by Peter Hook
In the meantime we resumed playing live, still in the North West and mainly in Manchester but elsewhere too. On 24 October we played the Fan Club at Brannigan’s in Leeds, a really nice club in a very dodgy area, the red-light district. It was a good gig; I didn’t think too much of it until not long after, when I answered a knock at the door one night and there stood two plain-clothes police officers on the doorstep, faces of stone.
‘Yeah?’ I said.
‘Can we speak to the owner of a blue transit, VRJ 242J,’ said one of them.
(And that again, by the way, is the actual registration number of the van. How I can still remember it after all these years is beyond me, but I do. When I told Anton that detail for Control he laughed; he thought I was mad.)
‘Oh, yeah, that’s me,’ I said. ‘I’m the owner.’ Thinking, Aw, no, what’s this all about? Tax? Insurance? Speeding?
A lot worse than that, it would turn out.
‘Right, we need to talk to you.’
They came in. Still I thought it was motoring: I had a bent MOT on the van. I’d bought it for a tenner, couldn’t afford to fix it . . .
‘Right,’ he said, when we were all sat down. ‘We’ve had reports that your van has been seen in the red-light districts of Bradford, Huddersfield, Leeds, Moss Side . . .’ He looked at me. ‘Want to tell me why that is, son?’
For a moment my mind went blank. All I could think was: Yorkshire Ripper. This was during the time they were searching for him. He preyed on prostitutes in Leeds, Bradford, Manchester . . .
‘Oh, hang on a minute,’ I said, ‘I’m in a group. I play bass in a group. Where you’re saying, they’re gigs we’ve played.’
They looked at each other, all doubtful like. ‘What’s your group called?’
‘Joy Division.’
‘Never heard of them.’
Probably Level 42 fans.
‘Really,’ I insisted. ‘I play bass and all the gigs that we play are in the red-light districts.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Well, we’re sort of a punk group and they’re the kind of places punk groups play.’
‘Can you prove that, then?’ he said.
‘What, that we’re a punk group?’
‘No, that your group has played in those places.’
‘Oh, yeah, yeah, of course,’ I said. ‘Our manager’s got all the dates written down. And proving it’s no problem. We’ve had punters – I mean, audience – watching, you know. And we’ve been reviewed and stuff.’
They seemed satisfied. ‘Well, in that case, we won’t ask you to come to the station or anything, but you must bear in mind that you’re appearing in all these areas where there have been Ripper killings, so you can consider yourself under investigation.’
I was nodding like a bastard, pleased to be off the hook, as it were. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll give you any help I can, anything you want.’
And he went, ‘Right, okay, we’ll leave it at that for now.’
Off they went. And, though I breathed a sigh of relief, I chuckled a bit about it, too.
The next day I got a call from Steve.
‘All right, Hooky. Have you had the police round?’ he said, voice trembling.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘They came and asked me about the red-light district and all that. Did they come to you?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘They came round and I panicked and they arrested me.’
Oh dear. He was so nervous they’d thought they had their man, dragged him off to the police station, cuffed him, locked him up and interviewed him. His mum had to come down and rescue him.
Oh, did we laugh. Not that it was particularly surprising. Poor old Steve. We used to call him Shakin’ Steve, he was that nervous all the time. The police must have taken one look at him and thought, Got him. We’re looking promotion in the face.
‘The biggest rain of spit I’ve ever seen in my life’
In November we joined a tour with the Rezillos and the Undertones. A bit of an ill-fated tour, that one, because the Rezillos fell out following the first gig, after which it was just a matter of time before they split.
What’s more, the Undertones were all very young, about fourteen and fifteen, and this was the first time they’d been away from home so they were really, really homesick. Us, though, Joy Division? We were okay. I mean, we thought it was a bit of an odd billing because they were a pair of power-pop bands and we were . . . what we were. But we were pleased to play, to get the gigs, to do the travelling. Plus we got to stay in hotels and B&Bs for the first time, which was pretty exciting. First time we’d stayed away from home for a gig.
