verabschiedete sich von seinem Glamlook, er nahm seine schwarze Jacke und schmierte in weißen Buchstaben „HATE“ darauf. Das Schwarz, das Weiß. Die Band wurde Warsaw genannt, nach dem Bowie-Song „Warszawa“ auf seinem Album Low. Erste Auftritte folgten, mittlerweile war Stephen Morris als Drummer zur Gruppe gestoßen. Um nicht mit der Londoner Band Warsaw Pakt verwechselt zu werden, änderte man den Namen in Joy Division. Ein kleiner grausamer Witz, wie man ihn in diesen frühen Tagen des Punk gerne machte: Joy Division – Freuden-Abteilung – nennt der Auschwitz-Überlebende Yehiel Feiner in seinem umstrittenen, unter dem Pseudonym Ka-Tzetnik 135633 erschienenen Roman „Das Haus der Puppen“ Bordelle, die die Nazis in Vernichtungslagern unterhalten haben sollen. Tagein, tagaus. Wir leben in der Eiszeit, singt Ian Curtis in einem frühen Lied: Der Abgrund der menschlichen Seele wird das bestimmende Thema von Joy Division werden. Leid, Schmerz, Verzweiflung und Ausweglosigkeit ziehen sich wie ein roter Faden von den frühen Tagen bis zu den letzten Aufnahmen.

Mit faszinierenden  Liveshows und einer im Eigenverlag erschienenen ersten Single, „An Ideal For Living“, die vier Songs mit krudem Punkrock, aber einer hypnotischen Energie beinhaltet, machen Joy Division auf sich aufmerksam. Der aufstrebende Impresario Tony Wilson wird von Ian Curtis in einem Pub attackiert und als „Votze“ beleidigt: Fasziniert von der barschen Aggression, lässt er Joy Division in seiner lokalen Fernsehsendung „Granada Reports“ auftreten. Als Wilson in Manchester einen Club findet, den er „Haçienda“ nennen wird, und das Independentlabel Factory Records gründet, will er Joy Division zu seinem Aushängeschild machen. Die mittlerweile von dem unberechenbaren Rob Gretton gemanagte Band gibt Wilson vor etablierten Plattenfirmen den Vorzug, weil er ihnen nicht nur 50 Prozent aller Einnahmen zusichert, sondern sich auch bereit erklärt, den Vertrag mit seinem eigenen Blut zu verfassen. Die Legende will es, dass Wilson seine Wunden noch einmal öffnen muss, weil er den Namen von Stephen Morris falsch schrieb. Als Joy Division jetzt wieder ins Studio gehen, haben sie Punk ebenso hinter sich gelassen wie jede Anmutung von Rockmusik. Das Schwarz, das Weiß: Die Band macht ihrem Namen alle Ehre, kleidet sich im korrekten, strengen Modestil der Vierzigerjahre und hat sich zackige Kurzhaarschnitte zugelegt. Und die Musik hat einen Riesensprung nach vorn gemacht, in eine neue Dimension. Die Punk-Energie ist noch da, jederzeit spürbar, die Band brennt. Aber die Lieder gehen ihren Weg nicht mehr von A nach B. Vielmehr öffnen sie Räume, beschreiben sphärische Flächen, dehnen sich nach Belieben aus. Im Studio treffen sie nun auf den Mann, der der Vision von Ian Curtis eine Form geben wird: Martin Hannett ist der Brandbeschleuniger, der Katalysator: Er ist es, der die Komponenten zusammenbringt. Er macht die Bombe scharf.

Ian Curtis’ Epilepsie treibt seine inneren Qualen nach außen

Hannett, Jahrgang 1948, war ein Original, ein Autodidakt, der in Manchester als Produzent der ersten Buzzcocks-Single – der ersten unabhängigen Punkveröffentlichung – in den Fokus rückte. Das reichte, um ihn zur ersten Adresse für andere Punkbands werden zu lassen. Aber Hannett hatte keine Ambition, einfach nur den unmittelbaren Livesound einer Band zu reproduzieren. Für ihn war die Musik der Bands Verhandlungsmasse, eine Grundlage, um seine Vorstellungen von Sound und Raum zu verwirklichen. Sein besonderes Augenmerk galt dem Klang von Schlagzeugen. In einer hinreißenden Szene von Michael Winterbottoms Film „24 Hour Party People“ sieht man Hannett, dargestellt von Andy Serkis, wie er Stephen Morris das Kit in seine Einzelteile zerlegen und, angereichert mit Gegenständen aus dem Scheißhaus, neu zusammensetzen lässt. Small parts isolated and destroyed. Für eine Session verfrachtete er Morris aufs Dach des Studios und ließ ihn stumpf den Rhythmus durchspielen. Vermutlich ist es Legende, aber angeblich vergaß man, Morris am Ende der Session Bescheid zu geben. Als die anderen das Studio bereits verließen, saß er immer noch an den Drums. Oft setzte Hannett seine Vorstellungen auch gegen den Widerstand der Band durch. Als einer der ersten Produzenten arbeitete er mit Loops und setzte digitale Filter und Delays ein, experimentierte mit der Kopplung von Drums mit Synthesizern. So berühmt-berüchtigt war er für sein Bestreben, seinen Bands jede Form von Authentizität durch Studiomanipulation auszutreiben, dass Jello Biafra zum Auftakt der Dead-Kennedys-Single „Nazi Punks Fuck Off“ ätzte: „Overproduced by Martin Hannett, take four.“ Hannett musste bestimmt darüber lachen.

Gerade im Fall von Joy Division ist sein Beitrag unerlässlich und revolutionär: Auf Unknown Pleasures, das im April 1979 erscheint und sofort als Meilenstein gefeiert wird, treibt Hannett der Band jegliche Disziplinlosigkeit aus. Dem Chaos der in alle Richtungen explorierenden Sounds verleiht er Kohärenz und Richtung – und eine Anmut und Würde, die man selten findet in den Annalen der Popgeschichte. Das Klischee vom geschliffenen Rohdiamanten ist in diesem Fall regelrecht zwingend. Denn Hannett lässt die Musik von Joy Division erstrahlen in kalter und kühler Schönheit: Er hat der Gruppe eine Kathe­drale aus Klang errichtet, und sie dankt es ihm mit einem Gottesdienst, mit Ian Curtis im Mittelpunkt als Hohepriester, der seine Texte über Dysfunktion und Einsamkeit mit einem tiefen Bariton weniger singt als intoniert, rezitiert. Vom ersten peitschenden Drumbeat von „Disorder“, der von einer Welle von Gitarrensounds abgefedert wird, erzeugen Joy Division eine eigentümliche Spannung, die sie über zehn Songs halten, bis der erschöpfte Trauer­gesang „I Remember Nothing“ den Zuhörer wieder entlässt in eine Welt, die sich kalt, kahl und einsam anfühlen muss. Schwarz und weiß. Der Schlüsselsong hier ist „She’s Lost Control“, von Curtis ursprünglich verfasst nach einem einschneidenden Ereignis, als er bei seinem tristen Bürojob in der Arbeitsvermittlung Zeuge wird, wie eine Frau aus heiterem Himmel von einem epileptischen Anfall ergriffen und zu Boden geschleudert wird. Beim Erscheinen von Unknown Pleasures hat das Lied längst eine ganz persönliche tragische Dimension angenommen: Im Dezember 1978 hat Curtis auf dem Heimweg nach einem Auftritt erstmals selbst einen epileptischen Anfall erlebt – die Krankheit stülpt seine inneren Qualen nach außen und wird bis zu seinem Selbstmord ständiger Begleiter sein. Besonders schlimm wiegt der Umstand, dass die schweren Medikamente, die ihm verschrieben werden, seine latente Depression weiter verstärken und seine innere Isolation vorantreiben. Die Downward Spiral ist nicht mehr aufzuhalten: Eine Affäre mit der belgischen Journalistin Annik Honoré amplifiziert Curtis’ Schuldkomplexe. Panisch begreift er, dass er sich außer Stande sieht, seiner im April geborenen Tochter Natalie ein guter Vater zu sein. Das ständige Touren, um das Album zu promoten, erhöht den Stress zusätzlich. Seine Frau Debbie entdeckt seine Liebschaft und reicht die Scheidung ein. Ian Curtis spielt mit dem Gedanken, alles hinzuwerfen, kann dann aber doch nicht von der Musik lassen: Sie ist sein letztes Ventil geworden. Und er lässt seinen gesamten inneren Tumult in seine Texte fließen. Es sind die besten, die er je geschrieben hat. Nach eigenen Aussagen befindet er sich auf der Höhe seiner Schaffenskraft. Im März finden sich Joy Division zusammen, um wieder unter der Leitung von Martin Hannett den Nachfolger des Debütalbums aufzunehmen: Closer wird das Vermächtnis der Band werden. Die Rhythmen sind vertrackter und komplexer, neben den Gitarren weben sich Synthesizer ins Soundbild. Was in Unknown Pleasures noch an ungestümer Punk-Energie da war, weicht nun einem ambitionierten Popentwurf, der die 70er-Jahre verabschiedet und die 80er-Jahre einläutet. In „Isolation“ konstatiert Curtis, sich dafür zu schämen, der Mann zu sein, der er ist – und spielt auf seine Affäre und seine Krankheit an. Dabei müsste ihn die Musik mit unendlichem Stolz erfüllen. Aber für Curtis ist es bereits zu spät: Er ist zu diesem Zeitpunkt ein Mann, der unter der zunehmenden Last des Lebens ächzt. Im Februar hat er bereits eine Überdosis Tabletten geschluckt und kann gerettet werden. Als er sich nun noch mit der Herausforderung konfrontiert sieht, in den USA zu touren, denkt er wieder an „All The Young Dudes“. Er wird es nicht wie Bowie machen. Er wird sich nicht aus der Verantwortung herausstehlen. Als seine Frau Debbie ihn in der einstmals gemeinsamen Küche findet, auf den Knien, die Hände auf dem Tisch, ein Spuckefaden, der ihm aus dem Mund gelaufen ist, die Wäscheleine um den Hals, hat Curtis Iggy Pops Album The Idiot aufgelegt. Nach seinem Tod schnellt die letzte Single „Love Will Tear Us Apart“ auf Platz 13 der britischen Singlecharts. Es ist der einzige Hit von Joy Division. Die Band löst sich auf. Um als New Order wiederzukehren und eine der erfolgreichsten Bands des Landes zu werden.

