Showing posts with label Manchester. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Manchester. Show all posts

31/12/2023

Paul Hanley on Buzzcocks

 




Man of letters and drummer (The Fall, House Of All) Paul Hanley has written a book on Buzzcocks called Sixteen Again. A limited edition hardback is available from publishers Route now and a paperback will be available in April 2024.

Sixteen Again: How Pete Shelley & Buzzcocks Changed Manchester Music (And Me), to give it its full title, mixes together biography, interview, critique and social history to create a full picture of the legendary Manchester group, equally beloved of fans of punk, post punk and indie.

Route – who have also published Hanley's Leave The Capital: A History Of Manchester Music In 13 Recordings and the masterful Have A Bleedin Guess: The Story Of Hex Enduction Hour – have the following to say: "Paul Hanley's obsession with Buzzcocks peaked between the ages of 14 and 16, exactly the age when ‘favourite band’ actually means something important. An essential part of the charm of Buzzcocks to him were their proximity and approachability."

Taking a break from his current duties as one half of the drumming duo who power recent tQ Album Of The Year folk, House Of All, and co-host of the Oh! Brother podcast with kin Steve Hanley, Paul submitted to some quick fire questions about the book, Buzzcocks and OBOGFRS (other bits of general Fall-related stuff).

What really went on there? We only have this excerpt:

Why did you choose Buzzcocks?

Paul Hanley: Well, there’s the cultural significance of them bringing the Sex Pistols to Manchester twice, and kick starting indie music. Then there is the fact that Pete Shelley was a song writing genius who could say more in a three minute pop song than most writers could say in a whole album. But most importantly they were my favourite band between the ages of 14 and 16, which is about the only time in your life when it’s OK to have a favourite band.

What do you think of the Tony McGartland book, Buzzcocks: The Complete History and Pete and Louis Shelley's Ever Fallen In Love: The Lost Buzzcocks Tapes? I think they are the only other Buzzcocks books right?

PH: Yes, apart from Steve Diggle’s book [The Buzzcocks: Harmony In My Head]. I used all three in writing this, unsurprisingly. But there is a definite lack of books about Pete Shelley and Buzzcocks, certainly compared to The Clash and the Sex Pistols, which seems criminal to me. Hopefully this book is different from all the others. I wanted to combine telling the story with getting across just how much Buzzcocks meant to me

Did you perceive of some misconceptions about the band you were keen to tackle?

PH: Yes. There’s this slightly snide dismissal of Pete’s songs as ‘just love songs’ which they’re definitely not.

In that sense is their closest comparison The Undertones? Or can they be compared to anyone else?

PH: There’s definitely a lineage between Buzzcocks and The Undertones in their ability to convey the thrills and spills of youthful yearning over driving melody. I think The Undertones would happily acknowledge an influence. But Undertones aside I think a lot of bands influenced by Buzzcocks kind of missed the point.

Care to elaborate?

PH: Ok. Specifically, bands like Green Day. There’s a big difference between speaking to youth and just being childish.

Do you cover Shelley's solo albums?

PH: Yes. Not in as much detail but Pete’s journey away from Buzzcocks’ sound and then how he got back to it is fascinating.

Did you get to interview everyone you wanted for the book?

PH: Yes pretty much. I deliberately chose not to speak to Steve Diggle as I wanted to avoid getting too close and have it affect the story I wanted to tell. And I couldn’t speak to Pete obviously so it wouldn’t have been fair! I think the story of the Buzzcocks is the story of Steve and Pete; the story of how they maintained that relationship despite being very different characters is pretty key I think.

Were relations between The Fall and The Buzzcocks always cordial?

PH: Buzzcocks and Richard Boon were very supportive of The Fall in the early days, as they were with lots of Manchester acts. I think Mark certainly respected Pete even if he was a bit sniffy about Buzzcocks music.

Was Shelley's bisexuality ever a problem for the band?

PH: No I don’t think they cared. His lyrics were always gender fluid, and his sexuality was never part of the act, it was just who he was. He was years ahead of his time in that respect.

What are the unheralded songs you love that aren't on Singles Going Steady?

PH: 'Money'; 'Who’ll Help Me To Forget?'

You've completely changed in the last few years haven't you? Three books published and an English Literature degree completed since 2017. It's very impressive but are your friends and family surprised by it?

PH: Well I hope they’re not too surprised! They’ve been very supportive. The degree was a dream. I loved it. And I really got the bug for writing. When you’re doing a degree you always have a piece of writing on the go, so I just carried on!

How are you enjoying The House Of All?

PH: The gigs have been great actually. We seem to be going down very well and the footfall is very gratifying. It’s a real shame Pete [Greenway] wasn’t able to join us but Phil [Lewis] has done a great job.

 Do you feel at all Irish? Obviously Steve [Hanley] was born in Dublin. How long after his birth did your parents move to Manchester?

Paul: I do feel Irish in many ways. We were a fairly Irish household growing up. But I feel far more Dublinian – if that’s a word – than just generally Irish, in the same way I feel Mancunian rather than English. I think he was about a year old.

Sixteen Again: How Pete Shelley & Buzzcocks Changed Manchester Music (And Me) is available to buy from Route now

The Fall's Paul Hanley On Buzzcocks Book. By  Francisco Scaramanga. The Quietus, December  18, 2023.





Paul Hanley in conversation with John Robb at Louder Than Words Festival in Manchester, 11th November 2023.  Paul is discussing his book Sixteen Again: How Pete Shelley & Buzzcocks Changed Manchester Music (and me).

Route TV, November 18, 2023.




Route






Gelesen: 27. – 28.12.2023 (netto 267 Seiten, in Englisch – wird wohl ehr nicht auf Deutsch erscheinen)

#bookcollectorsarepreteniousarseholes – Ich habe mir für einen ordentlichen Batzen Geld eine “Advance Edition” geleistet: Signed, limited und vor dem Erscheinen im April 2024 pünktlich zu Weihnachten hier. Mit einem collen Badge (in alter Buzzcocks Tradition). Post-Brexit Porto und Zoll sind mehr als der Buchpreis, Danke Merkel!

2021 ist ja bereits ein Buch über Pete erschienen, daneben hatte Steve Diggle bereits 2002 eine “Biographie” von einem Journalisten schreiben lassen (die habe ich damals nach kurzem Querlesen nicht gekauft). Ansonsten gibt es kaum etwas, ehr als Abfallprodukt der Arbeiten von Malcolm Garrett, der mit seinen Designs für die Buzzcocks ja Plattencover, Poster und Badges für die Ewigkeit erschaffen hat.

Paul Hanley, der Autor, ist sowohl Fan als auch Kenner der Musik-Szene Nordenglands, er spielte 1980 bis 1985 bei The Fall. Und er schreibt dieses Buch aus der Sicht eines informierten Fans…

 


Und weil es aus der Fan Perspektive geschrieben ist fußt es aus O-Tönen, die er aus allen möglichen Quellen zusammengetragen hat (87 insgesamt, alle im Anhang verzeichnet). Und dabei zeichnet er ein ziemlich realistisches Bild einer Band, die früh dabei war (1976) und wie viele andere ebenso früh fertig war (mit sich, mit der Musik).

Spannende Fußnote: Fertig waren sie in der Markthalle, Hamburg, 23.01.1981. Danach war Schicht im Schacht – erstmal. Und Steve Diggle und Pete Shelley hatten sich erstmal 8 Jahre nix zu sagen.


Durch den Mix aus O-Tönen und dem kundigen Kommentar bzw. der persönlichen Einordnung ließt sich das Buch extrem gut, ich habe es mehr oder weniger verschlungen. Auch weil ich Fan geblieben bin.

Da Hanley selber Musiker ist (auch wenn er bei einer weniger Ohrenschmeichelnden Band) kann er das musikalische auch richtig verorten. Downstrokes galore!



Was er aber auch offen und ehrlich rüberbringt ist, wie die Band im Grunde verglüht ist und sowohl Pete (der mit mehr elektronischer Musik zumindest ein klein wenig Erfolg hatte) als auch Steve nutzen nach den Buzzcocks das immer noch ein wenig hereinkommende Geld um Soloideen nachzugehen. Die anderen beiden (John Maher, Steve Garvey) setzten sich in ein erfolgreiches und normales Berufsleben ab.

Und ab hier wird das Buch dann schonungslos ehrlich, die Reunion war wohl ehr dem Geld geschuldet (aber das daraus entstandene Konstrukt von Pete/Steve plus Tony/Phil gab es dann satte 13 Jahre und damit etliche Jahre mehr als die erste erfolgreiche Inkarnation.




