As a fan, it's been strange seeing the rise of Joy Division from cult act to existing in the mainstream. In 1997, it was hard to find out much about them. In 2012, they are rightly considered one of the seminal bands of British pop music, influencing countless others and being the topic for endless dissection.
There's been films, documentaries and plenty of books. In the print camp, there's another, albeit one with a greater deal of authority than the others. Unknown Pleasures - Inside Joy Division is bassist Peter Hook's record of the lifetime of the band, following on from his account of the Hacienda nightclub through the 1980s.
When writing his own memoirs, the wrestler Mick Foley relates some advice he was given about it not being about settling scores. Well, our Hooky has elected to disregard that, leaving us a book that could be subtitled Why Bernard Sumner is an Arsehole, such is the amount of petty potshots at his one time close friend.
Which is a shame, actually, as the other vast majority of the book is a really enjoyable read for fans of the band. There's plenty of information I'd not heard about before and the writing style flows well through a story where (you'd imagine) everyone knows the ending. Where it scores best is the tales of being in a band on the make: there's the off-told tale of Hooky buying his first bass the day after seeing the Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall, but also plenty of the struggles of writing material, finding the right people and then scraping for gigs in the ultra-competitive Manchester punk scene.
The fascinating aspect of Joy Division is how everyone fell in place in the manner it did. Hook and Sumner are both struggling nobodies in 1977, self-taught and fired up. Within two years, they end up with an enigmatic frontman, one of the best drummers around, the perfect manager, the perfect producer and the one label who'd let them all get on with the job.
It's not just the band and the other well-known figures who Hook regales. Friends Terry Mason and Twinny act as roadies and mischief makers, figures from Hook and Sumner's Salford roots there to keep their toes on the ground when the plaudits start rolling in.
The figure of Ian Curtis looms large over everything, understandably, and Hook is at pains to point out the man he knew, in contrast to the bad husband of his widow's only account, Touching From a Distance. As many have done, Hook questions who the real Curtis was, and whether all the people in his life were players in some grand piece he was conducting.
A little note from the ending also tells its own tale - in the list of those mentioned no longer with us (sadly way too long) is "New Order". Hook's conflicts with his former bandmates have been all over the media for a while now, but one point from the Joy Division history backs him up: the surviving three never considered continuing under that name as they had long understood that if anyone left, the name would be scrapped. You may wonder why New Order weren't the same, and that they had best been left in the past after their initial split in the mid 90s.
Unknown Pleasures is a more than worthwhile read, then. Some great pics too! The question is, how do the others remember the same events?
Sunday, 28 October 2012
Sunday, 21 October 2012
Suzie Q, I Love You
My family aside, there's been one constant in my life since the day I was born, and that's Suzie. Here she is:
The day after I dropped into the world, my mother's Aunty Betty came to visit. Somewhere between the door and the maternity ward was a stall selling stuffed toys made by (I think) patients recovering from major heart surgery. She picked up Suzie, and she's been with me ever since, moving with me to university and then to Manchester, where she's sat up in the corner of my bedroom. She'd come on holiday with us to Butlins when I was young, I could barely stand to be away from her. Obviously she became less a comfort blanket over the years, but I still look her over to the States a few years ago. Didn't feel right to go there without her.
When I was younger, I would insist to my mother that we celebrate her birthday, which is obviously the day after mine. Much to her credit, she indulged me in this and would buy a card for her and a little cake.
For her age, she's holding up well. Better than me, in a lot of ways. All the same, observant readers may have noticed that the poor girl is missing an eye. Not as a result of one of my many petulant childhood strops, you may be surprised to hear. No. It was that little shit of a brother of mine that did it, and he's still not forgiven. I must have pissed him off, the way brothers do, but all the same there was no need for retaliation of that level.
What made it even worse was that soon after, his school had a "Teddy Bear's Picnic" type thing. Our mam, being ever-resourceful, dolled Suzie up with a pirate costume, complete with eyepatch. Thus my brother won a prize, showing that being an evil scrote pays off and there truly is no karma in this world.
