It was hearing âSebastianâ by Cockney Rebel on a holiday in Rhyl in North Wales in 1973 that truly ignited the young Peter Hookâs passion for music. He and schoolmate Bernard (Barney) Sumner were already attending gigs regularly when Hook read about the emerging Sex Pistols and immediately felt a connection with this bunch of âworking-class tossersâ. Sure enough, when the Pistols played Manchesterâs Lesser Free Trade Hall on 4 June 1976 (50p a ticket) Hook, Sumner and schoolfriend Terry Mason were among the audience and, like the majority of those who also attended (Mick Hucknall, Mark E. Smith and Morrissey among them), they decided to form a band. One visit to Manchesterâs legendary Mazelâs music store later, and Sumner and Hook were the proud owners of lead and bass guitars respectively (Mason briefly the singer).
Quickly becoming familiar faces on Manchesterâs growing punk scene, Hook and Sumner met Ian Curtis at the cityâs Electric Circus venue. âHe had âHateâ written on his jacket,â remembers Hook. âI liked him immediately.â
A paragraph in Sounds on 18 December 1976 was the first press notice for the âStiff Kittensâ. A short time later, Curtis joined as lead singer, before the group abandoned the âStiff Kittensâ name (âtoo cartoon punkâ) and became Warsaw. Drummer Steve Morris joined and played his first gig with the band at Ericâs, Liverpool, on 27 August 1977, completing the musical line-up, and by January 1978 the band had changed their name again, becoming Joy Division.
In May 1978 local DJ and promoter Rob Gretton joined as the groupâs manager, and the following month Joy Division were featured on the compilation album Short Circuit â Live at the Electric Circus. In a relatively short space of time they had become one of the cityâs leading post-punk bands. In short order came a landmark appearance on Granada Reports, where Tony Wilson introduced a performance of âShadowplayâ and the world â or at least the north-west of England â was introduced to Curtisâs distinctive style of dancing.
More releases followed before, on 13 January 1979, Ian Curtis appeared on the cover of the NME. A few days later, however, the troubled singer was diagnosed with epilepsy. Things began to move fast. Recorded with mercurial producer Martin Hannett, debut album Unknown Pleasures was released to great acclaim in June. The band spent the rest of 1979 consolidating their success with gigs and TV appearances. It was an exhausting schedule that took its toll on Curtis, who by then was a new father, leading to several instances of on-stage fitting, as well as self-harming episodes.
In March 1980, the band convened to record their second album, Closer, with Hannett. However, the following month Ian, who had by then embarked on an intense love affair with Belgian journalist Annik HonorĂŠ, attempted suicide. A little later, Debbie Curtis, sick of her husbandâs infidelity, announced her intention to begin divorce proceedings.
Then, on 18 May 1980, Joy Division ended. With a new album, Closer, and single, âLove Will Tear Us Apartâ, recorded and ready for release, singer Ian Curtis committed suicide days before the band were due to embark on a US tour. The three surviving members, bassist Peter Hook, drummer Stephen Morris and guitarist Bernard Sumner, reconvened and decided to carry on, starting with the two songs left by Ian and Joy Division â âCeremonyâ and âLittle Boyâ (later to be renamed âIn a Lonely Placeâ). In the meantime, plans were made for the trio to play live; and Ruth Polsky, the promoter of the aborted US Joy Division tour, booked a series of American dates.
Do we need to go into the circumstances of Ianâs death?
Not really; they are well documented and Iâve already done that in my Joy Division book and, anyway, all the books are about Ianâs death in a way. We were very young. I was just twenty-four and, looking back now, in my early sixties, shockingly young to have to deal with any of it. We were now very, very nervous. What would happen? Would we succeed in any way now Ian had gone? Were we good enough on our own . . . without him? We were scared. We never talked about it in depth. Never analysed any of it. We just scratched the surface with pithy comments. Getting strength from togetherness that ended up, in a true northern English fashion, with us taking the piss both out of Ian and each other. We never confronted the grief. No one around seemed to know what to do or say. Maybe it was just too shocking for everyone, so it was much easier for family and friends to ignore it and let us get on with it. I would say looking back I was very proud of all of our immediate circle: Tony Wilson and Alan Erasmus of Factory, Rob and Pete Saville. None of them ever said it was over. The encouragement was always positive and about carrying on, as if this was just a hiccup on our upward trajectory. I thank them for that.
As a group we became very insular. I donât remember any of our peers saying anything much to us. Maybe they did to Tony and Rob, Bono being the notable example, I suppose. We did receive a lot of letters from fans, expressing their shock and grief â some lovely and some even written in blood. At the time, I was so pleased to finally have a home phone of my own I even (stupidly or like a true punk) put my name in the phone directory and had some really weird stuttering phone calls that lasted for months. Finally I had to give in, change my number and go ex-directory.
Sadly this was also where my relationship with Debbie and her daughter Natalie and Ianâs parents finished too. I was embarrassed and ashamed, and I dealt with it by hiding away from them. Iris, my then-girlfriend, kept in touch but I suppose they had more in common. My relationship would only be rekindled years later when Debbie contacted me to help intervene in her business affairs with Rob. She was finding it very difficult dealing with him and I was delighted to help and since then we have had a good on-off relationship.
So this is, if you like, the story of a long and drawn-out grieving process that begins just a few days after his inquest when me, Barney and Steve, our manager Rob Gretton, and faithful helpers Terry Mason and Twinny, gathered at our rehearsal room next to Pinkyâs Disco in Salford. And while them three sat around making tea and smoking dope and feeling sorry for themselves, us three did the only thing we could. We started playing, jamming, writing songs again.
Why not? After all, we were still professional musicians and had been for six months. And what professional musicians do when theyâre not touring, making records or head-butting producers is hang around practice rooms waiting for inspiration to strike. So even though Pinkyâs was a freezing cold pit with a dangerous hole in the floor, we took solace in it and our work. Besides, we had Tony Wilson and Rob on our backs. Rob in particular was like a lunatic, literally ordering us to play. It was like a mantra with him. âWrite, come on, write. The best song youâre ever going to write is your next one, so come on. Chop chop.â
He was convinced that if he kept us behaving like musicians then, after a while, weâd return to being just that. In hindsight, of course, he was right and that did eventually happen, but at the time we were thinking, What are you going on about, mate? Itâs fucked. Itâs all over. Ianâs killed himself.
But if Rob told you to get your finger out and write, thatâs what you did â or tried to do. We had âCeremonyâ and âLittle Boyâ on tape already, and to work out the lyrics we had to listen to them over and over again, and hearing Ianâs voice like that it was almost like he was back with us in Pinkyâs again. Weird.
And then it would hit you that he wasnât.
The problem was that in Joy Division, he was our ears, he was the conductor, the lightning rod, and the majority of the songs happened through the process of him picking out the good bits as we played. Every now and then heâd stop us jamming and go, âThat was a great bit. Play that again.â
Not any more. We were looking for him but he wasnât there. Like twats weâd play for hours and nobody said a word. Not Rob, Terry or Twinny. Not me, Barney or Steve either. Weâd lost him and weâd also lost our confidence.
We started recording the jams on our new four-track tape recorder so we could listen back and try to do what Ian had done. That worked, after a fashion. Trouble was, n...