Es war am Ende dann doch ein Beruf, bei dem es um regelmäßiges Einkommen ging. Privat wollte man nix mit den Kollegen zu tun haben.



Das es am Ende vor allem für Steve vor allem um Ego, Einkommenund Versorgung mit Champagner ging wurde spätestens 2019 klar: Die Buzzcocks hatten eine “40 Years of Singles Going Steady” show in der Royal Albert Hall geplant – der Herzinfakt von Pete kam im Dezember 2018 dazwischen. Steve nutzte den Termin dann für ordentlich Egopolitur:




Klasse Buch: Vergötterung wo erforderlich, Kritik wo angebracht. Mit viel detailliertem Fachwissen (eg. Petes Liebelieder kammen immer ohne mänlichen oder weiblichen Bezug aus, mit Absicht. Steve konnte oder wollte das nicht und durchbrach das in einem seiner Songs für die Buzzcocks).

 Und immer mit dem Blickwinkel der Working Class (die übrigens Spiral Scratch möglich gemacht hat, das nur am Rande). Und in Summe ein klarer Blick auf was Erfolg aus einem machen kann. Manchmal gutes. Manchmal schlechtes.

Soundtrack dazu: Buzzcocks – Singles Going Steady, immer noch – was sonst?

PS: Der Buchtitel löst natürlich wieder eine Träne – Sixteen Again war die ganz hervorragende Buzzocks Cover-Band von Helge (RIP).

PPS: #bookcollectorsarepretentiousarseholes #75/300 (um 2 falsch, Danke Merkel!)

Buch kann hier bestellt werden! Der Autor hat auch einen historischen (endet 2020) Blog mit (in eigenen Worten) Ruminations, accusations, felicitations, and that


Bücher, schnell gelesen: 1.676. By Dirty Old Sod.  Gehkacken, December 2023.





 

The conversation is usually the same. Regarding the UK, the best and most important acts of the first wave of punk are Sex Pistols and The Clash. Of course, everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but it seems a travesty that the discussion regularly forgets the band who were, in my mind, the finest of the lot, Buzzcocks.

Arguably the most boundary-pushing act of the first wave of British punk, from their music to setting up one of the first independent record labels, and even their instrumental role in bringing the Sex Pistols to Manchester – a night credited with kicking off the city’s musical boom – many aspects bolster this argument. Without Buzzcocks, punk and broader alternative music today, would lack some defining factors. This indicates just how important Buzzcocks were.

Buzzcocks were officially formed in February 1976 by college friends Howard Devoto and Pete Shelley. This pair travelled down to London to see the buzziest band of the day, Sex Pistols, and organise for them to play at Manchester’s Lesser Free Trade Hall in June 1976, one of the most consequential nights in modern British culture. They also intended to perform at this show, but Devoto and Shelley’s bandmates dropped out.

The band eventually got their wishes, and after recruiting bassist Steve Diggle and drummer John Maher, they made their debut performance opening for Sex Pistols when they returned to Manchester for their second show in the city in July. Things moved quickly, and Buzzcocks were now vital to a burgeoning movement. In September 1976, the group trekked to London to perform at the two-day bonanza, the 100 Club Punk Festival, organised by Sex Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren. The festival was the moment punk crystallised itself as a genuine cultural force, with other performers including Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Damned, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and Subway Sect.

By the end of 1976, Buzzcocks had found their rhythm, and they recorded the four-track EP Spiral Scratch, which arrived in January the following year. Produced by future Factory Records alumnus Martin Hannett, it arrived on Buzzcocks’ New Hormones label, meaning they were one of the first punk groups to establish an independent record label, second only to The Saints and Fatal Records, created to release ‘(I’m) Stranded’. This also saw the group insert themselves further into the story of punk, with the song ‘Boredom’ coherently explaining the movement’s rebellion against the man. Additionally, the band demonstrated their genuinely artistic edge on the record, with the minimalism of the two-note solo in ‘Boredom’ the pinnacle of this, averting the established tradition of this guitar part. Clearly then, even at this early point in their career, Buzzcocks had made history on numerous occasions.

Despite these triumphs, Devoto quit the group only a few months later, citing his displeasure at punk’s direction. He said in a statement: “I don’t like movements. What was once unhealthily fresh is now a clean old hat”. He returned to college for a year and then formed the widely influential post-punk outfit, Magazine. They became one of the key players in the genre that would shine a light on all of first-wave punk’s flaws and start to make real artistic progress by casting aside the barriers of labels.

Devoto leaving Buzzcocks also proved to be a significant moment for the band. It saw a sea change occur, after which they would enter a more distinctive and essential area, pushing the confines of punk to the absolute limit. Pete Shelley took on the vocal duties, with his high-pitched, melodic vocals presenting a stark contrast to the gruff delivery many punks employed due to their origins in the blues-influenced pub rock. With Shelley taking over vocals and continuing to play guitar, Diggle switched over to the six-string from the bass, with Garth Davies, the original bassist rejoining. Steve Garvey eventually replaced him the following year, a four-string hero who would give the quartet the busy undercurrent needed for their increasingly dynamic sound.

Despite the undoubted importance of Spiral Scratch, after Devoto left, Buzzcocks took things up a level. Over the rest of their first chapter, which ended in 1981, they pushed back against social and punk mores, writing music for the future well ahead of its era. Arguably, it was more in line with what their heroes, The Stooges and The Velvet Underground had done, with there also taboo-busting similarities to the work of David Bowie.

When Shelley, bandmate Steve Diggle and manager Richard Boon sat down at the British Library in June 2016 to discuss their career, they explained how bands like The Velvet Underground and The Stooges inspired their iconoclasm. Shelley said: “Myself and Howard (Devoto), we were listening to… well, separately, but we had a mutual interest, things like The Velvet Underground, The Stooges, Can, I mean, a lot of the German… yeah Neu! I mean things that, really, when you put on you can clear a room.”

He continued: “In those days, it was a whole different country. It was music which nobody liked at all. Everybody was into sort of like heavy metal, but it wasn’t as widdly-widdly… I mean, things like Black Sabbath and Deep Purple, there was a lot of blues, and it was all to do with how many notes you could fit into your 20-minute guitar solo. Where, I liked the things which were more on the noisy side, but were funny as well. So that’s basically what we tried to do… In fact, we were making the most uncommercial form of music that we thought possible… We even had swearing in it. Nobody did that.”

It was a much different, more creative space to that of their most prominent punk peers, Sex Pistols and The Clash, after Devoto left. Mainly inspired by the innovation of The Stooges and more experimental acts such as The Velvet Underground and Can, Shelley’s lyrics had much greater depth than almost everyone’s. A wholesale affront to the machismo of punk, he showed it to be futile, as he discussed personal feelings, sex and homosexuality in a wickedly comedic way, a complete departure from the immediate moves of Sex Pistols.

Much of this separation from the punk scene was due to Shelley. An open bisexual, his discussions of love, sex, and other taboo issues pushed back against punk’s standards and that of the mainstream. His lyrics set an example by sticking a stout middle finger up to tradition and providing solace for listeners hiding their true selves from the public. This significance cannot be overstated; 1970s Britain was a completely different time to our own. It was a much less welcoming place for anyone who dared to veer off the beaten track.

Early singles such as ‘Orgasm Addict’, ‘What Do I Get?’ and the iconic ‘Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve)’ remain highlights of this approach. While the first wave of punk was mostly concerned with external issues, Shelley was an adept songwriter who could fuse the personal with outside forces such as the political, going far beyond that of other punk songwriters, including The Clash’s Joe Strummer, someone credited with addressing the most important issues of his day.

Shelley said more in one song than many of his contemporaries managed to do in their whole career; that’s how incisive his prose was. ‘Everybody’s Happy Nowadays’, ‘Autonomy’, ‘Lipstick’ and ‘Whatever Happened To…?’ are four more examples of the frontman’s lyrical flair. He was afraid of no issue, and had a knack for combining the mundane and severe, something his heroes Iggy Pop and Lou Reed were masters at that.

Of course, Buzzcocks’ music was much more impactful than their peers’ too. The guitars were more muscular, the melodies were more prominent, and the band did exciting things with their songwriting. This isn’t to say bands like The Clash and Siouxsie and the Banshees didn’t; I just think that what they were doing had more weight for the time. The likes of ‘Why Can’t I Touch It?’ with its unbelievably groovy bassline and the power pop of ‘Promises’ are two further examples of Buzzcocks’ scope. To use a football analogy, they were well-ingratiated in the men’s team when their peers were still languishing in the academy.