I'm not sure if it's tragic having such memories of childhood still hanging around when you're into your 30s, but it feels reassuring that she's still around. I wonder if there's ever a time I'll let her go: maybe when my brother has spawn of his own, I'll hand her over to try and wade them away from his path of darkness. Or maybe I'll cling on to her till my final days, and like one of those mad old cat women, name her as my sole inheritor of whatever I have left by that point.
The day after I dropped into the world, my mother's Aunty Betty came to visit. Somewhere between the door and the maternity ward was a stall selling stuffed toys made by (I think) patients recovering from major heart surgery. She picked up Suzie, and she's been with me ever since, moving with me to university and then to Manchester, where she's sat up in the corner of my bedroom. She'd come on holiday with us to Butlins when I was young, I could barely stand to be away from her. Obviously she became less a comfort blanket over the years, but I still look her over to the States a few years ago. Didn't feel right to go there without her.
When I was younger, I would insist to my mother that we celebrate her birthday, which is obviously the day after mine. Much to her credit, she indulged me in this and would buy a card for her and a little cake.
For her age, she's holding up well. Better than me, in a lot of ways. All the same, observant readers may have noticed that the poor girl is missing an eye. Not as a result of one of my many petulant childhood strops, you may be surprised to hear. No. It was that little shit of a brother of mine that did it, and he's still not forgiven. I must have pissed him off, the way brothers do, but all the same there was no need for retaliation of that level.
What made it even worse was that soon after, his school had a "Teddy Bear's Picnic" type thing. Our mam, being ever-resourceful, dolled Suzie up with a pirate costume, complete with eyepatch. Thus my brother won a prize, showing that being an evil scrote pays off and there truly is no karma in this world.
I'm not sure if it's tragic having such memories of childhood still hanging around when you're into your 30s, but it feels reassuring that she's still around. I wonder if there's ever a time I'll let her go: maybe when my brother has spawn of his own, I'll hand her over to try and wade them away from his path of darkness. Or maybe I'll cling on to her till my final days, and like one of those mad old cat women, name her as my sole inheritor of whatever I have left by that point.
Monday, 15 October 2012
The Man Who Was Not With It
In terms of hits, the most popular post I've made on this here blog was the one about Felt. They're a band that never sold anything in their lifetime, but whose legend grew. As I wrote about a couple of weeks ago, I found out that the documentary about their frontman, Lawrence of Belgravia, was being shown in Manchester and I'd got tickets.
So along I went to the Museum of Science and Industry (a fine attraction, for anyone visiting this wonderful city), which it turned out was the only place willing to show it. So thanks for fuck all, the Cornerhouse, the supposed "cutting edge" cinema in Manchester.
Dave Haslam, well known DJ from his times at the Hacienda, had put the event together and thus kudos must go to him. Charlatans front man and Felt fan Tim Burgess brought his newly bleached locks down to do an introduction of sorts and then it was onto Paul Kelly's film, sometime in the making. Not so much a documentary about Lawrence's life as a whole (Felt fans will be disappointed if they expect to see much of that band, though drummer Gary Ainge appears), but more of the past few years as the man tries to get by despite problems with substance abuse, finances and apparent mass indifference to his craft.
It's a beautifully made piece which anyone with any interest in the man should see. There's laughs to be had at the way Lawrence carries on (and I wonder if he's totally aware of this and plays up to it) but also plenty of pathos: at the start, he's being evicted from his flat and later on, he sells a precious guitar to raise some funds. Throughout, he comes across as a man in love with being in a band and who believes someday he'll reach his goal of being famous and not have to use public transport to get around.
There is some biographical detail on him - passing references to a brother and sister and how he never understood why original Felt member Nick Gilbert left because he thought the band put a pressure on their friendship. Lawrence thought the band was worth sacrificing a friend for.