But then of course the Rezillos had this big bust-up. We played Brunel the next night and I remember that well for two reasons. Firstly because the Rezillos singer, Faye, got changed in front of us and our eyes were on stalks as we tried desperately not to look. She probably didn’t have much choice, it being a shared dressing room and all, and being in a band I’m sure she was quite used to decking off in front of the other guys, but even so we were shocked. The second reason was that the crowd wouldn’t stop spitting. There was a gap between the stage and the crowd, like a no-man’s land, and every now and then some twat would run into the space and gob at Ian as we were playing. So I started twatting them with my bass. It had this hook on top of the headstock, the Hondo, and every time one of these little fuckers darted through the crowd to gob at Ian I swiped him in the ear with the top of the bass. I got about ten of them that way, little bastards. There was a speaker stack in the way so they couldn’t see me when they came running in. Got a nice surprise.
Even so, there were too many, and we called it a day after seven numbers and fucked off. It’s horrible, spitting. I remember one awful night where the Buzzcocks were getting spat at at the Electric Circus and it was happening so much that Pete Shelley ended a song early.
‘Stop the gig, stop the gig, stop the gig,’ he squealed. ‘Listen, right, if you lot don’t stop spitting, we’re not going to play.’ The crowd stopped. It lasted for about three seconds before he was showered in the biggest rain of spit I’ve ever seen in my life. Everybody just spat at him all at once – and he shrugged and played on. Should have walked off. That was how Joe Strummer got hepatitis, from swallowing someone’s spit. Disgusting.
Anyway, a couple of the gigs were cancelled because the Rezillos had walked off the tour. Then when we turned up to the Locarno in Bristol to play we were told that we were off the tour. We’d done the sound-check only to be suddenly told that they’d brought Chelsea in instead, and John Otway. Fuck me, we had a massive row with them. Gene October, Chelsea’s singer, was such a twat and was being so fucking arrogant that Ian wanted to kill him, to bottle him. Rob was freaking, too. It went the way all fights between gobby Cockneys and gobby Mancs go:
‘You fucking Manc bastards, I’ll have you.’
‘You bunch of Cockney twats. We’ll fucking do you.’
Ian started throwing punches, and the Chelsea guys were hitting back. We were just so fucked off because we really wanted to play. I mean, I still don’t know why the Rezillos leaving the tour meant that we had to leave the tour, too; why didn’t they just put us and the Undertones on? But in the end we were actually physically ejected, chased out of the building.
It was not long after that they we had our first gig in London, at the Hope & Anchor. Bernard’s sleeping bag made another appearance. That night we discovered that there was something wrong with Ian. Something really wrong.
First off, it was a really big thing for us to play London. We were dead excited and nervous about doing it, as though the whole of London would be there to look at us. In reality the gig was in the basement of the pub. The Hope & Anchor is a legendary venue, don’t get me wrong, but still: it was hardly the Marquee. It was a nightmare journey into London to get there. The others hadn’t turned up, so it was left to me and Twinny to unload and set up the gear. We had to load it down the beer chute into the basement, which was c
old and damp, pretty horrible, if I’m honest. Meanwhile, the rest of them – Steve, Ian, Bernard, Rob and I think Gillian was there, too – had been lost because Steve was a rotten driver, a terrible driver. He collects tanks these days, of course, and all I can say is that I hope he never takes them for a spin because he is the world’s worst. He held some kind of Macclesfield record for having the most driving lessons and tests. Something like 400 driving lessons and twenty-five tests. He was so nervous. Insisted on driving with a cigarette in his hand so he’d only ever have one hand on the wheel.
‘Put both hands on the wheel!’ they’d scream. Whenever he followed the van in the Cortina he’d always drive way too close. So close that I’d have to stop and say to him, ‘Steve, listen, you’re driving too close, mate; you’ve got to back off, ‘cause if I have to brake you’re going to kill us all!’