Musically, Shelley and Buzzcocks augmented the punk formula. They didn’t confine themselves to playing just three power chords, and because of this, it wouldn’t be excessive to label them more art-rock than punk. Ironically, there’s room for them to be described as the first post-punk band, as they were railing against the genre even when they were deeply embedded within it. Following this, there are more parallels between them and Magazine, XTC and Squeeze than with the likes of Sex Pistols and The Clash. It also says everything that many subsequent alternative heroes such as The Smiths, Nirvana, Pixies, Pearl Jam and Green Day cite as them an influence due to their creative prowess. There was real depth to Buzzcocks, and that was always their power.  

Hear Me Out: Why Buzzcocks are the best first-wave punk band. By Arun Starkey. Far Out Magazine, July 20, 2023. 






In January 1977 a young punk band called Buzzcocks walked into the Manchester branch of Virgin with a box of singles they wanted to sell. They had set up a label called New Hormones and paid for the records themselves with an early form of crowdfunding – borrowing £500 from a couple of friends and the guitarist’s dad – and their only ambition was to sell enough of the 1,000 copies they had pressed to be able to repay the loans. The Spiral Scratch EP ended up selling 16,000 copies and reaching the top 40 – there was no problem with the loans. More importantly, though, it proved that it was possible for artists to be in complete control of their music, from production to distribution, and in the process invented indie.

These days, there’s nothing unusual about bypassing the record industry. Chance the Rapper self-released his music and has become a breakout star and Barack Obama’s guest at the White House. In 1977, though, Spiral Scratch was game-changing. In its wake came a wave of British independent labels and a distribution network that meant that, as Rough Trade founder Geoff Travis puts it, “anyone could compete with the big boys, but that only happened because it was an undeniably great record”.

Few who saw the first Buzzcocks show on 1 April 1976 would have felt they were in the presence of people who were about to reshape pop. Peter McNeish and Howard Trafford (who would become Pete Shelley and Howard Devoto) fronted a makeshift version of the band at Bolton Institute of Technology’s students’ union – they were studying there – and managed to annoy not just the venue, but their bandmates, too.

After the venue pulled the plug, their drummer – who had never rehearsed with them before – laid into Shelley and Devoto. “He said: ‘I’m at this level’ – and held his hands very high,” Shelley, remembers, “‘and you’re down there.’”

Shelley and Devoto had been inspired to form Buzzcocks seven weeks earlier, when they read a live review in NME that would transform their lives. The headline, “Don’t look over your shoulder, but the Sex Pistols are coming!”, was enough to convince them to borrow a little Renault and drive 200 miles to High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire to see the Pistols support Screaming Lord Sutch on 21 February.




“Seeing the Pistols changed everything,” Devoto says. “We started to realise what songs we ourselves could write.”

At this point, the Pistols were some way from becoming the band who outraged a nation. They were so short of bookings that their manager, Malcolm McLaren, agreed to the offer Shelley and Devoto put to him: they would put his charges on in Manchester, if they could be the support band.

 The problem was, the pair didn’t have a band. And when the night of the gig at the Lesser Free Trade Hall arrived – 4 June 1976, with Shelley and Devoto having paid £32 to rent the room – they still lacked a permanent bassist and drummer and had to drop off the bill. But they quickly recruited bassist Steve Diggle and drummer John Maher, who joined while doing his O-levels as a way of avoiding “aggro” from his neighbours, and when the Pistols returned to the Lesser Free Trade Hall on 20 July, Buzzcocks were ready.

“I thought if I could join a band, I could get the drum kit out of the house,” Maher says. “How was I to know that my first gig would be supporting the Sex Pistols?”

Shelley, who was 22, remembers the show for its “complete lack of adult supervision. We were literally doing it ourselves. McLaren said: ‘If Buzzcocks aren’t onstage in 10 minutes, you’re not going on.’ But he was shrewd enough to bring music journalists.” When the journalists’ reviews appeared, Buzzcocks were catapulted to national attention.

Initially, they had no plans to make a record, but after the Pistols’ appearance on Thames TV’s Today show – swearing at the host, Bill Grundy – landed them on tabloid front pages and major labels started signing punk bands, Buzzcocks realised they had to make their mark or risk being passed by.

“Record company scouts just didn’t venture up to Manchester,” says Richard Boon, their manager. “The place felt like the tide had gone out.” But what other options were there? To Shelley, the idea of manufacturing a record themselves felt “as unfeasible as making a computer in your front room”.

There were already British independents: the Damned’s New Rose had been released on Stiff, but that label had the advantage of being run by people with lots of experience in the music business, and the contacts that came with that experience. It was a rather different matter for a pair of students whose only experience of records was buying them and listening to them. “The Drones told us: ‘Don’t do it!’” Shelley says. “Because they’d gone the vanity publishing route in a previous incarnation and ended up with boxes of records in the garage.”

However, the band’s new booking agent, Martin Hannett, wanted to become a producer and saw an opportunity in Buzzcocks. Boon started investigating pressing plants, to see whether they really could make a record, and as things started moving, Shelley began to think: “We can actually do this.”

It helped that by now they had a set of songs that matched those of any London punk band, led by Boredom (“You know me – I’m acting dumb / The scene is very humdrum / Boredom! Boredom!” Devoto sings, while Shelley picks out a two-note solo). Devoto wrote the lyrics during night shifts at a tile factory, and Shelley wrote the tunes on his Woolworth’s guitar.

 “We were chalk and cheese,” Shelley remembers. “I said to him, ‘I never get around to things. I live in a straight line,’ That ended up in Boredom.” Shelly’s’s famous guitar solo – seen as the epitome of punk’s rejection of musicianship, and later resurrected by Edwyn Collins for Orange Juice’s Rip It Up – came “out of the blue and seemed to fit. After we’d finished it, we fell about laughing.”

Boredom, Breakdown, Time’s Up and Friends of Mine were recorded in 30 minutes just before Christmas 1976, with Hannett at the controls. Spiral Scratch launched his career, too, and he would go on to produce Joy Division and New Order, the Psychedelic Furs, U2, Happy Mondays and many more – including Buzzcocks after Devoto left, and Devoto’s next group, Magazine.

 “My impression was that Martin didn’t know what he was doing,” Maher says. “But neither did we.” Devoto says of Spiral Scratch’s ramshackle, lo-fi sound: “As amateurs even we found it a bit amateurish sounding.”




Boon thinks the amateurishness is all part of the EP’s charm: Buzzcocks were the anti-Fleetwood Mac, the antithesis of big-budget music. He took Spiral Scratch’s cover photo of the band on a Polaroid instant camera and the band assembled at Devoto’s shared flat in Lower Broughton to slide 1,000 singles into their budget picture sleeves.

The first shop to take copies was Virgin in Manchester, which accepted 25 copies and sold them for 99p each (of which 60p went to the band). In London, Travis had just opened his Rough Trade shop. He took an initial 50, then ordered 200 more just two days later. “I knew I could sell them,” he says. “It was a sensational record.”

Boon didn’t have the money to press more copies, so Jon Webster, the manager of the Manchester branch of Virgin, lent him £600 from the shop’s sales of coach tickets to a Status Quo gig. “So indirectly, the first British independent success story was financed by the Quo,” Boon says, laughing. Webster remembers those pioneering punk days as “the best time of my life”, and notes that, back then, a record shop could be a catalyst for spreading new music. “Because there was no distribution, almost no shops had these records,” he says. “When we handed out a photocopied list of all our punk singles at the [venue] Electric Circus, we were deluged with people from all over the north.”

Soon enough, a copy of Spiral Scratch reached John Peel, who duly played it; it became single of the week in the music papers, and sales exploded via mail order. After Mancunian photographer Kevin Cummins gave Marc Bolan a copy and photographed him holding it, Boon’s landline started “ringing off the hook”.

Spiral Scratch provided evidence that punk was having an effect nationwide, that it wasn’t just confined to a small coterie in London. The cultural historian Jon Savage had just started his first fanzine when it was released, and it made him think Manchester punk “seemed more interesting than London punk, which was full of people with leather jackets and cocaine habits”. Just as important, the means of Spiral Scratch’s release epitomised liberation through DIY. “Suddenly the gap between wanting to do something and actually doing it seemed small,” Savage says.