Ian Curtis wird posthum kultisch verehrt

Der Kult um Joy Division hat sich zu diesem Zeitpunkt längst verselbstständigt. Wie sein Vorbild Jim Morrison wird Ian Curtis posthum als Mythos und Märtyrer kultisch verehrt. Das frühe Sterben und die vermeintliche Reinheit, mit der er sich für seine Kunst aufgearbeitet hat, ist ein Grund, warum seine Band bis heute gefeiert, diskutiert, besprochen wird. „Niemand wird sich daran erinnern, wie seine Arbeit mit Joy Division war, als er lebte – man wird sie als tragisch ansehen und nicht als mutig“, schrieb Jon Savage 1980 in seinem Nachruf im „Melody Maker“. Prophetische Worte: Niemand sieht in Curtis den lachenden, herumalbernden, zärtlichen Kerl aus Manchester, der er bis zu seinem Tod eben auch war, sondern nur den leidenden, darbenden Künstler, immer ernst und von Pein gebeugt, wie ihn seine Musik verewigt hat. Völlig außer Acht gelassen wird dabei der immense Einfluss, den Joy Division auf die Popmusik hatten. Eine Auflistung mag ermüdend erscheinen, weil man sich im Grunde einmal quer durch die letzten 30 Jahre Rockgeschichte arbeiten muss. Sie waren die Pioniere des Postpunk und Begründer des Goth Rock. Sie stehen neben den Buzzcocks als Erste in der Ahnen­reihe der Manchester-Szene, und da finden sich immerhin Namen wie die Happy Mondays, The Smiths, Oasis oder die Stone Roses. Superstars wie U2 und Depeche Mode scheinen ohne Joy Division ebenso unmöglich wie Undergroundgrößen wie Nick Cave oder Henry Rollins. Die New Yorker Noise-Berserker Swans coverten Ende der Achtziger „Love Will Tear Us Apart“. In der Ära des Alternative Rock waren sie Inspiration für Nine Inch Nails und Marilyn Manson. Die Parallelen zum Leben und Sterben von Kurt Cobain sind mehr als augenfällig. Ihre Ästhetik und die melancholische Stimmung ihrer Musik lässt sich direkt bis in den extremsten Black Metal verfolgen. Als enge Anzüge und Converse All Stars wieder in Mode kamen, beriefen sich Interpol auf die Band um Ian Curtis, aber auch Bloc Party, The Strokes und The Rapture haben Joy Division im Blut. Metal, Techno, Rave, Pop: Überall finden sich Spurenelemente des Schattentanzes, mit dem Joy Division den Weg in eine Zukunft wiesen, die sie selbst nicht hatten. „Love Will Tear Us Apart“ steht auf dem Grabstein von Ian Curtis. Dabei war es nicht die Liebe, die ihn zerriss. Es war das Leben selbst. Und er hat es festgehalten in seiner Musik, das Schwarze und das Weiße. Ganz unmittelbar. Day in, day out.

© Musik Express

Ian Curtis – the habits & traits of creative genius

Thirty-five years ago today, it was Monday, 19th May 1980 and the John Peel show started at 10pm on Radio 1. Sat in my bedroom, I was thinking to myself, hope he plays the new Joy Division single, Love will tear us apart. After the iconic Pickin the blues theme tune by Grinderswitch, which introduced the show, faded, the customary ten seconds of absolute silence before John’s deadpan voice.

A few seconds later, the shock news came onto the air. Bad news lads, monotoned Peel solemnly. Ian Curtis, of Joy Division, has died.

I didn’t know whether to feel sad, angry, shock or cheated or what. Joy Division had been my favourite band for the previous year, part of putting Manchester on the map. Their bleak, stark, atmospheric experimental sound had carved a place for them into the record collections of many in 1979, including my own. Living just outside Manchester, they were big news for me and my mates.

May 18th, 1980 Ian Curtis ended his life, aged 23. The driving force behind Joy Division’s dark vision, he hanged himself in the kitchen of his Macclesfield home. He had epilepsy and was depressed. Curtis was known for his strong, baritone voice, dance style and songwriting filled with imagery of desolation, emptiness and alienation.

It was not his first suicide attempt. Curtis ended his life before he could feel the range of his influence. As the singer/songwriter for Joy Division, he wallowed in his own deep despair, peering into the dark underbelly of human existence. He wrote stunning lyrics from the pictures in his head, until he saw no purpose in living.

Factory released Love Will Tear Us Apart in April, and as a piece of music it has stood out years, surely everyone recognises the song immediately the first throws of the incessant, hollow drumming with pace launches the humming, driving guitars in the intro, before Curtis comes in with the vocals?

So for me, an anniversary of the death of someone who at 17 was shaping my life, still resonates today with 95 digital tracks on my iPod and the Unknown Pleasures, Closer and Still albums safely stored in the attic, and all their Peel Sessions performances saved too.

Joy Division’s appeal has far outlasted their tragically short life because, if they were miserable, they did miserable differently. Curtis’s baritone voice and lyrics about personal anxiety, pessimism and intensely dark memories, combined with his intense, wide-eyed stage presence was unique. Curtis was a creative genius, an innovator in the new wave of musicians at that time.

If I think about creativity and what innovation looks like, the same slideshow of images clicks across my mind: that photo of Einstein with his unkempt hair all over the place, Edison with his light bulb, and in Steve Jobs onstage in his black turtleneck jumper introducing the latest iThing device.

For all the innovators who have impacted our lives, it’s not just about that romantic Eureka! moment, it’s about the nitty-gritty work that comes after the idea in terms of getting it accepted and implemented. Curtis may have been a creative driving force, the catalyst that had the original spark, but successful innovation is frequently about the team too, being surrounded by likeminded people with complimentary talents.

Thinkers need doers to get things done, and idealists need number crunchers to tether them to reality. Then again, the risk-takers and the risk-averse must co-exist otherwise an organisation veers too far to one extreme or the other, and either jerks all over the place with the push-and-pull, or simply moves nowhere at all. An effective and productive culture of innovation is like a good homemade vegetable soup – it needs to have the right mix and balance of all the ingredients, otherwise it’s unbalanced – and downright mushy.