Also, we had this sort of flimsy ‘no girlfriend’ rule, one of Rob’s ideas: it was okay to bring your girlfriend along to a gig in Manchester but not to away gigs. There wasn’t any sleazy reason for it; it was just logistics, really. You’ve got your band, your crew, your gear. There isn’t really the room for girlfriends; it made sense. But not to Steve – Steve would always bring his girlfriend along. First it was Stephanie, and because there was no room for her she’d have to sit on someone’s knee all the way to Sheffield or Aberdeen or wherever. Then, of course, when he started going out with Gillian he began taking her along to every gig too.
I can’t say for sure whether she was with him that night. What I do remember is them all turning up expecting to get warm, then coming into the basement of the Hope & Anchor and their faces falling when they discovered that it was freezing down there. This was especially bad news for Bernard, of course, who had the flu. We had to literally drag him from his sick bed just so he could make our first big London gig, only to find that it was in this cold basement – no heaters or radiators. Probably didn’t have a toilet either. Honestly, kids in bands these days, they don’t know they’re born. (And yes: I know I sound like an old fart but fuck it, it’s my book.) They don’t. With their sound-men and stage managers, and over-proud parents, poncing in and expecting everything laid out for them. You go to a gig now, like at the Academy or something, and it’s got toilets with paper in them, and central heating and everyone gets a rider and coffee and clean towels and all that. Not in 1978, you didn’t. Most gigs were like that one: complete chaos: ‘There’s the stage; set up and shut up.’
Most times you managed to muddle on through and a mixture of good luck, better songs and the love of it all magically creating a great gig. But we didn’t have luck on our side that night; we were fresh out of the love of it all and even the songs sounded diabolical and there was no fucker there. I tell a lie: there were twenty people there. Got us our first bad review, too: ‘Joy Division were grim but I grinned.’ Cheeky bastard. Afterwards I did the sums: it had cost us £28.50 in petrol to do the gig and we’d earned £27.50 from the door, so we’d lost a quid doing it. When it was all over we packed up our stuff and drove home.
We were driving down the motorway together, me checking in my rear-view mirror occasionally. Obviously I’d warned Steve to back off because he was scaring the shit out of me; and I was pleased to see that he was taking notice at last when all of a sudden they disappeared. My heart sinking, I pulled over on the hard shoulder and we waited – and waited.
Don’t forget that in those days there was no traffic. You could be stopped on the hard shoulder of the M1 for an hour and not see another car. So we sat there in the freezing cold. We couldn’t keep the heater running, of course, because it was a waste of petrol, so we just shivered in the cab of the van, rubbing our hands together to keep warm, moaning about them. Like, maybe they’d broken down. Maybe they’d stopped for something to eat. It would be just like them to stop off for a fry-up. But then again, no. Bernard, the last I saw of him, had looked like something out of Night of the Living Dead, he was that full of the flu. They were potless anyway, plus I hadn’t seen any services open along the way. No, they couldn’t have stopped.
So maybe they’d broken down. Well, if they’d broken down they’d be all right because Steve was in the AA. I wasn’t even sure I had enough petrol left to go back for them and get home anyway. We had no room in the van anyway. So in the end we made a decision: we’d go home. Which is what we did, and it was only the next day in work that I phoned somebody and they told me what had happened. I just remember thinking, Oh shit. There’s something wrong with Ian.
During the return journey from the gig there had been a minor altercation in the car. Disconsolate about the evening’s performance, Ian had been talking about leaving the band and then pulled flu-ridden Bernard’s sleeping bag from him. Having wrapped it around his head, he began lashing out at the doors and windows: he was fitting. The others pulled the car over on the motorway and laid Ian down to restrain him on the hard shoulder. This event culminated with a shaken Steve Morris taking the cigarettes out of Ian’s pocket, as immortalized in 24 Hour Party People. Then they drove him to the nearest hospital, Luton and Dunstable, where he was given tablets and referred to his doctor. Ian was dropped home to a worried Debbie by Steve and Gillian, and was given an appointment to see a specialist. In the meantime he began having more fits – three or four a week – until on 23 January 1979 at Macclesfield District and General Hospital he was officially diagnosed with epilepsy and prescribed more tablets.