Devoto’s idea of providing recording details on the sleeve – “Breakdown, third take, no overdubs” and so on – further demystified the process of making records, making it seem accessible to scores of young groups. Two months after Spiral Scratch was released, the Desperate Bicycles formed, and released a first single with a sleevenote that read: “The Desperate Bicycles were formed in March 1977 specifically for the purpose of recording and releasing a single on their own label.” That note inspired Green Gartside of Scritti Politti to form his own band and release a debut single on which he itemised the costs of production and manufacturing. Buzzcocks had started something that couldn’t be stopped.

Indie labels began to spring up nationwide: in 1978, ZigZag magazine published a list of 120 labels that had punk acts on their roster; the vast majority of them were from outside London. Alongside the labels came a new breed of band: Webster remembers Ian Curtis coming into Virgin and declaring: “I’ve formed a band!” Then Rough Trade set up the indie distribution network that gave these new labels and bands some of the muscle their counterparts on the major labels had previously monopolised. “You could have a No 1 record and have nothing to do with the record industry,” he says. “It was tremendously empowering.”




Buzzcocks Mk 1 didn’t survive their own earthquake. Devoto returned to college, and later formed Magazine. The new lineup of Buzzcocks, with Shelley singing, signed to United Artists and produced some of the best loved-music of the punk era. Forty years on, although there have been breaks along the way, Shelley and Diggle continue to lead Buzzcocks, and celebrated the band’s 40th anniversary with a world tour.

And all these years on, there are young bands doing exactly what Buzzcocks did. “I recently met the grime act Tough Squad, who told me how they press up 200 records, take them to shops and then go back for the money,” Boon says. “Just like we did.”

“It just shows what can happen if you’re stupid enough to believe that you can do something,” Shelley adds. “History is made by those who turn up.”

 Spiral Scratch (40th anniversary reissue) is released on Domino on 27 January. Time’s Up, an album of 1976 demos, is being reissued on 24 February.

 

How Buzzcocks invented indie (with help from the Sex Pistols, a Renault and the Quo). By  Dave Simpson. The Guardian,  January 12, 2017. 






Pete Shelley and his band Buzzcocks became indelibly linked to the UK’s punk movement when they played their first gig supporting the Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in Manchester in July 1976, but they never conformed to any of punk’s cliches about rage, anarchy and rebellion. Shelley, who has died of a heart attack aged 63, proved to be a songwriter of wit and subtlety, able to probe the angst and confusion of adolescent love and lust with shrewd insight.

He was innovative musically as well as lyrically, taking inspiration from David Bowie, Brian Eno, Roxy Music and the Velvet Underground, as well as from German bands such as Neu and Can. While the music of many of the punk bands remains firmly of its time, Buzzcocks’ best songs still sound fresh and inventive, mixing dense guitar patterns with infectious melodies. Their influence can be heard on bands from Primal Scream and the Jesus and Mary Chain to REM and Nirvana. Gary Kemp of Spandau Ballet said: “Pete was one of Britain’s best pure pop writers, up there with Ray Davies.”

Buzzcocks achieved success with their first recording, the Spiral Scratch EP, which was released on their own label, New Hormones, in January 1977 (the band having supported the Sex Pistols on their Anarchy tour in late 1976). It was one of the first independent releases of the punk era, and to the band’s surprise sold its first thousand copies in four days. “We made quite a bit of money from Spiral Scratch,” Shelley recalled. “It ended up selling about 16,000 copies and we were able to buy some new equipment.”

They then signed to United Artists. Their first single, Orgasm Addict, was released in November 1977 but the BBC declined to play it because of its subject matter and it did not make the charts. The follow-up, What Do I Get, released in February 1978, reached 37, and their debut album, Another Music in a Different Kitchen (1978) climbed to 15. Their second album, Love Bites, which came out later that year, contained what remains their best-known hit, the zingingly propulsive Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve), which made No 12. Shelley borrowed the title from a line in the musical Guys and Dolls. The 1979 album A Different Kind of Tension reached 26 in the UK.

Continued singles success came with Promises (20), Everybody’s Happy Nowadays (29) and Harmony in My Head (32). However, growing tensions in the band coupled with friction with EMI, which had purchased United Artists, prompted Shelley to break up Buzzcocks in 1981.

He was born Peter McNeish in Leigh, Lancashire. His father, John, was a fitter at Astley Green colliery, and his mother, Margaret, a former mill worker. Peter began writing songs while still at Leigh grammar school, and while studying for an HND in electronics at Bolton Institute of Technology he bought a Tandberg four-track reel-to-reel tape recorder and began making recordings of his own songs. (“I think of my career in music more as a songwriting career than anything else,” he said in 1983.) He formed a group called Jets of Air, the name inspired by a college lecture on Newtonian physics, and while “we played only about six gigs in three years”, Shelley built up a stockpile of songs.

He then dabbled in a project called Sky, where he experimented with electronic music and recorded the album Sky Yen, released later, in 1980, on his own label, Groovy Records. He subsequently tried making “heavier, more rhythmic” music with Smash, which he described as “a non-existent group”, but which supplied more raw material for Buzzcocks.

The band came about when Shelley spotted an advertisement on a college noticeboard from Howard Devoto (real name Howard Trafford), wanting to form a band in the vein of the Stooges and the Velvet Underground. “That was much in line with the Smash idea, so I phoned him up straight away,” said Shelley. Buzzcocks originally planned to make their debut at the first Sex Pistols concert at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in June 1976, but the bass player and drummer pulled out.

For their eventual appearance the following month, Shelley and Devoto were joined by the drummer John Maher and the bassist Steve Diggle. When Devoto quit after the release of Spiral Scratch and went on to form Magazine, Shelley became lead vocalist, Diggle switched to guitar and the original bass player, Garth Smith, rejoined temporarily, later replaced by Steve Garvey.

In 1981 Shelley launched his solo career with the single Homosapien, from the album of the same name, produced by the Buzzcocks producer Martin Rushent (who was about to help make Human League’s electropop epic Dare). Shelley had returned to his earlier fondness for electronica, and found himself in controversial waters when the BBC banned Homosapien for its “explicit reference to gay sex”. In 2002 Shelley commented that his sexuality “tends to change as much as the weather”. The track reached 14 on the US dance chart.

 In 1983 his second solo album, XL1, brought him a minor hit single with Telephone Operator. In 1987 he contributed the song Do Anything to the soundtrack of the John Hughes movie Some Kind of Wonderful.

In 1989 Buzzcocks reformed and toured the US, and released Trade Test Transmissions (1993), the first of a series of albums, the most recent of which was The Way (2014). In 2002, Shelley reunited with Devoto to record the album Buzzkunst. “Devoto is not the life and soul of the party or a born raconteur, but he sees things as funny and I think that’s how we hit it off with each other,” Shelley observed drily. “I always had this idea that me and Devoto were like Gilbert and George. As long as you approach it from that angle you can do anything you want, and you just call it art.”

In 2005, following the death of the DJ John Peel, Shelley recorded a tribute version of Ever Fallen In Love with a multi-platinum lineup of stars including Elton John, Robert Plant, David Gilmour and Roger Daltrey.

In 2012 he moved to Tallinn, Estonia, with his second wife, Greta. She survives him, as do his younger brother, Gary, and a son from his first marriage.

 Pete Shelley (Peter Campbell McNeish), musician, singer and songwriter, born 17 April 1955; died 6 December 2018.

Pete Shelley obituary. By Adam Sweeting. The Guardian, December 7, 2018. 


 

Buzzcocks' Pete Shelley – a life in pictures. The Guardian, December 7, 2018. 










26/05/2019

Heart and Soul : Joy Division





Bernard Sumner: I felt that even though we were expecting this music to come out of thin air, we never, any of us, were interested in the money it might make us. We just wanted to make something that was beautiful to listen to and stirred our emotions. We weren’t interested in a career, or any of that. We never planned one single day.

Peter Hook: [Ian Curtis, the late lead singer of Joy Division] was the instigator. We used to call him the Spotter. Ian would be sat there, and he’d say, “That sounds good, let’s get some guitar to go with that.” You couldn’t tell what sounded good, but he could, because he was just listening. That made it much quicker, writing songs. Someone was always listening. I can’t explain it, it was pure luck. There’s no rhyme or reason for it. We never honestly considered it, it just came out.

Stephen Morris: He was pretty private about what he wrote. I think he talked to Bernard a bit about some of the songs. He was totally different to how he appeared onstage. He was timid, until he’d had two or three Breakers, malt liquor. He’d liven up a bit. The first time I saw Ian being Ian onstage, I couldn’t believe it. The transformation to this frantic windmill.