Whether he's right or not is left for us to decide. The man himself just seems to follow whatever ideas he has - from jangling indie guitars in the 80s, glam rock stomp with his second band Denim and subsequently leading "the world's first b-side band", Go-Kart Mozart. It's to his credit that he states that while he likes the idea of being a millionaire, he'd never reform Felt, even for huge sums of cash, and you believe him.
Afterwards, there's a short Q&A with Lawrence and Kelly, during which we learn the former has been signing on the dole pretty much throughout his whole career in music, having never made any kind of fiscal rewards that his talent doubtless deserves. He's also resigned himself to never having a relationship again as "girlfriends get jealous of the band" and Kelly states that instead, he sees a girl somewhere he finds attractive and lives out the whole relationship in his head before conceding it would never have worked out.
With luck, there will also be a DVD release next year, so that other Lawrence fans can view this entertaining flick. As a little bonus on the day, I also got a Go-Kart Mozart key ring. Ace!
So along I went to the Museum of Science and Industry (a fine attraction, for anyone visiting this wonderful city), which it turned out was the only place willing to show it. So thanks for fuck all, the Cornerhouse, the supposed "cutting edge" cinema in Manchester.
Dave Haslam, well known DJ from his times at the Hacienda, had put the event together and thus kudos must go to him. Charlatans front man and Felt fan Tim Burgess brought his newly bleached locks down to do an introduction of sorts and then it was onto Paul Kelly's film, sometime in the making. Not so much a documentary about Lawrence's life as a whole (Felt fans will be disappointed if they expect to see much of that band, though drummer Gary Ainge appears), but more of the past few years as the man tries to get by despite problems with substance abuse, finances and apparent mass indifference to his craft.
It's a beautifully made piece which anyone with any interest in the man should see. There's laughs to be had at the way Lawrence carries on (and I wonder if he's totally aware of this and plays up to it) but also plenty of pathos: at the start, he's being evicted from his flat and later on, he sells a precious guitar to raise some funds. Throughout, he comes across as a man in love with being in a band and who believes someday he'll reach his goal of being famous and not have to use public transport to get around.
There is some biographical detail on him - passing references to a brother and sister and how he never understood why original Felt member Nick Gilbert left because he thought the band put a pressure on their friendship. Lawrence thought the band was worth sacrificing a friend for.
Whether he's right or not is left for us to decide. The man himself just seems to follow whatever ideas he has - from jangling indie guitars in the 80s, glam rock stomp with his second band Denim and subsequently leading "the world's first b-side band", Go-Kart Mozart. It's to his credit that he states that while he likes the idea of being a millionaire, he'd never reform Felt, even for huge sums of cash, and you believe him.
Afterwards, there's a short Q&A with Lawrence and Kelly, during which we learn the former has been signing on the dole pretty much throughout his whole career in music, having never made any kind of fiscal rewards that his talent doubtless deserves. He's also resigned himself to never having a relationship again as "girlfriends get jealous of the band" and Kelly states that instead, he sees a girl somewhere he finds attractive and lives out the whole relationship in his head before conceding it would never have worked out.
With luck, there will also be a DVD release next year, so that other Lawrence fans can view this entertaining flick. As a little bonus on the day, I also got a Go-Kart Mozart key ring. Ace!
Monday, 8 October 2012
Still Lost in Space
I can remember the first time I saw Red Dwarf. I must have been around nine or ten years old, my parents had gone out for the night and an older cousin had been slipped enough cash to give her night up to keep an eye on me and my kid brother.
Having always kind of looked up to her, when she said she wanted to watch something, I was more than acquiescent. Within minutes, I was asking questions like "why has he got a H on his forehead?" and "why has he got those teeth?". Thus began a love affair with a show that has recently made a comeback.
