Wrote this for a new magazine about old stuff, figured I'd let you all get a chance to read it as well. Because I'm a writer, that's what I do...sheesh :p
LOVE WILL TEAR US APART Trevor Seigler
The life of a rock group is often very short: you get three or four like-minded lads together and start forming a cohesive unit suitable for paying gigs at parties, frat houses, weddings, and the like. You struggle to find your own sound or, if you are a covers band, the sound of the artists whose material you are attempting to replicate. Let’s say that you get good enough to sign with a major label…no, too much, make it a small independent label. You release an EP of original material that’s not terribly distinguishable from the current flavor of the month style, but then you reconvene and embark upon a musical journey to depths of meaning and darkness that few groups before you have. By the time you finish your first proper album, you’ve managed to get into the local music press and become a national sensation. You appear on television shows, radio airplay is bolstered by your appearing on a major disc jockey’s show, and before you know it the second album is just a heartbeat away. Then suddenly your world shatters because the lead singer’s gone.
This rock group in particular followed that path, not quite to the letter but damn near it. Joy Division was born out of the anger and fury that punk unleashed on an unsuspecting England in 1976. By the time Ian Curtis (the troubled and troubling showman of the band) took his own life four years later, they had become the premier group for a new wave of post-punk outlaws, hanging on to the fringes of the mainstream charts by virtue of their ability to marry that initial anger with the musical capacity of such pop acts as, say, ABBA or the Captain and Tennille. And they did this without having stadium tours, multi-million dollar endorsements, lines of groupies outside their dressing rooms (well, there were groupies, but that’s a constant no matter how big your group is), all the other trappings of rock stardom that turned once-vital young men into withered old relics forced to get by on their greatest hits package. In other words, Joy Division managed to avoid becoming the Rolling Stones of post-punk.
That they did so with the death of a band-mate is probably not the way they would have liked it, but it’s all there in the final single release, “Love Will Tear Us Apart”. A song so different from the usual heavy-handed material passing for “punk” in the post-Pistols era, a song so different from the band’s own milieu, it nonetheless emerged as the signature tune for the group. As Ian Curtis’s body was cremated, the final pressings of the single (backed with an alternate take and the masterful “These Days”) made its way out into the world. And while Ian Curtis was no longer available to perform the tune on Top of The Pops, there was a pre-MTV video that could be shown instead.
The scene: a dilapidated warehouse somewhere in Manchester, England (Joy Division’s stomping grounds. As the bass slides onto the soundtrack, the camera pulls up the stairway and to a door slightly cracked open, a hand ushers it inside, then suddenly the door opens and there’s nothing there. How interesting that the first real video images licensed for release of this group shouldn’t feature them at all. For all the photos and images available online through various websites, Joy Division remain a mysterious unknown pleasure (to borrow the title of their debut record). Like the Smiths and Belle and Sebastian after them, the record sleeves put out by their label are enigmatic images that leave so much to the buyer to try and discern. Personal information about the recording or the band themselves? Window-dressing, and unessential at that. This band gets by on its music alone, and gets by more than enough to make an impact.
But back to the images: we see the band finally as they join in on Peter Hook’s immortal bass line. Over by the keyboard, hunched over is Bernard Sumner, dressed like a schoolboy. Behind the drum case, dressed in gray, is Stephen Morris. Hook himself, looking dapper in a suit, is the only one with facial hair (the famed “U-Boat captain” look). In the middle, clutching to his microphone and also with a white, misshapen guitar slung across his chest, is Ian Curtis. The Poet of Post-Punk is also in gray, and there’s more than a hint of a three-day beard. In those final months, you couldn’t blame Curtis for having more on his mind than daily grooming.
The band performed the track live for that recording, but the single version was overdubbed and there are some miscues to the more technologically-advanced eye. Somehow it’s appropriate; a perfect synching would be too much for 1980 video skills. They never were satisfied with the video, as they were never satisfied with their sound on record; perfectionists, perhaps, or maybe they weren’t so sure of themselves when they were faced with what would constitute their mortality. After all the live shows and demos and rehearsals, it’s the studio albums that most bands are remembered for. Never mind that Tony Wilson (head of their label, Factory) enthused about it, or that the music press praised them as the leaders of a new musical movement. For the band, Unknown Pleasures would never be as good as it had been live, and Closer would only slightly improve their views but not by much.
The stage was Joy Division’s natural showcase, where Ian would launch into his “dead fly” dance. A symbolic tumult of emotion trying to escape from his thin, wiry body, the erratic jerks and thrusts also hinted at the epileptic seizures that began in 1978 and would plague him for the rest of his days. But there’s none of that in the video; the only indication that anything is wrong with him is in the somewhat dazed (and possibly chemically-enhanced) look on his face. His eyes shut for most of the close-ups, Curtis grips the microphone as if he needs it to stay right side up. His band-mates are a little more animated, but not by much; the only one who seems awake is Morris behind the drum kit, but his face wears the same blank expression of Sumner (who doesn’t even look up from his keyboards) and Hook.
The video, in much the same way as the song, seems the antithesis of Joy Division; while their live shows could be frantic and exciting, the video for “Love Will Tear Us Apart” seems like an early-morning practice session after a late night out, and the band can’t be bothered to put in the effort. But it makes sense in the context of that time. By May, Ian Curtis’s life would take on such a dark hue that not even the promise of breaking America on tour could keep him from finally succumbing to his demons. His fellow musicians, aware of his state but unaware of his intentions, would be left shocked and stunned. But they would re-emerge as New Order, bouncy, breezy, but always with the specter of something darker at their core. And “Love Will Tear Us Apart” would emerge as the unofficial anthem for the burgeoning indie underground rock circuit. Joy Division would come out of that rehearsal room with what they thought was a decent promo for a single that wouldn’t be released until after their singer’s death. What they had instead was a glimpse into the final moments of a band that would go on to influence musicians all over.
The video ends much as it began, with the door ajar as the hand ushers you inside, and there’s the possibility that you’ll get a glimpse inside of the band in mid-play. But instead the room is empty yet again. It’s a stunning visual aside from the typical “early Eighties” video enhancement of everything looking orange for some reason, but it conveys its message accordingly: this band will always be mysterious, just out of reach. Like the love described in the song, the love that was torn apart in Curtis’s real life just months after it was penned. This odd little relic is the only real image you have of the band, yet it’s enough. Joy Division couldn’t be bothered playing the “rock star” game, they were too busy with the music. And the music speaks for itself. And that’s saying something.