Deborah Curtis: He was so ambitious. He wanted to write a novel, he wanted to write songs. It all seemed to come very easily to him. With Joy Division it all just came together for him.

Tony Wilson: I still don’t know where Joy Division came from.

Mark Reeder: I met Ian when he was working at Rare Records. They were very elitist in that shop: all beards and long hair, tweed jackets, and they all thought they were something else. I always thought if I ever worked in a record shop, I’d never want to be like them. Totally unhelpful, ignorant of the people coming into the shop. If you made a mistake in the pronunciation of a track, you’d be ridiculed to death.

Ian wasn’t like that. He was always trying to sell me reggae records. This was about 1974. Ian was totally into reggae music. Dub. He wasn’t there very long—about a year—and he was the youngest one in the shop, and he was the only one you could talk to. We talked about all kinds of stuff, and usually the topics would cross over from music to history and the war. He was fascinated by the war.
I started working at Virgin Records when I was about 14. Just part-time initially, and I got paid in records. They needed someone to stock up the records on weekends, while they were all in the shop. Just helping out, and then I ended up working there. It was back in the 70s. Real hippie days: lots of long hair and ’staches and stuff.

There was this seating arrangement, because people kept stealing headphones. They’d either break or they’d be nicked. So somebody came up with this idea where they’d have this seating arrangement at the back, covered in this vomit-green bri-nylon carpet covering, and the loudspeakers were put in the headrests. And people would sit, obviously, next to each other, and it was impossible to hear anything. You could move these speakers, put them next to your ears in the hope that you could not hear the person next to you.

But Virgin was a place where people just liked to hang out really. That’s why it stank of incense in there as well, to disguise the smell of marijuana. It was more rock music than disco then. In 1973, they’d just had this massive success with Tubular Bells, and then came Tangerine Dream, and they were the kind of records that put Virgin on the map and made the Virgin shop in Manchester special. All the other record shops were a bit elitist.

I was captivated by the idea of electronic music. I remember in 1968 when you had to have a stereo. We’d seen some bloke offering them in the paper, so one Saturday afternoon we went round to this bloke’s house to look at this stereo. It was this massive thing stuck in the middle of the room, like a cabinet, a sideboard with loud-speakers at each end and a drinks bit in the middle, and to demonstrate this stereo he put on Switched on Bach by Walter Carlos, and I was like, “What is that?”

Before that, my only exposure to electronic music had been Doctor Who. And “Telstar.” Then, for years and years, I didn’t hear anything synthetic at all, until I came to this bloke’s house and he put on Switched on Bach. Which was like the Brandenburg Concerto played on a synthesizer. I’d been exposed to classical music cos I played violin at school, but this was something completely different, and it was in stereo. From that moment I was captivated by the idea of electronic music.

In the Court of the Crimson King came out when I was about ten, and I was just overawed. It was avant-garde, ambient, and I’d sit in total silence, listening to this record. Looking at the cover, absorbing it all. And that was my background to working in Virgin. When they started releasing the early Tangerine Dream records, German music didn’t sound like British music at all. And the weirder it was, the more fascinated I was. The first Kraftwerk albums were like jazz rock, with flutes and stuff, totally unlistenable to for all my mates.

I knew Tony Wilson from very early on. He’d come in at weekends, just before closing time. I was the person designated to unpack the boxes in the morning and then write up all the records and put them into stock. So I knew every single record that was coming into the shop, even more than the people who actually worked there. I’d have to tell them what had come in—they had no idea. They’d just look at the list, and they had no idea if things that they’d ordered had actually come in or not.
Tony would ask me to put a record aside for him so he could have a listen, then I could put it back in stock on the Monday if he didn’t want it. He’d come in, and it would be all, “Darling!”—and that’s how I got to know him. I got to know Rob Gretton because he used to come into the shop all the time and just hang around. It’s what I would do as well—go into record shops and just hang around there all day, talking about records and about music.

Ian would come into Virgin when he started working in Manchester and just hang around, complaining about things. He said, “You can smell the drugs in Virgin.” I told him that’s why we burn incense to disguise it, but he thought that was the smell of the drugs. He was always joking, very funny, playing tricks and stuff.

Paul Morley: We had head shops like Eight Miles High, the Manchester Free Press and the Mole Express, and the lefty end of things. That was your great salvation at the time—music and the lefty press and weird bookshops where alternative culture seemed to be thriving. Down in London obviously there was Compendium, and we had weird little versions of that where you might find some sanity and discover things. Everything was not easily available; you had to search it out and find it.

I worked in this bookshop in Stockport, and the shop sold all the great Pelican blue books, which were my education. I didn’t get educated at school, I got educated in this bookshop, and they had a science-fiction section—Harlan Ellison’s Dangerous Visions, all the J. G. Ballard novels—they would have really weird magazines, underground magazines, and weird folk singers from the backwoods of Derbyshire would come in to get their weekly fix of odd alternative culture.
But we made money in the bookshop out of the soft porn and the Mills & Boon, so you had a weird kind of strange thing where old ladies would totter in every month to get their ten Mills & Boon, and men would come in to get their soft porn, which we had to order off a van that came in every week. Then I would be selling second-hand records. I would go into Manchester, buy bootlegs for £2, bring them back to my bookshop and sell them for £2.50.

You’d get the people coming in to buy war books, all those Sven Hassels. Of course, if you were going to open that kind of independent bookshop in the northwest at that period, you would have lefty tendencies, so you’d be pushing that, but to make your money you would have to sell Whitehouse and Mayfair, and the dreadful thing is you could bring them back to exchange, so these grubby copies of this soft porn would come back glistening with some suspect substance.
But what was interesting were the creatures that would come in to check out the weird combination of books, which sounds fairly standard now but at the time was unformed and raw: Ballard and Philip K. Dick and Burroughs. William Burroughs was definitely part of it. They were prophets of something that we were about to enter, this weird commercial entertainment landscape that would become where we are now sat, but at the time it was very odd, and it was a beautiful attachment to your love for weird music. There was no doubt that it was connected. There didn’t seem to be any difference between reading Ballard and Dick and Burroughs and listening to Faust and Velvet Underground and Iggy and the Stooges: you were constantly curious to find out strange things that might explain your situation, even though it didn’t directly have anything to do with where you were.
And there were characters. There was a guy that used to come into the bookshop called Paul, and he did the first fanzine I’d ever come across. It was called Penetration and it was basically obsessed with Hawkwind. He used to come in and he always used to wear all black. He had the whitest skin I’d ever seen, and his girlfriend would always wear white lace, and they used to float in bringing ten copies of Penetration every so often. In fact, that’s where I first wrote. I wrote a piece about Lenny Bruce for Penetration, which Paul pasted up in the wrong order, incidentally. I think it’s influenced my writing ever since, because I quite liked it being in the wrong order.

But there were lots of characters like that floating around and, obviously, Ian Curtis. I get the sense wherever he was at the same time—’74, ’75—he was coming across similar sorts of routes, similar source material out of which he could piece together his vision.

Stephen Morris: I’d get the train and go in to Savoy Books—before it was Savoy Books it was called The House on the Borderlands—and we used to have a right laugh at the old blokes looking at the porn. There was science fiction, weird books, and over in a corner there’d be naked ladies, and surprisingly enough the science fiction had little appeal for the vast majority of the clientele, who were going over to the naked-lady corner. I’d just be trying to negotiate some sort of discount on a large, expensive book: “Yeah, have you got Michael Moorcock’s new book?”

Ian had The Atrocity Exhibition by Ballard, Naked Lunch, William Burroughs, and also a collection of Jim Morrison’s poems. I seem to remember that you could go to W. H. Smith’s and they had a lot of Burroughs and a lot of Ballard, and it was just mixed in with the rest of the stuff.

Michael Butterworth: Bookchain was opened in 1977. It was alternative and youth-culture stuff, both second-hand and new. I must clarify, though, that this was the most famous of our shops and the one everyone remembers, but it is not the shop Ian Curtis first came to. There were two Savoy shops before this one, and David Britton’s most vivid memories of Ian are of him coming into the first shop.
All three shops were modeled on two London bookshops of the period: Bram Stokes’s shop in Berwick Street, Soho, called Dark They Were, and Golden Eyed—which sold comics, sci-fi, drug- related stuff, posters, etc.—and a chain called Popular Books. David Britton used to visit a branch of the latter in Camden Town when he was living in London in the late 60s. They sold everything from Private Eye, girlie books, pin-up stuff and Penthouse to film stills, posters and any sort of media ephemera.