Everyone is born creative, everyone is given a box of crayons early on. Then when you hit puberty they take away the crayons and give you books, on algebra and calculus (which I liked better than crayons, but that’s a different story). Suddenly years later when get the creative bug, you want your crayons back.

So you’ve got the itch to do something. You don’t know where the itch came from. You don’t know if you’re any good or not, but you think you could be. Go ahead and make something. Make something really special, something amazing that will really blow the mind of anybody who sees it.

If you’re creative, if you can think independently, if you can articulate passion, if you can overcome the fear of being wrong, then this is your time. Dust off your guitar, and sing in your own voice. Ian Curtis didn’t have the greatest singing voice or vocal range, but that didn’t stop him getting his lyrics out for the world to listen. While performing for Joy Division, Curtis became known for his quiet and awkward demeanour, as well as a unique dancing style reminiscent of the epileptic seizures he experienced, sometimes even on stage.

On Saturday May 17th, Ian cancelled arrangements to meet friends and returned to his terraced home in Barton Street, Macclesfield. Wife Deborah was working behind the bar at a local disco. While she was out Ian watched Stroszek, a film by Werner Herzog.

Alone again in the house, Ian listened to Iggy Pop and wrote a long letter to his estranged wife. In the early hours of Sunday morning he hanged himself in the kitchen using the rope from a clothes airer. His body was found by Deborah when she returned later the same day.

It has been claimed that Ian had a morbid desire to emulate those of his heroes who had died young. The most likely reason was depression, but no-one can agree about whether he was depressed by his epilepsy, by the effects of the drugs he was taking to control it, by the break-up of his marriage, or by worries about the forthcoming American tour.

A few days after his death, Ian’s body was cremated at Macclesfield Crematorium. Deborah Curtis had the words Love Will Tear Us Apart inscribed on Ian’s memorial stone.

Ian Curtis spent his short life as a genius, driven by anxiety, creativity and self-doubt. The way he created his music, despite being innovative, was methodical, he had a routine, was disciplined and ordered. He left several notebooks of his handwritten work, recorded in So This Is Permanence, reflecting a methodical approach to his art.

This disciplined approach surprised me, until a couple of years ago when I came across the book, Daily Rituals: How Artists Work, by Mason Currey. In it he examines the schedules of 161 painters, writers, and composers, as well as philosophers, scientists, and other exceptional thinkers.

It hypothesised that for these geniuses, a routine was surprisingly essential to their work. As Currey puts it A solid routine fosters a well-worn groove for one’s mental energies and helps stave off the tyranny of moods. He noted several common elements in the lives of the geniuses that allowed them to pursue the luxury of a productivity-enhancing routine. Here are the highlights of structure, routine and habits that seem to enable a genius to do what they do:

A workspace with minimal distractions Jane Austen asked that a certain squeaky door hinge never be oiled, so that she always had a warning when someone was approaching the room where she wrote. Mark Twain’s family knew better than to breach his study door. Graham Greene went even further, renting a secret office, only his wife knew the address and telephone number.

A daily walk For many, a regular daily walk was essential to brain functioning. Soren Kierkegaard found his constitutionals so inspiring that he would often rush back to his desk and resume writing, still wearing his hat and carrying his walking stick or umbrella. Charles Dickens famously took three-hour walks every afternoon and what he observed on them fed directly into his writing. Beethoven took lengthy strolls after lunch, carrying a pencil and paper with him in case inspiration struck.

A clear dividing line between important work and busywork Before there was email, there were letters. It amazed me to see the amount of time each person allocated to answering letters. Many would divide the day into real work (such as composing or painting in the morning) and busywork (answering letters in the afternoon). Others would turn to the busywork when the real work wasn’t going well. Ernest Hemingway always tracked his daily word output on a chart ‘so as not to kid myself’, but left dedicated time for letter writing.

A habit of stopping when they’re on a roll, not when they’re stuck Hemingway puts it well: ‘You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day when you hit it again.’ Arthur Miller said, ‘I don’t believe in draining the reservoir, do you see? I believe in getting up from the typewriter, away from it, while I still have things to say.’

Limited social lives One of Simone de Beauvoir’s friends put it this way: ‘There were no parties, no receptions, no bourgeois values; it was an uncluttered kind of life, a simplicity deliberately constructed so that she could do her work.’ Pablo Picasso and his girlfriend Fernande Olivier borrowed the idea of Sunday as an ‘at-home day’ to enable undisrupted painting, and kept themselves to themselves.

This last habit, relative isolation, sounds much less appealing to me than some of the others, and yet I still find the routines of these thinkers strangely compelling, perhaps because they are so unattainable for me, so extreme. Even the very idea that you can organise your time as you like is out of reach for most of us.

Nancy Andreasen is a leading neuroscientist, holding a fascination in how the brain works. Andreasen studies what she calls ‘the science of genius’, trying to unpack the elements that make up the brightest creative minds. It’s not a high IQ that indicates creative genius, she’s found. In her research, Andreasen has explored the link between mental illness and creativity, finding a strong connection between the two.

In a 2014 study, Andreasen scanned the brains of 13 of the most famous scientists, mathematicians, artists, and writers alive today. Her subjects included Pulitzer Prize winners, and six Nobel laureates – and filmmaker George Lucas. Andreasen delved into their family and personal histories, also studying the structural and functional characteristics of their brains using neuroimaging.

The study was challenging given how hard it is to pin down the creative process. “Creativity, of course, cannot be distilled into a single mental process, and it cannot be captured in a snapshot—nor can people produce a creative insight or thought on demand,” she stated.

Andreasen had to find a way to study these creative minds at work. She hooked them up to an MRI scan and gave them different word association, picture association, and pattern recognition tasks. ‘The essence of creativity is making connections and solving puzzles’, she said. In her findings she has distilled some key patterns in the minds of creative geniuses. They include:

Creative people like to teach themselves rather than be taught by others Think of all the creative geniuses who dropped out of school – Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Mark Zuckerberg. Andreasen found that her subjects were autodidact, they preferred figuring things out independently, rather than being spoon-fed information.

Because their thinking is different, they often express the idea that standard ways of learning and teaching are not always helpful and may even be distracting, and that they prefer to learn on their own.

Many creative people love both the arts and the sciences There’s a mentality out there that you have to choose between either the arts or the sciences in your studies and career, but Andreasen found that some of the greatest creative minds are polymaths, sharing a love for both.

Creative people persist against scepticism and rejection When you’re coming up with new unheard-of ideas, you’re pushing against the status quo. Rejection and scepticism are inevitable. It’s what you do in the face of those that matters most.

Andreasen found that creative geniuses are resilient when presented with such scepticism. They have to confront doubt and rejection, and yet they have to persist in spite of that, because they believe strongly in the value of what they do. What this persistence might breed, however, is psychic pain, says Andreasen, which can manifest as depression or anxiety.

Creative geniuses have poor ideas too Creative people have lots of ideas, but that doesn’t mean all of them are worth pursuing. Part of what comes with seeing connections no one else sees is that not all these connections actually exist. Still, a willingness to go after those ideas, to try them out, to resist the scepticism of others around you in order to find out if they are great, is essential.

We may never know precisely where creativity comes from, why some people use their creativity more than others or why some people are most creative during specific times in their lives. We may not learn how one person ends up with the right balance of brainpower, intelligence and creativity to become a genius.

To me, part of creativity is picking the little bubbles that come up to your conscious mind, and picking which one to let grow and which one to give access to more of your mind, and then have that translate into action.

It also seems you need to create the right conditions for your own creativity to flourish, as suggested by Currey. However, that of course is what a routine really is, the path we take through our day. Whether we break that trail ourselves or follow the path blazed by our constraints, perhaps what’s most important is that we keep walking. So don’t let a new dawn fade, I’m sure you’ll find some unknown pleasures in your creativity and make your mark.