To those in the dark: Dave Lister is the lowest ranked member of the titular crate, a huge mining ship. Unmotivated, laid back but also sharply intelligent, his immediate superior and bunkmate is Arnold Rimmer, whose ambitions to better himself are thwarted by his own idiocy and lack of self-awareness. Through a series of events, Lister is put into stasis for what is only supposed to be a few months, but when a radiation leak kills the rest of the crew, ends up being long enough for him to safely exit. That being, three million years. Holly, the ships AI, brings back Rimmer as a hologram recreation to keep him from going insane from loneliness. They are then joined by a creature that evolved from Lister's cat, which was pregnant and safely sealed in the hold when the disaster happened. Later on, they found Kryten, a robot who had been stranded when the ship he was serving on crashed but had continued his duties to the long-dead crew.
At its peak, around series' II to V, it was as funny a show as Britain has produced, introducing a new insult to the lexicon with "smeghead". Writers Doug Naylor and Rob Grant had a knack for sharp dialogue and using sci-fi clichés to great effect. It was only when series VI moved off the ship into the smaller Starbug vehicle (used as the writers were short on dialogue for Holly, and this removed the AI from the show) that it moved into a "monster of the week" antics.
After a four-year gap, the show returned to some fanfare, though with only Doug Naylor at the helm. This and series VIII showed a major dip in form. Bringing Kristine Kochanski (Lister's great lost unrequited love) back was a desperate move and the reception may be why the BBC were less keen on more. Instead, freeview channel Dave stepped in for the Back to Earth specials, which were nothing special bar a nice little scene where Lister meets Craig Charles, the actor who plays him.
Despite that, a new, full series has arrived with the first episode last week. And... it was OK. A few laughs, but nothing major. The central cast has been trimmed back down to the central quartet after the disaster of an extended set of players in VIII. However, by giving us a hologram of Rimmer's older brother and his robot companion, it felt like we were back to the problems with VI of flying in a different problem every week, rather than just giving us the crew interacting with one another and finding ways to kill the boredom of being trapped in deep space.
On the plus side, Danny John-Jules as Cat still seemed sharp, and there was just about enough to merit further watching in the hope of improvements.
Having always kind of looked up to her, when she said she wanted to watch something, I was more than acquiescent. Within minutes, I was asking questions like "why has he got a H on his forehead?" and "why has he got those teeth?". Thus began a love affair with a show that has recently made a comeback.
To those in the dark: Dave Lister is the lowest ranked member of the titular crate, a huge mining ship. Unmotivated, laid back but also sharply intelligent, his immediate superior and bunkmate is Arnold Rimmer, whose ambitions to better himself are thwarted by his own idiocy and lack of self-awareness. Through a series of events, Lister is put into stasis for what is only supposed to be a few months, but when a radiation leak kills the rest of the crew, ends up being long enough for him to safely exit. That being, three million years. Holly, the ships AI, brings back Rimmer as a hologram recreation to keep him from going insane from loneliness. They are then joined by a creature that evolved from Lister's cat, which was pregnant and safely sealed in the hold when the disaster happened. Later on, they found Kryten, a robot who had been stranded when the ship he was serving on crashed but had continued his duties to the long-dead crew.
At its peak, around series' II to V, it was as funny a show as Britain has produced, introducing a new insult to the lexicon with "smeghead". Writers Doug Naylor and Rob Grant had a knack for sharp dialogue and using sci-fi clichés to great effect. It was only when series VI moved off the ship into the smaller Starbug vehicle (used as the writers were short on dialogue for Holly, and this removed the AI from the show) that it moved into a "monster of the week" antics.
After a four-year gap, the show returned to some fanfare, though with only Doug Naylor at the helm. This and series VIII showed a major dip in form. Bringing Kristine Kochanski (Lister's great lost unrequited love) back was a desperate move and the reception may be why the BBC were less keen on more. Instead, freeview channel Dave stepped in for the Back to Earth specials, which were nothing special bar a nice little scene where Lister meets Craig Charles, the actor who plays him.
Despite that, a new, full series has arrived with the first episode last week. And... it was OK. A few laughs, but nothing major. The central cast has been trimmed back down to the central quartet after the disaster of an extended set of players in VIII. However, by giving us a hologram of Rimmer's older brother and his robot companion, it felt like we were back to the problems with VI of flying in a different problem every week, rather than just giving us the crew interacting with one another and finding ways to kill the boredom of being trapped in deep space.