These two bookshops inspired David (with his then partner, Charles Partington) to open a bookshop on Port Street, off Newton Street, in Manchester centre. The shop they opened was called The House on the Borderland (after the William Hope Hodgson novel), and they had all this kind of stuff in the window. There was a strong emphasis on alternative culture and American imports. The window looked very exotic, and this is what probably attracted Ian and Steve Morris inside, once they had followed the yellow-brick-road poster trail leading to the shop. The attitude radiating from the shop was, “Fuck everybody in authority,” and that’s what they responded to. The shop played loud rock’n’roll over the speakers, which sounded out into the street years before other shops were doing the same kind of thing. And I mean loud.

They were disparate, alienated young men attracted to like-minded souls. They wanted something offbeat and off the beaten track, and the shop supplied this. They probably saw the shop as being a beacon in the rather bleak Manchester of the early 70s. Ian was interested in counter-culture and science fiction. David remembers them being enthusiasts about Michael Moorcock, whose hard-edged fantasy writing and lifestyle were a great influence, very rock’n’roll.
Ian bought second-hand copies of New Worlds, the great 60s literary magazine edited by Moorcock, which was doing something very different, promoting Burroughs and Ballard, and it’s possible Ian picked up his interest in these writers from these magazines. In exchange for their help in the shop they were allowed to take whatever books took their fancy. They came in every couple of weeks, sometimes more often. Steve was the most frequent. This close contact came to an end gradually, as Ian and Steve’s interest in a band was getting more serious.

Stephen Morris: Once I started going out, my first concert was Hawkwind and Status Quo. I was into psychedelic music really. Apart from Hawkwind, the first two groups that I got into were Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, and the week after that it was the Velvet Underground, and that was it. I liked collecting groups and I remember I liked Alice Cooper until everybody else started liking Alice Cooper, then I decided I didn’t really like Alice Cooper that much. That’s a bit pretentious really, but that’s the way it was.

After that glam happened. Actually, after saying that Macclesfield was a cultural desert, once a year there was a discotheque—there were two discotheques, one at the rugby club, where you could go and dance to the Faces and Jeff Beck and get in a fight, or you could go to Boddington Civic, which was later on, where there was a big glam-rock following and you had the Sweet and Bowie and Roxy Music, and so we went from psychedelic to glam rock—again, till everybody started liking it.
I discovered Krautrock about that time, and Can—I was into Tago Mago. I should say we were forming a band, me and this other guy from school—Mac, he was called. We were going to form this avant-garde jazz combo called the Sunshine Valley Dance Band. Everyone thinks it was just going to be like a dance band, and Hooky thinks it was jazz, but no, we were going to be avant-garde, and people would book us on the strength of the name and we would shock them with our appalling performances.

It never got off the ground, but through Mac’s elder brother I got into Can and then, after Can, Amon Düül and Neu!. I was into the punk rock before punk rock, which was the MC5 and the first Stooges album, which I bought from Kendals in Manchester. Anything that wasn’t disco. I later came to regret that opinion, but at the time disco was shit, and so it was anything that was a little bit long-haired but not like the boys in the year above me, who would wear RAF greatcoats and walk about with copies of Disraeli Gears or The Best of Cream. I wasn’t too mad on anything bluesy; it was just anything a bit unusual that was not Eric Clapton.

Paul Morley: You were looking round to see if there was anybody like you. There was nobody like me at school. Eventually we all found each other at a particular show, but for two or three years before that happened we didn’t really know where each other was. If you went to a Pink Floyd or David Bowie concert at the Free Trade Hall, you didn’t really find anybody else. They were probably there somewhere, but you didn’t find them because there was a bigger disguise going on.
At that point—’74, ’75—music fundamentally came to Manchester. We used to think of the local bands as not being right. Even bands that were local, like 10cc or Sad Café, didn’t seem to be Manchester. They seemed to be more LA, they were already in Las Vegas. There were a couple of kind of strange heavy metal clubs in Manchester where local bands would play, but you wouldn’t take them seriously at all because they just seemed like bands you’d see at school. There was just no way that that music would ever come from Manchester.

Excerpted from This searing light, the sun, and everything else: Joy Division: An Oral History by Jon Savage. Published with permission from Faber & Faber.

“I Still Don’t Know Where Joy Division Came From” By Jon Savage. LitHub , May 17, 2019.






Other excerpts here : 


The Birth of Joy Division.  Rolling Stone,  April 21, 2019.


‘Ian Curtis wanted to make extreme music, no half measures’ The Guardian , March 24, 2019 





Music journalist Jon Savage, 65, has wanted to write a book about Joy Division for as long as he can remember. But the spark for his new oral history of the band, This Searing Light, the Sun and Everything Else, is easier to pinpoint. He assisted on Grant Gee’s 2007 documentary film Joy Division and knew how much material had been left on the cutting-room floor. Lead singer Ian Curtis was long dead of course (he killed himself in 1980), but there were in-depth interviews with the remaining members of the group – Bernard Sumner, Peter Hook and Stephen Morris – as well as material that Savage had compiled over four decades following, thinking and writing about Joy Division. The result feels like a definitive account of one of the most exciting and enduring bands of the post-punk era.

Why did you want to do an oral history? In some ways, it’s a more ego-less approach for a writer.

JS : That was an attraction for me because I’ve written a lot about Joy Division. And people tend to get superheated about the band, so I thought: “Oh God, let them speak!” Besides, I like the cadences of the way that they speak, there’s a kind of poetry. And it’s very immediate.

Did compiling the book change how you feel about the band or the personalities?

JS : Well, yes. There is disguised autobiography in the book: it’s about me moving to Manchester from London in 1979 and working with [Factory co-founder] Tony Wilson and becoming friendly with Rob Gretton [Joy Division’s manager] and Martin Hannett [the band’s producer] and seeing Joy Division a lot. And me trying to make sense of how powerful Joy Division were: they are probably the most powerful live group I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen hundreds.

And I really got a sense finally – which I haven’t before – of why what happened with Ian happened. It’s a combination of pressures. Also the severe nature of his illness, and the poor treatment he was getting for his illness, and it all just suddenly really made sense to me. He was actually having fits on stage, and that’s not sustainable. So in a way it was the laying of a ghost.

What do you remember about when Ian Curtis died in May 1980?

JS : I have no memory. It’s a blank. In a way, keeping on at this subject is a way of filling in the blanks. And I think that was just being young. I was 25 and I hadn’t really encountered death before, and so I just didn’t know what to do. Also back in the day there was not really the language to talk about it, and people say that in the book. And I was only on the periphery, so I think it was a completely shattering event.

How would describe your relationship with the band during the time you were writing about them?

JS : I was quite rigorous about not becoming that friendly with groups, because it could be a bit embarrassing; you don’t know whether they’d turn round and make a crap album and you’d have to say so and there would be trouble. That happened to me with Siouxsie and the Banshees and a couple of other people and I just got fed up with people coming up to me and calling me a cunt because I’d actually told the truth about their lousy art in that particular case. So I’d say I was an acquaintance.

It’s been 40 years since the band released their debut studio album, Unknown Pleasures. What’s the enduring appeal of Joy Division?

JS : The main thing about Joy Division is that they were great. The music really stands up; I still listen to Joy Division with great pleasure and it’s not just nostalgic. Also I had a very interesting experience: I did an event at the BFI and they showed [Anton Corbijn’s film] Control and the Joy Division documentary to a bunch of inner-city kids, 16, 17. They were slightly bored, polite but restless – as you’d expect. Then Ian came on in one of the bits of live footage and oh, they tuned right in. They immediately snapped to attention, because of his total intensity, total commitment. He was, in that degraded phrase, “for real”. So there is something about Joy Division that transcends their time and place.

Is this the end of your journey with them?

JS : I certainly won’t do another book about them, but I do feel that I’ve got a greater understanding of what happened then and why it’s continued to nag away at me until now. A very good friend of mine said to me once: “Jon, sometimes in life, you have to do the obvious.” Actually that’s very good advice and this book is an example of that, I think.


Jon Savage: ‘Something about Joy Division transcends their time and place’. By Tim Lewis. The Guardian , March 24, 2019. 



Another interview :

Joy Division and Jon Savage's Latest, 'This Searing Light, the Sun and Everything Else' By David Chu. PopMatters,  April 2, 2019. 






Jon Savage’s “This Searing Light, the Sun and Everything Else” documents the formation, brief life and sudden end of the phenomenal Manchester, England, band Joy Division.