© DNA People

Ian Curtis, il solitario, oscuro idolo dei Joy Division che amava ridere

Il 18 maggio 1980 il 24enne Ian, voce del gruppo post punk più influente della musica, si impicca. Non era famoso, non voleva esserlo, proprio come Kurt Cobain. E nonostante le cattive vibrazioni dei suoi testi (“Sono terrorizzata perché crede in ciò che canta”, diceva la sua amante) i compagni lo ricordano come un ragazzo semplice: “Ci facevamo delle grandi risate”

Fu la moglie Deborah a trovarlo, appeso al soffitto della cucina nella sua casa di Macclesfield, un sobborgo di Manchester. Era la mattina del 18 maggio 1980, una domenica. Ian Curtis aveva 24 anni ed era quasi un idolo. Insieme alla sua band, i Joy Division, aveva finalmente conosciuto il sapore del successo grazie al singolo Love Will Tear Us Apart, che aveva scritto per raccontare la fine del suo matrimonio con Deborah e che grazie alla sua orecchiabilità, caratteristica inedita per gli standard della band, era entrato in classifica. Nelle sue ultime ore Curtis aveva ascoltato l’album di Iggy Pop The Idiot, aveva visto il film di Werner Herzog La ballata di Stroszek, fumato sigarette e bevuto molto caffè. Poi aveva scritto un biglietto: “In questo istante vorrei essere morto. Non riesco più a lottare”. Il giorno dopo sarebbe dovuto partire per il primo tour americano con la sua band.

Quella morte così tragica e così solitaria sembrava la conseguenza di un’esistenza inquieta e piena di fragilità, pervasa da un malessere che la musica dei Joy Division ha rappresentato con commovente onestà. Ma l’immagine desolata e triste del più importante antieroe dell’era post punk non corrisponde del tutto al vero. Curtis era un anticonformista, un ribelle ma dai modi sorprendentemente gentili. Da ragazzino si divertiva a entrare nelle case delle signore anziane per portare via più farmaci possibile: voleva provarne gli effetti allucinogeni.

Soffriva di epilessia e le potenti medicine che era costretto a prendere non aiutavano certo la stabilità del suo umore, ma insieme agli altri membri della band aveva studiato un modo infallibile per vincere la noia durante i lunghi trasferimenti sul bus per le date dei tour: mostrare il culo dai finestrini alle auto di passaggio. La sua tormentata vicenda sentimentale con la belga Annik Honoré, che tanto ferì sua moglie Deborah, era un sintomo di vitalità e di struggimento: “Sono terrorizzata – disse – perché crede davvero a quello che canta”. Il chitarrista del gruppo, Bernard Sumner, conserva un ricordo gioioso del suo vecchio amico: “In realtà l’esperienza con i Joy Division fu davvero piacevole e anche Ian contribuì a renderla tale. Non eravamo un gruppo cupo, greve e inavvicinabile. Di solito ci facevamo delle grandi risate”. Ian nascondeva in ogni modo i suoi momenti bui. “Aveva recitato benissimo – disse il bassista Peter Hook – non avevamo la più pallida idea di quello che stava per succedere”. Il manager del gruppo, Rob Gretton, raccontò di come la settimana prima fossero andati a comprare nuovi vestiti e di quanto sembrasse felice. Il batterista Steve Morris fu ancora più lapidario: “Se era depresso, ce lo tenne nascosto”.

A 35 anni dalla sua morte, l’eredità artistica di Curtis è palpabile in decine di album e nella vocalità di molti epigoni di quella scuola new wave che alla fine dei Settanta impose nuove regole e nuove idee al paludoso mondo della musica. È vero che le sue canzoni avevano uno spaventoso potere medianico, capace di catalizzare l’attenzione e di rappresentare gli umori di un’intera generazione (come scrisse il critico Chris Bohn, “registrarono il corrosivo effetto sull’individuo di un periodo stretto tra l’impotenza del tradizionale laburista e l’incombente e cinica vittoria dei conservatori”), ma è altrettanto vero che Curtis non aveva nessuna aspirazione da portavoce generazionale. Come Kurt Cobain, ha messo in scena una tragedia solitaria e personale, molto lontana dalla eclatante fine di tante altre stelle del rock. E a differenza di Cobain, non ha avuto il tempo di soffrire per il suo ingresso nella star system, ovvero in quella condizione di fragorosa celebrità che l’ex Nirvana ha sofferto fino alle estreme conseguenze.

Quel ragazzo riservatissimo, affascinato da Jim Morrison, non crederebbe alle sue orecchie se gli raccontassero che qualcuno ha portato via la lapide dalla sua tomba, nel giugno del 2008: sua moglie ci aveva fatto incidere sopra, non senza recriminazioni, Love Will Tear Us Apart: “Non riesco ancora a perdonarlo, quelle cose avrebbe dovuto dirmele quando era il momento”, disse ricordando il fastidio provato per la popolarità di quella canzone. Nell’ottobre del 1980, gli U2 dedicarono a Ian il brano A Day Without You sul loro album d’esordio Boy. Ma il dolore di una moglie e quello di un’intera generazione non sono bastati per toccare il cuore di quel fanatico che oggi, a 35 anni dalla morte del suo idolo, starà osservando il suo macabro trofeo con più compiacimento del solito.

© Andrea Silenzi & La Repubblica

35 años sin Ian Curtis

La noche del 18 de mayo de 1980, Ian Curtis, cantante de Joy Division, discutió con su esposa Deborah, con la que estaba en trámites de separación. Ella se fue a casa de sus padres y él se quedó solo. Llevaba tiempo tomando medicación para la epilepsia y los efectos secundarios de esta lo estaban sumiendo en una depresión. Volvió a ver ‘Stroszek’, de Werner Herzog, uno de sus directores favoritos. Joy Division eran la gran esperanza del rock británico, pero cantar en un escenario es lo último que necesita un enfermo de epilepsia. Meses atrás, Curtis había iniciado una relación con Annik Honoré y la sensación de culpa se estaba haciendo insoportable. Cuando Deborah volvió a la mañana siguiente, lo descubrió ahorcado. La tragedia hizo de él un mito del s. XX.

‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’, el último single de Joy Division –que luego sería New Order– apareció poco después de su muerte. Cantada con voz a lo Sinatra y concebida como una triste oda a la paradoja que es el amor, algo que nos eleva y nos desgarra a veces incluso al mismo tiempo, fue el gran epitafio (la frase está inscrita en su lápida) de un artista que estableció una nueva era para la música británica. Con solo dos álbumes publicados, Joy Division fueron los Velvet Underground de la generación post-punk. La música era oscura, digna del desolado entorno industrial de Mánchester que las cámaras de Anton Corbijn y Kevin Cummins atraparon en sus instantáneas. Curtis nació en la ciudad vecina de Macclesfield en 1956. Fue mal estudiante, pero un gran lector que devoraba obras de Artaud, Sartre y Hesse. Gracias a una conversación entre Burroughs y Bowie publicada en Rolling Stone en 1974, descubre el nexo entre literatura y rock and roll. Los poemas de Jim Morrison pasan a ser parte de su dieta intelectual, así como los discos de Lou Reed, Iggy Pop y Bowie. Encuentra trabajo en una empresa de empleo para discapacitados; y en 1977 se casa con Deborah, que enseguida supo que aquellas lecturas hacían mella en su carácter melancólico, alimentado también por su afición a los fármacos.

Ese mismo año conoce a Peter Hook, Stephen Morris y Bernard Sumner durante un concierto punk. Juntos montan Warsaw, que rebautizarán como Joy Division después de que Curtis leyese un libro sobre los prostíbulos creados por los nazis en los campos de concentración. No quería un grupo al uso y tampoco quería ser un cantante más. Sus desajustes personales facilitaron que lo consiguiera. Sus letras estaban llenas de mensajes crípticos y su imagen en escena, con un look nada habitual en el rock, se convirtió en algo insólito debido a sus movimientos convulsos. A medida que la popularidad del grupo aumentaba, los ataques epilépticos se hicieron más frecuentes.

Curtis le hizo llegar una nota a Tony Wilson, un popular presentador en la televisión local, insultándolo por no llevar a Joy Division a su programa. Wilson no solo los llevó, también los convirtió en el grupo estrella de Factory Records, sello que acaba de fundar con el diseñador Peter Saville. El productor Martin Hannett se ocupó de darle forma al sonido cavernoso de la banda, y en 1979 dieron el primer paso para convertirse en un clásico con su disco ‘Unknown Pleasures’. El prestigio fue aumentando y las giras se fueron sucediendo. “No sabíamos cómo llevar su enfermedad, nunca nos sentamos a hablar de ello. Pero que nadie dude de que cuidábamos de él”, declaró Hook después. En abril de 1980 nació Natalie, única hija de Ian y Deborah. Poco después él intenta quitarse la vida con barbitúricos. El 2 de mayo de 1980 Joy Division dio su último concierto en Londres, y estaba previsto que comenzara su primera gira norteamericana. Su muerte trastocó los planes del grupo, cuyo segundo álbum apareció tras la muerte del cantante bajo el título de ‘Closer’. Decidieron publicarlo con la portada que Curtis y sus tres compañeros habían elegido, la foto de la estatua de una tumba. Es como si, sumido en la tristeza existencial y abatido por la enfermedad, hubiese elegido ya su destino.