TIMELINE THREE:
JANUARY 1978–DECEMBER 1978
24 January 1978
Tony Wilson and Alan Erasmus devise their ‘management project’, the Movement of the 24th January (or M24J for short) formed to oversee the career of the Durutti Column. They later launch the Factory club to provide the band with a live outlet and go on to start Factory records.
25 January 1978
Joy Division play Pips Discotheque, Manchester. This is the band’s first gig under the new name.
14 April 1978
The Stiff Test/Chiswick Challenge Battle of the Bands, Rafters, Manchester.
Having been confronted by Ian Curtis earlier in the evening, Tony Wilson was impressed by Joy Division when they went on at 2.15am, following an argument with the Negatives, and delivered a suitably fired-up performance. Rob Gretton also saw the light that evening; and soon he and Wilson, who were already friends from Rafters, were comparing notes.
May 1978
Rob Gretton visits the band, who accept his offer to become their manager.
3–4 May 1978
The unreleased-album sessions, Arrow Studios, Manchester. Tracks recorded: ‘The Drawback (All of This for You)’, ‘Leaders of Men’, ‘They Walked in Line’, ‘Failures’, ‘Novelty’, ‘No Love Lost’, ‘Transmission’, ‘Ice Age’, ‘Interzone’, ‘Warsaw’, ‘Shadowplay’.
20 May 1978
Joy Division play the Mayflower Club, Manchester, with Emergency and the Risk.
3 June 1978
An Ideal for Living seven-inch EP officially released as part of a distribution deal with Rabid. (Enigma PSS 139.) Photography by Gareth Davy. Cover design by Bernard Albrecht. Track list: ‘Warsaw’, ‘No Love Lost’, ‘Leaders of Men’, ‘Failures’.
9 June 1978
The Short Circuit – Live at the Electric Circus ten-inch LP (Virgin Records VCL 5003) is released, featuring ‘At a Later Date’, credited to Joy Division (though the band were called Warsaw when it was recorded on 2 October 1977). Other bands featured are the Fall, Steel Pulse, the Drones, John Cooper Clarke and the Buzzcocks. Produced by Mike Howlett. Design/artwork & typography by Russell Mills.
9 June 1978
Joy Division play the Factory, Russell Club, Manchester, supporting the Tiller Boys as part of the Factory club’s opening concerts. Admission: £1.
12 July 1978
Joy Division play Band on the Wall, Manchester, a Manchester Musicians’ Collective gig.
15 July 1978
Joy Division play Eric’s, Liverpool
(matinee and evening shows), supporting the Rich Kids.
“They wouldn’t talk to us, and wouldn’t even let us in the dressing room. The only one of them who was nice was Midge Ure. He actually spoke to us.”
27 July 1978
Joy Division play Roots Club, Leeds, supporting the Durutti Column.
“We went for a meal before the gig and that was where I first noticed how sickly and delicate Vini Reilly was. You know when you look at someone and think, ‘Fucking hell, it’s going to be tough on you, mate’? We went to an Indian restaurant in Leeds for something to eat before the gig; I remember Vini asked for Heinz tomato soup. In an Indian restaurant in Leeds. Because of his constitution he couldn’t eat anything else.
Also, I can’t say for sure but I think the third support was the Fairbrass brothers, who later became Right Said Fred. Years later I was at a Skin Two fetish party in London that ended with an unrepeatable story involving them, lots of naughties and Cleo Rocos. Earlier that night one of them had said to me, ‘We supported you in Leeds in 1978 as Joy Division,’ and gave me a big cuddle. The next time I saw him was through the roof of one of those huge stretch limos, and he was . . . Well, let’s just leave it there.”
28 July 1978
Joy Division play the Factory, Russell Club, Manchester, supporting Suicide with the Actors. Admission: ‘A quid at the door’.