Much has been written about this band; some of the sharpest music writers have given their best trying to capture its essence. As brilliant as some of this work is, Joy Division seems to remain in the shadows, just out of reach of critical assessment. Joy Division’s music doesn’t “rock” in the classic sense as much as shudder, roar and convulse. The songs are readings of temperature, light and lack of light. They walk silently for hours on city streets and return alone to small rooms with full ashtrays and no messages on the machine. It’s a fantastically difficult question to answer: Why do you like Joy Division? The more dedicated the listener, the more likely you’ll get an inhaled breath held for a few seconds, an exhale and a shrug.
Savage is one of those aforementioned very talented scribes, who perhaps understands all too well how difficult it would be for any one person to create a clear picture of Joy Division. What better way to tell the story than to ask others to tell its story? By interviewing remaining members and those who bore witness, Savage’s oral history of the band carefully connects the dots.


Joy Division was Peter Hook on bass, Bernard Sumner on guitar, Stephen Morris on drums and Ian Curtis on vocals. The band’s first release, from summer 1978, a four-track 7-inch record called “An Ideal for Living,” could be labeled functionally as post punk, one of the best results of punk music’s exhilarating flash-pot bang. The songs are great but show a band only somewhat in control of its talent. Hearing what came next, you wonder if at that time, the four had any idea of what they were capable of.
The following year, the band released its first full length album, the brilliant “Unknown Pleasures.” None of the demos or surviving live recordings hints at what the band would bring to bear with this record. The music seems uninfluenced by any music that came before it but instead by the sheer fact of existence, the sound of your blood rushing through your veins.
The band became immensely popular. The group performed live and recorded new material. On May 18, 1980, Curtis took his life at age 23. A month later, in June, perhaps Joy Division’s most well-known song, “Love Will Tear Us Apart,” was released. In July 1980, the band’s second album, “Closer,” came out. Joy Division would reach its peak posthumously. Hook, Morris and Sumner carried on as New Order to great success all over the world.
I became a fan, never having heard “Unknown Pleasures.” Many years ago, I was playing my current favorite record for someone, who said I should cut out the middleman and listen to the band it was desperately trying to emulate: Joy Division. I’m not aware of anyone in any of the bands I was in having any interest in Joy Division’s music. I knew of the band but had heard only “Love Will Tear Us Apart.” Then I remembered that in the remaining space of many of the tapes I had received in trades from a fellow cassette enthusiast, he had put on tracks from Joy Division shows. I listened to them and was knocked out by the incredible intensity of the band. There’s no way you would want to go on after Joy Division.
A key moment for Joy Division happened at a Sex Pistols show at Manchester's Lesser Free Trade Hall on June 4, 1976. Reportedly attended by fewer than 50 people, the show proved to be quite a night. In the audience were future members of the Fall, Joy Division and two men who would prove to be of great importance to the group: Factory Records partners Tony Wilson and Martin Hannett. The Factory label was almost a perfect reflection of Wilson; rebellious, innovative and fiercely independent. Joy Division — and other post-punk art-bands like A Certain Ratio and the Durutti Column — found great support at Factory.
Post-punk music delivered on punk’s detonation of rock music’s predictability. Joy Division wasn’t the only band that started at some point in the punk din and evolved by leaps and bounds. Gang of Four, Killing Joke, the Fall, the Birthday Party and Wire were a few of the great bands that fell under the post-punk heading. (If you want to know more, the go-to book is Simon Reynolds’ excellent “Rip It Up and Start Again: Postpunk 1978-1984.”) And one of the greatest acts of punk-to-post-punk morphing was John Lydon (a.k.a. Johnny Rotten) going from perhaps the most well known punk band of all time, the Sex Pistols, to the completely different Public Image Limited.
Yet what has baffled many a Joy Division listener is the band’s own evolution; how its members, all novice players, went from rudimentary bashing with songs like “Gutz” and “You're No Good for Me” in 1977 to utterly brilliant tracks like “Transmission,” “Atmosphere” and “Love Will Tear Us Apart” just a few years later.

 Without Wilson and Hannett, it could be argued, Joy Division's potential would have been greatly compromised. Wilson believed in the band completely, allowed it to flourish. But in “This Searing Light,” Sumner describes an isolated and workman-like environment at practice, where each player was in his own world. “We were not bouncing off each other,” he says, “we just completely ignored each other, we were all on our own island, and we just made sure that what we were doing sounded great, and we didn't pay any attention to what the others were doing, not consciously anyway.”
While this might sound like the members didn't get along, it is a quite Mancunian posture, when you consider that the greater Manchester area was infused with factories, warehouses and remnants of World War II. It's not surprising that being raised in this environment might engender a somewhat stark outlook and utilitarian work ethic.


“You were always looking for beauty because it was such an ugly place, whether again on a subconscious level,” Sumner says. “I mean, I don't think I saw a tree till I was about nine. I was surrounded by factories and nothing that was pretty, nothing.”



Manchester bands like Joy Division, the Fall and Buzzcocks were greatly distanced from the outrage and fashion that fueled the London punk scene, a little over 200 miles south, and while their surroundings could be grim, it made for quite a creative setting. In “This Searing Light,” you get the idea that it was a “resist or submit” proposition.“It gave you an amazing yearning for things that were beautiful,” Sumner says, “because you were in a semi-sensory-deprivation situation because you were brought up in this brutal landscape, but then when you did see something or hear something that was beautiful, you would go, 'Ooh, new experience,' and really appreciate it.”
Still, how do four young men from the working class, in one of the toughest parts of a tough country, almost suddenly create not only some of the most enduring music from the late 1970s and early 1980s but also easily one of the most astonishing debut albums ever, “Unknown Pleasures”?
In the pages of “This Searing Light,” we get many clues from the testimonies of those in close proximity to the band.

Peter Saville, Factory co-founder and art director, is responsible for the “Unknown Pleasures” cover, one of the most recognizably reworked and repurposed music-related images of the last century. Saville isn’t the originator; it is a found image, part of the materials in a folder given to Saville by the band’s manager, Rob Gretton. There are, no doubt, people all over the world wearing a version of this pulsar spread out on a T-shirt who have no idea what it’s relating to. That being said, if you had to describe “Unknown Pleasures,” the image works perfectly; separate, straight lines randomly disrupted; peaks and valleys and then flat again. Such is life.


Hannett, who produced “Unknown Pleasures,” was a true visionary. There is no way the album would sound anything like it does without him. At times, Hannett seemed almost dismissive of his young charges: “They were a gift to a producer, because they didn’t have a clue. They didn’t argue.”
Hannett was notoriously idiosyncratic and difficult, and the band members endured him as much as worked with him. Hannett was obsessed with isolating and manipulating sound — the studio was his world; Joy Division was just hanging out in it for awhile.
“The studio was Martin’s,” says Morris, “and when you were in the studio you were working for Martin and his whims. There was an awful lot of pot smoked: whether Martin was completely stoned or did have a different outlook on what he wanted, he would be obtuse. He wouldn’t say to you, ‘I want you to do it like this.’ It was, ‘Great, do it again but more cocktail party’ or ‘a bit more yellow.’ Whether it was pot or whether it was the Zen school of production, it was definitely interesting, because he turned us on to the studio being a musical instrument.”
Kevin Cummins, the great photographer who took some of the most recognizable images of Joy Division, was witness to the band’s rapid growth and the mesmerizing stage presence of Curtis. “It always felt dangerous, because you always felt he was slightly out of control, and I’d not really experienced that with any other band,” Cummins says. “I’d seen the Clash and the Jam and all these bands, and I never felt that they were more than the sum of their parts. But with Ian, it was dangerous. The only other person who was that dangerous onstage was Iggy Pop.”
These are some of the nearly 40 people from Joy Division's inner circle whose accounts Savage, who was also there at the time, has deftly woven into an almost detective-style MRI of the band and the forces and factors that formed it. Almost particle by particle, from descriptions of Manchester's industrial beginnings to the area's cultural void, Savage makes you understand that the members of Joy Division were driven to create something of immense beauty, as if there were no other choice.
As matter-of-fact as the interviews are, and as carefully as Savage has laid out his case, the "how" of the band's amazing music is all but impossible to put your finger on. Liz Naylor, a writer at the Manchester fanzine City Fun, captures the band's close distance: “My thing about Joy Division is that they're an ambient band almost: you don't see them function as a band, it's just the noise around where you are.”

It's not up for debate. Joy Division was one of the most original bands of the last century and an influence on countless others that came afterward. “This Searing Light, the Sun and Everything Else” brings us a little closer to understanding the band and its incredible music. But still, even after the careful examination of almost every aspect of the band’s brief existence, its music still lurks deep in phenomenon and shadow.