*Artículo originalmente publicado en el número 210 de GQ.

An interview with Ian Curtis – Radio Blackburn

 

Radio Blackburn: What sort of relationship do you have with other Manchester bands?

Ian Curtis: We tend to be pretty isolated now really, apart from the Factory groups. We have a lot to do with the other groups on Factory. We tend to play a lot of gigs with them and… there’s other things like, er… the Durutti Column LP – the sandpaper sleeve –  we stuck that on. [laugh] So is everyone there, you know, everyone is seeing each other they got booked with, groups like the Buzzcocks we knew when we started really. You know when we sort of see them, we talk to them, but it’s not very often. We’d like to, you know, see a lot more of other Manchester groups, I think. Any other groups in general.

RB: What do you think of the state of new wave?

IC: I don’t know. I think it’s, a lot of it tends to have lost its edge really. There’s quite a few new groups that I’ve heard odd records or have seen maybe.

RB: Such as…

IC: I like the groups on Factory, A Certain Ratio and Section 25. I tend not to listen. When I’m listening to records, I don’t listen to much new wave stuff, I tend to listen to the stuff I used to listen to a few years back but sort of odd singles. I know someone who works in a record shop where I live and I’ll go in there and he’ll play me “Have you heard this single?”. Singles by, er the group called The Tights,  so an obscure thing… and a group called, I think, er Bauhaus, a London group. That’s one single. There’s no one I completely like that I can say “Well I’ve got all this person’s records. I think he’s great” or “This group’s records” it’s just, again, odd things.

RB: Do you have any plans of gigging outside this country?

IC: We’ve played in Europe already, in Holland and Germany, and we are going to America. We’re only going for, er, I think they wanted us to go for about 3 months or so [laughs], but we’re only going for about about 2 weeks, 3 weeks, and Rough Trade will probably be organising that. I think we’re going with Cabaret Voltaire. I like them, they’re a good group [laughs], I forgot about them. Yeah but, we tend to do what we want really. We play the music we want to play and we play the places we want to play. I’d hate to be on the usual record company where you get an album out and you do a tour, and you do all the Odeon’s and all the this that and the others. I couldn’t just do that at all. We had experience of that supporting the Buzzcocks. It was really soul destroying, you know, at the end of it. We said we’d never tour … and we’ll never do a tour, I don’t think – or if we do it won’t be longer than about two weeks.

RB: What is your sort of relationship with Factory Records?

IC: It’s very good, sort of friends, everyone knows each other. It’s all 50/50. Everything’s split.

RB: Doesn’t it seems a bit insular sort of being in the Factory sort of set up?

IC: Don’t know.  I suppose to somebody looking at it from the outside I suppose it is really. I mean you’re not pressurised into having to sign, like, you know, get a normal record company. They’re always looking for the next group, the next big thing, you know, to bring the record sales in and for them to promote and everything, but Factory just sign who they want to, put records by who they want to out, package it how they want to, you know, how they like doing it. It’s just run like that. You might get sort of a spurt of 3 singles out – you might not see anything for the next 6 months. You know. I like the relationship.

RB: You have a couple of tracks on the third Fast Earcom, was it?Or is it the second Fast Earcom?

IC: Yeah. It’s the second one, yeah.

RB: How did you get involved with Fast, an Edinburgh Company?

IC: Yeah, it was when we started playing, we played a few dates with The Rezillos. Bob Last was their manager at the time and he talked then about setting up a record label. And he wanted us to do a single for them. But due to Factory coming along and other things, he did things with Gang of 4 and The Human League first and got tied in a sort of management way with The Human League – I think he manages another one – it never came about. When we were doing the album we had quite a few tracks left over; we recorded 16 in all and just cut 10 and our manager, Rob Gretton, had talked to him about certain things and we’d always sort of kept in touch. He mentioned his idea for Earcom and we just offered him the 2 tracks to put out on that. Cos’ we like to get everything we record out one way or another, like we’ve done the Earcom, we’re doing the Sordide Sentimental thing, which are a French limited edition magazine-cum-record thing. There are two tracks on that, that will be coming out that won’t be on an album or a single. It’s just that we like getting, you know, as much stuff out as we can, really. In some form or another. You know, it’s often hard with Factory because obviously they’re limited financially. I mean you can’t just put out a record, you know, when you’ve got other things planned. So with no room on the LP, then we tend to look for other outlets for them, really. See what we can do.

RB: Where do you see or where do you feel you want Joy Division to end or go to?

IC: I just want to carry on the way we are, I think. Basically, we want to play and enjoy what we like playing. I think when we stop doing that I think, well, that will be the time to pack it in. That’ll be the end.

© Radio Blackburn

“How I wish we were here with you now”

The Myth Gets Stronger

So why do we get so animated and enthralled by Joy Division? Rock’s such an infuriating thing it’s a marvel we get so confused. Mostly rock is an unstable, stale slab of crudity and stupidity; an endless roll of superficiality and lies. Some people, though, achieve within it even more than the usual palatable, topical noise, create something beautiful enough to sustain our faith. The rock music that is above and past the status quo and narcissism of the enduring rock tradition that reaches us through business channels, that doesn’t set up as its restraining barrier the cynical elements of Good Time and consolation, can be broadly split in two. Good rock music – the palatable, topical stuff – is an amusement and an entertainment; the perfect pastime for this current season of hell. The very best rock music is created by individuals and musicians obsessive and eloquent enough to inspect and judge destinies and systems with artistic totality and sometimes tragic necessity; music with laws of its own, a drama of its own. The face of rock music is changed by those who introduce to the language new tones, new tunes and new visions.

The very best rock music will frighten us as much as it will entertain us.

It will always be the rock music that reflects the enormity of our struggle and our unease, that achieves a language you feel in your heart, your spine, your eyes, rather than that which submits to fame, fortune and fashion, that supports our faith in rock music. It’s a faith worth having. It’s certainly not a problem.

Joy Division throw us out of balance. Their music is undoubtedly filled with the horror of the times – no cheap shocks, no rocky horror, no tricks with mirrors and clumsy guilt, but catastrophic images of compulsion, contradiction, wonder, fear. The threatening nature of society hangs heavy; bleak death is never far away; each song is a mystery, a pursuit. The music is brutally sensual and melancholically tender. The songs never avoid loneliness, cruelty, suffering; they defy these things.

All this isn’t out of a love for deep oppressive seriousness, we’re not celebrating gloom. More it’s a loathing for mediocrity and hypocrisy and complacency, the deceptions rock often seems proud to mould. There can be nothing so silly as believing that rock is a saviour, and nothing as outrageous as accepting it as an artificial attractive network of trash and flash. People tend to take rock music for granted – and never think what it could be. Joy Division never took it for granted and pushed its possibilities to the limits. The very best rock music is art, and that is nothing to be ashamed of. Good rock music is entertaining and amusing, legitimate and intelligent, and from week to week, single to single, upset to upset, it keeps us going. The very best rock music – that is because of the roots, the hedonism, the delinquency and the screaming of rock tradition – is dramatic, neurotic, private intimate and draws out of us more than just admiration and enthusiasm.

Whether it’s Jimi Hendrix or Joy Division it suggests infinity and confronts squalor. In direct opposition to the impersonal exploitation of the rock structure it miraculously comes from, it cares for the inner person.

It is rarely straightforward intelligence and wit that produces the very best rock music, it is exuberance … there are dreams that shout for a better world and a deeper understanding. These are dreams of the very best rock music.

Joy Division make art. The prejudice that hangs around the word ‘art’ puts people off, makes them think of the untouchable, the unreachable and the unrealistic. Joy Division put reality into rock. Yet for all the intensity and violence of their images, the music never relinquishes a classic accessibility; rhythm, melody, atmosphere are awesomely sophisticated.

