Ian Curtis's remains are in Macc cemetary just around the corner from my house. It's easy to visit them, no bother on a wet afternoon, and always interesting, if spooky, to see what manner of temporary shrine his devotees have erected to this unhappy man who seemed to articulate not just his own pain but so much of those around him.
It's impossible to walk around Macclesfield and not be conscious of the fact that he lived in a terraced house in the town, had a wife and child, and hanged himself at the age of 23, having contributed to a body of musical work that seems to grow in stature year on year. What once was an unbearably intense and depressing kind of music for young men to be making in 1980 has become a straight statement of what life is like for everyone all the time forever.
Ian Curtis was someone who sang 'What are you going to do when the novelty is gone?', and 'Someone take these dreams away / That point me to another day / A duel of personalities / That stretch all true reality / They keep calling me', and 'Mother I tried please believe me, I'm doing the best that I can. I'm ashamed of the things I've been put through, I 'm ashamed of the person I am', and
'A change of speed, a change of style.A change of scene, with no regrets,
A chance to watch, admire the distance,
Still occupied, though you forget.
Different colours, different shades,
Over each mistakes were made.
I took the blame.
Directionless so plain to see,
A loaded gun wont set you free...
So you say'.
Each time I listen to Joy Division, and there have been gaps of many years, I grow more comfortable with their projection. On the one hand they were having fun, doing what they wanted to do, in a rock band. On the other, they happened to be fronted by a well-read singer who had progressive medical problems of epilepsy and concomitant depression, and was anyway interested in the darker sides of human psychology. This created a lyrical intensity that they chose not to back away from. And with post-punk values and sympathetic production, the band's questionable ability to play their instruments was explored as a probable advantage, rather than camouflaged as a possible weakness. They managed to generate from this a unique, sparse and sometimes gloomy soundscape that defined their much-imitated style. Imitators always fail though, because this style came from a deeper substance as if all their winds were blowing in the same direction at the same time, carving a complete identity from their short career.
A grand mausoleum in Paris, a hilltop village in Mallorca, a windswept Yorkshire chyurchyard, a modest kerbstone above a pot of ashes in Macclesfield, I happen to have visited these places. All just around the corner, eh Ian?
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