On the plus side, Danny John-Jules as Cat still seemed sharp, and there was just about enough to merit further watching in the hope of improvements.
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
Autogeddon
These last couple of weeks, I've had the temporary use of a car after over a year reliant on public transport. For one, this means I get an extra 25 minutes in bed in the morn, which can only be a good thing.
In exchange, I have to put up with my short patience on the road. It's genetic, you see. My dad in general is a guy so mild mannered he makes Clark Kent seem like the Hulk. Once on the road and stuck behind a tractor (which happens a lot in Cumbria) he is prone to go into rants so profane Malcolm Tucker would blush.
Like father, like son. In the afternoon especially, my blood pressure rockets and I'm thankful just to get home without seeing a vein in my forehead popping. Seeing some knobhead doing 50mph in a 30 zone makes me have fantasies of being a traffic cop so I could pull them over and shoot the tyres out. Then maybe dish out a kicking, Jack Regan style.
Part of this, I reckon, is down to getting older. Trivial things seem to bug me a lot more than they used to. Some of those high up on my shit list include:
Bus and Taxi Drivers
First thing my pop told me when I started learning: "never trust anyone driving a taxi or bus". Sound advice. Buses know their strength and use it with no regard to anyone else, taxi drivers just canter round the city using their own interpretation of the Highway Code.
Dozy Gets at the Lights
You all know the type, those who seem to slip into the Twilight Zone when waiting for the light to turn green, then seem to need an extra five seconds to remember how to shift the car into gear and release the handbrake. Honestly, life is just too short to have it spent stuck behind someone who can't tell the difference between red and green.
Lane Swappers
Driving down the Kingsway, heading South of the city, can be an annoying experience. Matters are not helped by fuckwits bombing down the dual carriageway, switching between the lanes at rapid pace to try and earn a few extra seconds. If, like me, you try to leave a wee bit of a gap between yourself and the car in front, then it's an open invite to these arseholes, who tend to then promptly slam on the brakes. When I am King, I will ensure these people are tracked down, have their cars taken away and crushed to the size of a Rubik's Cube.
In exchange, I have to put up with my short patience on the road. It's genetic, you see. My dad in general is a guy so mild mannered he makes Clark Kent seem like the Hulk. Once on the road and stuck behind a tractor (which happens a lot in Cumbria) he is prone to go into rants so profane Malcolm Tucker would blush.
Like father, like son. In the afternoon especially, my blood pressure rockets and I'm thankful just to get home without seeing a vein in my forehead popping. Seeing some knobhead doing 50mph in a 30 zone makes me have fantasies of being a traffic cop so I could pull them over and shoot the tyres out. Then maybe dish out a kicking, Jack Regan style.
Part of this, I reckon, is down to getting older. Trivial things seem to bug me a lot more than they used to. Some of those high up on my shit list include:
Bus and Taxi Drivers
First thing my pop told me when I started learning: "never trust anyone driving a taxi or bus". Sound advice. Buses know their strength and use it with no regard to anyone else, taxi drivers just canter round the city using their own interpretation of the Highway Code.
Dozy Gets at the Lights
You all know the type, those who seem to slip into the Twilight Zone when waiting for the light to turn green, then seem to need an extra five seconds to remember how to shift the car into gear and release the handbrake. Honestly, life is just too short to have it spent stuck behind someone who can't tell the difference between red and green.
Lane Swappers
Driving down the Kingsway, heading South of the city, can be an annoying experience. Matters are not helped by fuckwits bombing down the dual carriageway, switching between the lanes at rapid pace to try and earn a few extra seconds. If, like me, you try to leave a wee bit of a gap between yourself and the car in front, then it's an open invite to these arseholes, who tend to then promptly slam on the brakes. When I am King, I will ensure these people are tracked down, have their cars taken away and crushed to the size of a Rubik's Cube.
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