Joy Division make art. Joy Division make the very best rock music.

This is heavy stuff, and why not? Joy Division achieve something unique. Joy Division are not merely a hip new wave group on a fashionable independent label. Oh no!

The month before what ere to have been their first American gigs. Joy Division completed an impromptu set of British dates. In keeping with their corporate aversion to regulation and routine, the gigs hardly qualified as a tour proper.

Spread through April, they followed hot on the heels of the fortnight spent in Islington’s Britannia Row studios on the new ‘Closer’ album. the dates took in London venues as diverse as the Rainbow, where they supported The Stranglers, to three nights at the Moonlight Club. Out of town, they went largely unannounced or were advertised only locally. Though a few of the dates were cancelled an Ian Curtis feel ill, it was a period of hectic and intense activity for the group.

The last of the gigs was in the University of Birmingham ’s High Hall on Friday May the 2nd. It was also, fatefully, the last public appearance Ian Curtis made as vocalist in Joy Division.

Four days before the Birmingham gig, a video was filmed in Manchester for the forthcoming ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ single. The location – a disused, windswept, Dickensian warehouse converted into a rehearsal studio – seemed the ideal place for a Joy Division video. But the band’s attitude to proceedings was withdrawn and disinterested. Even on camera, they seemed to have little time for such promotional niceties.

 

Such lethargy could hardly have been further removed from the mood in the university dressing room later that week as the band prepared for the Birmingham gig: Joy Division, despite their reputation as sober individuals, despite the myth of romanticised gloom that seemed to extend way beyond their vivid musical imagery, despite the cryptic humour of manager Rob Gretton, were earthy and easy-going people. As Tony Wilson says, ‘‘To people they seemed a very gloomy band, but as human beings they were the absolute opposite.’’ The absolute opposite. Indulging in the customary dressing room horseplay and practical joking, beer swilling and football talk – Ian Curtis was a Manchester United supporter. Just because they painted graphical music landscapes of unprecedented power in their work, didn’t mean that Joy Division never joked or smiled in their quieter moments.

Or even split their sides laughing, as when ‘Twinny’, their red-haired roadie chief, managed to shatter the dressing room window as he tried to sneak a couple of fans into the gig and then lied brazenly to the gig promoters when they came to investigate the rumpus.

But the earthy offstage demeanours – the blunt, wary Peter Hook, the mischievous Bernie Albrecht, the quiet, easy-going Stephen Morris and the shy, fragile, polite Ian Curtis – were transformed the minute the group stepped into the misty blue and green glare of the stage spotlights.

Though a reticent student audience were sluggish into warming to them, Joy Division’s power and purity of purpose was immediately apparent in the undiluted vigour of their music.

Their ultimate live set, characteristically, made few concessions to rockbiz tradition, the opening number being an unfamiliar, untitled instrumental built around a revolving drum motif, one of two new songs already written and rehearsed in the few weeks since the completion of the LP.

A ripple of cheers greets a feedback-ridden, faster then usual ‘Shadowplay’. But Joy Division never stopped to easy games, and follow the familiar song with to choppy, strident ones from the new album, ‘Means To An End’ and ‘Passover’. Indeed, it is only with the end of the slow, mournful ‘New Dawn Fades’ that Ian Curtis acknowledged the audience verbally for the first time with a curt ‘hello’.

But the crowd, surprisingly, stand transfixed, their feet taking all five numbers to warm the dark dance music as the swirling, shifting guitar, and drum patterns of hypnotic ’24 hours’ give way to the pulsebeat of the throbbing bass introduction to ‘Transmission’. The band’s third single suddenly seems to take on an aura of the hit it should have been as the audience finally begin to respond with any real vigour for the first time during the entire gig, their reticence melting in the face of the frightening intensity of Joy Division’s performance.

The euphoria rises through ‘Disorder’, Curtis’s flailing robotic juggle dance taking on almost violent proportions as Morris and Hook hold down the backbeat with precision and power and Albrecht studiously picks out the purest improvised guitar solos.

The guitarist takes over on synthesiser for the two closers, both again from the new LP, the translucent ‘Isolation’ and the serene ‘Decades’, a track, like the awesome ‘Atmosphere’ or ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ that accentuates the delicate side of the group and provides a sharp counterpoint to the more physical hard rock that comprises most of their set.

Curtis, however, stumbles from the stage before the end of the song, totally exhausted and obviously showing signs of strain. The band, despite demands for more, return for only a sharp one-song encore, a re-vamped version of the 1978 Factory Sampler track ‘Digital’…

It doesn’t really need saying, but Ian Curtis was highly emotional, deeply romantic and acutely sensitive. It was these qualities, plus an irrational willingness to take the blame for things, combined with a set of problems it’s not relevant to reveal, that made hum decide to leave us. A change of scenery, for him, perhaps, freedom.

On Saturday, May 17, four days before Joy Division were to fly to America, he had visited his old house in Macclesfield to watch the televised film Stroszek by his favourite director, Herzog. Hours later, in the early hours of the Sunday morning, he hung himself. He was 23.

That a myth will develop is inevitable, if only because of the ‘type’ of group Joy Division seem to be, the passions they arouse, Ian Curtis’ words are vivid and dramatic. They omit links and open up perspectives; they are set deep in untamed, unfenced darkness. He confronted himself with ultimate realities.

However, it’s written, this piece contributes to the myth. Things need to be said, things that would have been said anyway, without perhaps so much unconstrained emotion. Ian’s leaving gives his words and his images a final desperate, sad edge of clarity. It’s a perverse way for Joy Division to get their deserved attention.

When we listen to past and future Joy Division records the myth takes on new shape and stature. Our memories add to the myth. Ian Curtis’ own myths, the myths he dragged up from the deep and tuned to our reality, inspire it.

The myth gets stronger … we might as well get on with it. Ian would love this myth. Ian Curtis was young, but he had already seen the depths. His death is a waste, but he had already given us more than we dare hope for anyone.

We were looking towards him. And he was no longer there.

Joy Division played their first gig at the Electric Circus supporting Buzzcocks and Penetration in May 1977 after many months of excited preparation. Their name then was Warsaw, having rejected the Pete Shelley suggestion of Stiff Kittens. The Warsaw was derived from ‘Warszawa’, a song on Bowie’s ‘Low’.

Warsaw were undistinguished but there was great belief and romance guiding them. Slowly, the noises formed. In the first months of their existence it was mundane business problems that hindered their natural growth. They recorded a four track single ‘An Ideal For Living,” and planned to release their EP using their new name Joy Division – Joy Division being the prostitutes wing of a concentration camp. Poor sound quality postponed the release and even when it was put out as both 7 and 12 it created no stir although something was obviously forming. In 1978 Joy Division felt isolated. Played a few gigs, met their manager Rob Gretton who took away from the cumbersome organising duties and concentrated on developing their music. Martin Hannett took an active interest in the group and he and Gretton became fifth and sixth members.There was no great plan behind joy Division linking up so neatly with factory records. It was just a series of circumstances that eventually developed into funny logic. Joy Division had a quarter of the “Factory sampler”, contributing two Martin Zero-produced songs. These two were the first indication that Joy Division had a special understanding.

Following the “factory sampler” it was never certain that factory could afford to put out another LP. And Joy Division after early silly mistakes were taking their time before committing them selves to a record contract. Finally Factory took the plunge, and just in time as Joy Division had seriously considered signing to a Martin Rushent ran subsidiary of Radar Records.

“There was a point where we were thinking about signing, but we weren’t rushing anything,” Ian Curtis said. “We went down to London to see what type of working relation ship we would have, but by that time we’d already agreed to do the first LP with factory. So we decided to wait and see how that went. It started selling well so we realised there was no need to go to a major.”

The progress of Joy Division could be logically followed from record to record, but still their completeness and strength of their first LP ‘Unknown Pleasures’, was unnerving.

The group had discovered their own potential, and had quietly, effectively travelled from one extreme to the other. On ‘An Ideal For Living’ they were coyly boasting,” this is not a concept, this is an enigma.” With ‘Unknown Pleasures’ they were offering no clues at all.

Every word counted every line had a chilling penetration. Somewhere between ‘An Ideal For Living,’ and a few months later when ‘Pleasures’ was recorded, a radical transformation had taken place.

