Joy Division, "Novelty"

In these stark times I find myself turning to the kind of dark, mysterious music that can speak to the unease I carry around with me every day. No band has ever topped Joy Division when it comes to articulating daily dread of life under late capitalism.

It makes sense that they emerged from Manchester on the eve of Thatcher's ascendance. In the nineteenth century Manchester was the first industrial city, the test case for a new way of life. In the 1970s it and many cities like it were hitting decline. The "modern" world was becoming postmodern. Out of the ruins of the industrial revolution Manchester bands like Joy Division created postmodern music, deeper and more challenging that the scream and spittle of punk rock.

"Transmission," a non-album single, is my favorite of the band by far. As I wrote about it a couple of years ago, it is enthralling, from its telegraph-operator bass to the unorthodox beat to the searing guitar lines to Ian Curtis' voice sounding like a man crushed by the wheels of life. However, if you flip that single over, you hear a B-side that's much more than a cast-off: "Novelty."

I first heard it on a box set I bought year ago and was amazed that such an arresting song was left off Joy Division's regular albums. The intro is long and mysterious, Bernard Sumner's guitar building up into a killer riff. Like "Transmission" the rhythm sounds like a desperate telegram sent at night from a doomed city. It creates a feeling of claustrophobic desperation, with Curtis intoning "Whatchya gonna do when the novelty wears off" and "Whatchya gonna do when it's over." While it may not be the official meaning of the song, I've always thought of it as questioning the consumer novelties of modern life. Once they are seen to be as empty as they are, what's then to be done?

The novelty has worn off, to be sure. However, the answer to Ian Curtis' question remains unanswered.

Track of the Week: Joy Division "Transmission"

Songs from these tracks of the week tend to be things I am listening to at this moment and feel like talking about.  "Transmission," on the other hand, is a song that lives with me, and has for many years now.  Joy Division's music is another kind of experience, listening to it I feel transported to a kind of semi-dreamspace in the back of my mind.  Few others can do that, which probably explains why lonely, introverted teens are still listening to Unknown Pleasures to this day.

My favorite Joy Division song is not on that album, though.  I love the stand-alone single "Transmission" best. I just discovered that it was their first single under the Joy Division name (after going by Warsaw), which is a hell of a way to announce your presence.  The start is just about as perfect as can be, and sums up what made Joy Division great in a matter of seconds.  There is an airy synthesizer chord that seems ominous despite its lightness, and then Peter Hook's bass comes in, tapping out Morse code from some forgotten realm, mimicking the "Transmission" of the title.  Suddenly there's a quick, unorthodox drum fill from Stephen Morris, sounding more spare and angular than anything yet in rock music and then Bernard Sumner's distorted, snaking guitar weaves around the beat, leaving the melody to the bass.  It's all so very strange, and then Ian Curtis' voice intones "Radio/Live transmission" with a hitch, sounding in that instance like a man damaged by the inhumanity of modern life.  In a mere forty seconds, the greatness of Joy Division has been made manifest.  I don't think any other group has managed to distill their essence so magnificently so quickly in their first single.

And it only gets better from there.  Sumner's guitar after the first verse seems to slice the air, and Ian Curtis matches that intensity with his voice rising, to the point where it almost crashes into the wall, before he lowers it a notch and says "dance to the radio" in a flat, dark tone that is about a million miles away from KC and the Sunshine Band.  The song does not end with a flash, but slows down to a halt, like a car breaking down at the side of the road.  It's a song that still thrills me, no matter how many times I've heard it.