Why Joy Division? Henry Rollins examines Jon Savage’s oral history of the post-punk band. By Henry Rollins.  Los Angeles Times,  April 18, 2019.





Inside a catalog of forthcoming books, Faber & Faber refers to Jon Savage's This Searing Light, the Sun and Everything Else: Joy Division: The Oral History as "the last word on the band that ended with the suicide of Ian Curtis in Macclesfield on May 18, 1980." It seems a little presumptuous to say that this book will be the "last word" on the subject of Joy Division, not that some closure wouldn't be welcome at this point. Between Peter Hook's memoir, Unknown Pleasures: Inside Joy Division (It, 2013) Bernard Sumner's memoir, Chapter and Verse: New Order, Joy Division, and Me (St. Martin's 2015), Deborah Curtis's memoir, Touching From a Distance: Ian Curtis and Joy Division (Faber and Faber, 2005), both a biopic (Joy Division, Gee, 2007) and a documentary, and some repackaging of the same songs fans have known and loved over the decades, it feels as if Joy Division has been discussed into the ground, sucking all of the mystery out of a band that was once shrouded in the stuff. Is there any marrow left in that bone? Or is This Searing Light just another way of giving people their Joy Division fix when the cupboards are all bare?

Author Jon Savage (interviewed with David Chiu, here on PopMatters), the compiler and editor of all the interviews here, was a source close to the band as well as the Factory Records team that helped launch a musical movement in Manchester. Given all of the front line accounts during this furtive punk moment in the late '70s, it appears that Savage was able to come away with some new angles to the old story -- Ian Curtis's personal dilemmas in addition to his epilepsy, the severity of said epilepsy, the band's inability to understand it all, the manager and the label boss's failure to act properly, and the multitudes that witnessed it first hand and have never forgotten the impact it left on them. As much as the story of this band has been pillaged, This Searing Light proves that there were still more Joy Division stories to be told. As far as I'm concerned, it's perfectly okay if there's now nothing left to tell.

This Searing Light pulls together recent interviews with the surviving Joy Division members, members of their contemporary bands such as the Buzzcocks and Cabaret Voltaire, photographers, and eyewitnesses, and is supplemented with past interviews with the now-departed Factory Records founder Tony Wilson, record producer Martin Hannett, the band's manager Rob Gretton, and journalist Annik Honoré. Surviving Factory players Alan Erasmus and Peter Saville are there to round out the picture, with a few rare reproductions of Saville's distinctly cryptic graphic designs. Photographers including Kevin Cummins, Jill Furmanovsky, Daniel Meadows, and the legendary Anton Corbijn describe snapping pictures of the band, both onstage during their mesmerizing sets and offstage when no one knew how to pose like a rock star. Music journalists Mary Harron (now a director) and Paul Morley share stories of interviewing the band and reviewing various shows. Eyewitness accounts from fans like Jon Wozencroft and writer Liz Naylor provide a surprisingly reliable narrative to compliment the professional angle.

Unlike other oral histories, Savage lists the interview subjects and their roles in the story in a table of contents at the start of the book rather than giving them the full description as they are introduced. As a result, a reader not equipped with an iron-clad memory may find themselves flipping to the beginning of the book quite often when they come across a new name. It's a minor detail, but it certainly disrupts the flow of the book, something that it sorely needs in its early pages. The first chapters are where everyone is setting the scenes of '70s-era Manchester with its urban decay and lack of natural beauty. This is also the moment when the interview subjects begin to chronicle their individual childhoods, something that can only be of interest to people from Manchester, seeing as how they are constantly peppered with geographical tidbits and some local color. The differences described between Salford and Manchester don't exactly leap off the page.

It isn't until the third chapter when the story begins to move. Tony Wilson was looking to expand his musical influence outside of presenting cutting-edge rock bands on his Ganada Television program So It Goes. This included activities such as giving Manchester gigs to the Bolton-based punk band the Buzzcocks and sprucing up the town venue known as the Lesser Free Trade Hall. The Sex Pistols played a set there in 1976 that proved to be serendipitous for Manchester's forthcoming music scene. Despite the fact that this fortunate gig has gone down in the record as a turning point in the history of British rock 'n' roll, Joy Division guitarist Bernard Sumner and Joy Division bassist Peter Hook don't seem to recall it being all that great of a show. Memorable, yes. But great? Apparently, the Sex Pistols had set the bar so low, musically speaking, that more than a few people left the showing thinking "I can do that!"

Sumner and Hook ride their scooters through the city, searching for an outlet for their newfound "skill". Ian Curtis makes an unassuming and paradoxical entrance on the Manchester music scene at around the same time. He wore a jacket with the word "HATE" scrawled on the back, yet he was very polite to everyone he met. He was drawn to William Burroughs and J. G. Ballard just as strongly as he was pulled to the titans of glam and punk, namely David Bowie and Iggy Pop. He was married yet wanted to ingratiate himself into a scene that marriage (and subsequent child-rearing) went against punk rock ethics. If Curtis ever struck you as a larger-than-life enigma that you couldn't wrap your mind around, everyone's personal accounts logged in This Searing Light helps to humanize him without demolishing the myth. The skeletons residing in his closet are easier to forgive once you remind yourself that he was only 23-years-old at the time of his death.

Indeed, it would be more difficult to imagine a rock band from this time that didn't stay up too late at night, drinking themselves silly while engaging in reckless mischief. He became very close to the Belgian journalist Honoré, an affair that, according to everyone concerned, never led to anything physical. This was more a matter of intellectual fulfillment, as Honoré was always giving Curtis the accolades his wife Deborah could never supply. At one point in the book, Deborah admits that she doesn't blame him for thinking this [NOTE: Savage lifts passages from Curtis's memoir to round out parts of the story]. Having epilepsy certainly wasn't his fault. The members of Joy Division and their manager take themselves to task for being ignorant of Curtis's physical as well as mental state. Crippling depression and grand mal fits? How are a bunch of 22-year-old men supposed to handle that? Somewhere in the second half of the book, you're reminded that there's hardly any adult supervision in the equation of constant gigging, constant traveling, poor health, and marital difficulties. Wilson and Gretton were older than the members of Joy Division, but not that much older. Everyone would have to come to grips with their maturity the hard way.

Depending on whose account you believe, Curtis's personal problems were exacerbated by the prospect of Joy Division touring America. According to Peter Hook, he was excited about leaving for the States. According to others, he was dreading the trip. The truth is, likely, a combination of the two. Curtis is portrayed as a people-pleaser, a man who would say whatever it was you wanted to hear, not least for his wife, his band, or his label boss. Rather than reconcile all of the differing promises he made to others, he let it all build to a painful tipping point. The night before Joy Division were to leave for America, Curtis hung himself.

Not surprisingly, everyone's recollection of that day is vivid. Tragedy certainly has a way of burning itself into your memory. Deborah Curtis was angry at Ian for having the "last word". Stephen Morris, Joy Division's drummer, had a reaction that was not dissimilar to the rest of the band: anger towards Curtis and disappointment in himself. He and everyone else are perfectly willing to admit that all of the red flags were there in hindsight, but they just couldn't bring them into focus at the time. The reader even gets the impression that Curtis's previous attempt at suicide didn't ring the alarm bells loud enough. To their credit, Curtis's need to please came through even during the worst of times. A simple "I'm fine" from him was enough to keep everyone rolling along, despite the fact that he was certainly not fine.

On page 304, Deborah Curtis admits that her late husband was "a very good liar, he was very convincing." It was at this point that I realized that there's room in the Joy Division universe for a book like This Searing Light, The Sun and Everything Else (the title comes from a series of words Tony Wilson throws together in a state of euphoria when describing Joy Division's sound, in case you were wondering) -- one that brings Ian Curtis back down to the status of a human being. She and many others close to Ian Curtis take turns chipping away at the Jim Morrison-sized myth that of Ian. Not to bring him down a peg, but to tell it as it was; Ian Curtis was a young man with a romantic angle, looking to channel his love of writing into a musical outlet. Life then became very, very tough as his band went on to surpass his expectations. The crowds grew as the reviews improved. Road manager and founding drummer Terry Mason puts it this way on page 316: "Everyone thinks there's some deep, dark, mystical secret, and there's not. He was a nice guy, got into a strange situation, and the only way that he would think of out at that time was to kill himself. Sorry, no secrets. Cut."


There's Room in Joy Division's Expansive Universe for Jon Savage's 'This Searing Light...' By John Garratt.  PopMatters , April 19, 2019.