An audience began to look their way but Joy Division never let go. They quietly established their independence prolifically and ambitiously expanding on their already considerable originality. They played countless gigs but never made it seem that they were merely promoting a product. They created their own pace. They made it look so easy. “It” being something like a total lack of compromise.

Joy Division’s powerful work will naturally persist and live on the name Joy Division will not be used by Hook, Albrecht and Morris. The group had decided a long time ago that if any of the quartet should for what ever the reason in what ever way depart the rest would in cautious recognition they were making something special would change the name of the group.

There are no set plans for the future but it must be said that Ian Curtis was not the major force in the group. He wrote and offered contributions to the musical make up. Hook and Albrecht wrote the melodies, Morris composed the rhythms. Curtis was a dazzling focus but each contribution was equal.

Hook Albrecht and Morris are for obvious reasons impatient for the release of the remaining Joy Division songs. There are many to come.

Within a matter of days a maxi-single including a slow and quick version of the penultimate of our time is released – ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ (a song that had traumas in mixing). The LP ‘Closer’ (Hard ‘s’, an in closer to the centre) is suffering production problems but should be out within six weeks. Without being insensitive we can thank whoever that it was complete. It is something you will never forget (Factory Records hurry to the point out that the LP sleeve – a gothic portrayal of dead Jesus – was decided upon months ago. A photo-copy of the sleeve pinned on an NME wall for weeks does confirm this.)

Ironically, because it probably would have happened anyway, there’s a possibility ‘Closer’ will chart. So too the single. The name Joy Division means something more than it did a few months ago,’ due to both Curtis departure and growing recognition of their magic. Curtis always anticipated commercial success, but felt it was more likely to happen first in Europe and America. All that’s swept out of the way now.

There’s enough songs for perhaps half an LP, with live stuff making up the other half, that may somehow somewhere surface. For those despairing that they weren’t one of the thousand and odd who found a copy of the Sordide Sentimental single ‘Atmosphere/ Dead Souls’ , ‘ Atmosphere’ will be the B-side of a readily available American 12” re-recording of ‘She’s Lost Control’ (a song incidentally on the B-side of Grace Jones next single). ‘Dead Souls’ will turn up eventually, somewhere. And the flexi-single ‘Incubation’, which you can get just by walking into a record store and asking for, is not a limited edition and will be repressed until everyone who wants one will have one.

Joy Division’s innate suspicion of the established music industry and their dissatisfaction with numbing routine extended to their dealings with the music press.

Though it landed them a reputation among many journalists as awkward customers, their distrust of the standardised rock interview procedures was genuine and largely valid.

The original plan for Joy Division feature had been for a journalist to spend a day with the band, with the interview of sorts only a vague possibility. In the event, the formalised question and answer type interview in the dressing room was ruled out, largely by manager Rob, although the band themselves had differing opinions themselves on the subject.

While Morris and Albrect seem relatively unconcerned about interviews, Curtis was against too formalised a set-up. Peter Hook is the most hostile in his objections to the procedure.

“To me personally, it is redundant. I don’t read interviews, I read music papers but I can’t read a question and answer interview. One of the best things I’ve ever read was Lester Bangs’ article on The Clash in NME ‘cause it wasn’t actually an interview but it was full of stories and things about the tour. That was interesting but interviews as such I don’t find interesting.”

But doesn’t a refusal to do interviews put up an unnecessary barrier around the band?

“The way we look at it is that any interview is a bit forced. The only reason a journalist wants to do an interview is that it makes it easier for him to write his piece. But to me it is obvious that if your spend a bit of time with people and get to know them in a very informal way, you’ll get a lot more out of them.”

Ian almost begs to differ.

“I can see the point of interviews. People want to know why things are the way they are. If they buy a new car, they want to know how it works. Why doest do this? Why can this car go faster than that one? Why does it loo better than that one?”

Rob Gretton interjects to make wider, perhaps not so valid, points about the media in general.

“I can understand that journalists are just doing a job. What I don’t agree with is the job they are sent out to do. I think it’s a very stylised, outmoded way of doing things. The average guy in the street tends to read his paper and takes what he reads as the truth.

“I think that they don’t analyse it enough. The average guy in the street just takes it in. I think the fault lies in the press ‘cause they don’t make it clear that any article is just a purely personal opinion.”

The impact of Joy Division can only grow stronger, more importantly so than any myth. Joy Division can not clean away the trivia and delusion of mass-based rock music, but they throw a shadow over it all. They emphasise the vanity and vulgarity of the rock musics sop recklessly publicised and glorified by industry and media, the plain mundanity of the majority of pop, and their own complete lack of conceit or ego indicates the uselessness of pretending rock is some sort of weapon of change. The very best rock is part of a fight, part of a larger decision, a widespread perception, something that actively removes prejudice and restriction.

Rock’s greatness is its emotional effect on the individual. Joy Division’s worth is immense to every individual who does resent their strange awareness, who does not mock the lack of explanation of artistic emotions. The struggle and the conflict never ceases. There is no real safety, no consolation, and often the evil, futile boundaries of existence become too claustrophobic.

Ian Curtis decided to leave us, and yet he ;eaves behind words of such strength they urge us to fight, seek and reconcile. Joy Division will not change The World. But there is value; there has to be.

The effect of Joy Division, the unknown pleasures each individual fully tuned into Joy Division discovers, can only be guessed at. But the moods and the insight must inspire us …

The value of Joy Division is the value of love.

June 1980

 © Paul Morley & NME

The short goodbye…

Last Tuesday I was filling in an expenses form when somebody told me a joke. They said they’d had a phone call from Scotland saying The Teardrop Explodes had dedicated a song on stage the previous evening to Joy Division’s Ian Curtis who was dead. I laughed, and half self-consciously compensating for bleak and industrial jibes, I said I wouldn’t be surprised if he had.

But I was half worried as well, so I phoned Factory’s Alan Erasmus to erase the joke from my mind and let me return to my difficult expenses sheet. In a frightening calm, most probably still shell-shocked voice, Alan Erasmus told me it was true; Ian Curtis was dead. I forgot all about my expenses sheet.

A few days later and the fragments of ‘facts’ that can be gathered are: it was not a joke (nearly everybody I know thought it was at first, but we’ll come back to that later); Ian Curtis was dead, he’d hanged himself by the throat on Saturday night until the life was out of him; it’s said he was found in the street, though this is unconfirmed.

It’s also said, though again this isn’t yet verified, that his wife had left him on Saturday afternoon and he’d commited the deed later that evening. The band were preparing to fly to America the following morning.

These are the shadows of facts, the information I’ve dared to glean from people around Joy Division. Gathering those eerie scraps of reality was almost certainly the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do; I felt like a cub-reporter.

Ian Curtis was twenty-three. He leaves behind a wife and a baby. that’s the bloody thing I can’t get over, the baby. Still sticking to the facts, the most frightening and awesome aspect of Ian Curtis’s suicide was the sheer fact that it was a colossal surprise, nobody seems to have suspected it. Factory’s Tony Wilson, who provided me with what comes closest to an ‘official statement’, said: “It came as one bloody shock…”

Joy Division had finished their new album, ‘Closer’. It’s still coming out in a few weeks time, while the single ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ is due any day. A freebie single had also been completed and it too will be released in the coming months. On Sunday the band were going to America for three weeks of touring, so there is every reason to conclude that it was a hectic time for the band and that all was going well, even that they were full of hope for the forthcoming projects.

For the last three weeks I’ve been trying to arrange an interview with the band, but nothing had come of it. After my last, unusually turbulent feature, the group were apparently split in deciding whether they should speak to me again; I understand, and can now believe, that Ian Curtis wanted to do that interview.

I accepted the rebuff. I wasn’t destroyed, just slightly disappointed, and after all I was aware of the strange people that are Joy Division, perhaps the only band I’ve spoken to and come away feeling none the wiser and somewhat lost.

For that’s how I feel; I want to look into Joy Division because what Ian Curtis did makes me want to now more than ever. I’m not searching for reasons, I’m just looking for ideas and above all I don’t want to come over ghoulish. But it’s there, the feelings won’t go away, the aura surrounding Joy Division is such that you’re irrepressibly sucked into thought concerning them. And that notion at the beginning, that the brutal stroke of reality that was Ian Curtis’s suicide should strike people as a kind of topical joke at the beginning, that in a way they jokily or uneasily half-expected it, that in other words, it should fit what Joy Division are about, that reaction is a telling one.

Looking back (and it’s almost impossible to talk as though the band are still a living unit, even though the other three members are naturally undecided and unthinking of whether they should go on as a trio), Joy Division meant a kind of romanticism to me more than anything else. I couldn’t cope or cater for it for the most part, hence I suppose my frequent opposition. Joy Division records are records I alternately hate and adore; I’m either swept away in them or I don’t play them. Even for me, who changes his mind more than most about music, the very distinct and unwavering split-reaction is something remarkable. But Joy Division music contains so many pieces of the remarkable for so many people: Hilary of The Flowers won’t play it in the house by herself because it frightens her; Richard Jobson sang ‘Transmission’ all through East Berlin with me; The Fall don’t like them at all; whole gamuts of young British groups are at the moment so obviously and openly inspired by Joy Division it’s almost indecent hearing a teenage Scots or N. Irish kid emulating that unworldly American groan of Ian Curtis’s with such child-like and innocent precision.

For Joy Division’s music was always full of spirits and ghosts. They had a mystique that was born of romanticism. Their music often trembled with fear and it couldn’t be explained away, that was the great thing. They had mystery, the eternal life-spring of any vital and special r’n’r music. The degree to which that mystique was a calculated thing, that too now fittingly becomes part of the mystery. Ian Curtis has taken it with him. In fact, he’s probably answered those questions and doubts: Joy Division, at least for him, were total and real and they meant it to death. Literally.

Joy Division were a manic romance. Their music was of another world of symbols, abstracts, coincidence and hellish fear. They lived that world totally and Ian Curtis took the romance dance one step too far until it chills you to think of that final, that overwhelmingly final symbol of submission or weakness or a terrible kind of communicated pride. Joy Division aren’t quite in my world. They didn’t stamp or shout or openly despair. They didn’t tear at the music biz walls. They didn’t rage or rant. But they too dealt in the lonely, in the unassuming, in the world of dreams and the imagination. Ian Curtis dealt in rock music’s ‘X ingredient’; in it’s mystery, in it’s communication of the inexplicable, in it’s delivering of something new always, something that the pseudo-worlds of culture and art can’t even hint at in the way a song as powerful as ‘Transmission’ or ‘Shadowplay’ or ‘Disorder’ does. Still the thought comes: they took it too far, they took the magic of r’n’r too much, they evoked it’s dark spirits too much.

I wonder. You hear rumours, and you tell the rumour-mongers to fuck off.  I’ve heard: Ian Curtis was attending a clinic, that he was part insane, that he put so much into live performance that he was gradually shrivelling up in real life, that he took on the spirit of Jim Morrison on stage, that he was dying outwardly. Alan Erasmus did say that he was often ill, that he fell down a lot. I’ll keep on wondering, absolutely exhilarated by the fact, the one clear fact, that Ian Curtis was the stuff of enchanted, immutable mystery. When I met him he talked in a whisper and he talked hypnotically and enchantedly about toy-shops. He spun words magically, that I do remember, that was his gift, he poured pure silver across totally memorable phrases and related scenarios, and he managed it in songs too.

His death was poetically beautiful. It was no cheap r’n’r death; he was no worthless casualty, and it shouldn’t be treated as such. So you can stuff your music business sympathy, your chic 1980s pseudo-passions. Ian Curtis belonged to the real world: the bleak and industrial pyre you made for him is now your own pyre, your own guilt, your own stupidity, your own way of evading the simple truths.

So next time you flick through your merchandised half-truths of a record-collection, the next time you blunt your spirit on a clapped-out rock star story, the next time you’ve a minute of silent contemplation away from the plastic world, think of Ian Curtis, let his soul fill you. That man cared for you, that man died for you, that man saw the madness in your area.

31/5/1980

© Dave McCullough & Sounds

Stroszek and the death of Ian Curtis

Of all the faculties unique to the human mind, the ability to discern and dissect artwork serves as the most fittingly enigmatic. Something as simple as a striped canvas can broadcast a digestible, yet open-ended message. In a way, the human consciousness — as well as art itself — is brought to life by the variability of perception.Case in point, Werner Herzog’s Stroszek: a movie so unrepentantly abstruse that it manages to inspire millions, while remaining mostly infamous for its somber outlook on life.Telling the story of an awkward, mildly retarded man named Bruno Stroszek (hauntingly portrayed by Bruno S.), Stroszek provides an outsider’s view of the “American dream”, and specifically its oft-ignored uncertainty. To a man ill-treated in his home country of Germany, the ideology of the American way of life provides a final safety net of sorts for the salvageable aspects of his optimism. When this net begins to fray, Bruno falls into a battle with the basic frameworks of life.

Himself caught in an incongruous loop, Ian Curtis, not unlike Stroszek, also gave in to these pressures. A few hours after watching the movie on the BBC, the lead singer of Joy Division hung himself in his kitchen, leaving his body for his estranged wife to find cold and limp, dangling from the ceiling of their London flat. As the weight of the world descended on Curtis, the damning footage of Stroszek may have provided the final push.

Not that this should come as any real shock. Curtis played the role of the tortured icon long before anyone had even heard the name Cobain. His insecurities, often emboldened by his epilepsy, pitted the musician in a back and forth dilemma as he balanced the monotony of his home life against the excesses of the road.

But while Curtis was rather clichéd in his rock star deviancy, what set the man apart was his unending guilt. He wanted to be happy with his wife and child, but he never could make it happen. The devil on his shoulder was always slightly louder than its adversary, trapping Curtis in a perpetual malaise. It’s hard to blame anyone already in a state of despondency for taking such measures, particularly after falling victim to Herzog’s hypnotic message.

A solitary chicken trapped, dancing in a box for money. Sonny Terry’s harmonica serving as a dirge while an indoctrinated duck plays the bass drum and a looping ski lift takes you nowhere except for back to where you started from.

A bizarre menagerie of discordant images and blatant symbolism, the ending to Stroszek is not only the best sequence Herzog ever filmed, but also one of the most disturbing scenes in the history of cinema. The trapping the titular character falls in to — the noise of malpractice and the letdown of a perceived dogma — throw the man into a loop, both literal and figurative, which finally forces him into action against the thrusts of habitual duress. Herzog presents a worst-case scenario, adding up the tolls of the daily grind.

It’s easy to see how Curtis, already dealing with an enraged disease, could plunge into the glass half-empty. He obviously identified with the character of Stroszek. Both suffered from the savage combination of emotional and physical hurdles, a pairing of all things suicidal. Herzog might as well have been dangling a glossy gold medallion back and forth across the singer’s eyes, daring the man to jump.

Yet even so, as haunting as Herzog’s film is, it also works fairly well as a motivator for change. If there were ever a movie to bust an audience out of a humdrum rut, it’s Stroszek. To less despondent groups, the film can provide a jump-start towards activity. To avoid being a dancing chicken is to grasp control of one’s destiny. To sidestep life’s inherent repetition is also to follow one’s dreams.

Legend has it that Herzog stumbled upon his infamous sideshow while scouting locations for his climax, eventually writing the scene into the script that night in his hotel room. Some of his staffers refused to take the set the day of filming, finding the grotesque, morally contentious fun house too much to take. Yet even in their objection lies a certain kowtow to the director’s message. The crew’s rebellion is itself an act of singularity. By being disturbed by the given metaphor, the dissenters themselves became its supreme, somewhat ironic justification.

In the end, playing Curtis’ actions against that of Herzog’s crew allows for a perfect encapsulation of art and subjectivity.

Good art, in all its different mediums, bends alongside an individual’s given personality. The same work can serve as an unwavering inspiration or the justification for evil — being wholly contingent upon a person’s basic skews. The artist’s intent often takes a backseat to his/her audience’s personal interpretations. Certainly J.D. Salinger never intended to provide a de facto bible for iconoclastic murderers, just as Herzog never meant to push Ian Curtis over the edge.

Yet, as it turns out, the truth is itself every bit as subjective as art. Reactions tend to bend reality towards a desired justification. We see in art what we want to see. Curtis saw death in Stroszek. Others see motivation. In the end it doesn’t really matter who is right. Herzog’s masterpiece will always persevere, because it never fails to take full advantage of the power intrinsically and symbiotically linked between artwork and the human psyche.

© Daniel Crown