Today marks the forty-second anniversary of Joy Division’s genre defying brutalist ur-techno torch song.
Released two years after the departure of drummer Stephen Morris and the hasty drafting in of Manchester scene-stealer and A Certain Ratio stalwart Donald Johnson, this single was the first to sketch out the path that they were to follow over the next decade, from purveyors of icy post-punk to stream of consciousness disco-dipshits.
Fac 40 was the first artifact that showed how the technicians at the heart of this tight-lipped foursome could bend their obsessions with early Kraftwerk, Philadelphia disco and the burgeoning NY club scene into shapes that fit with their own post-industrial motorik aesthetic.
Their first American tour, infamous in some respects because of its effects on frontman Curtis’s health was where the proverbial boys-in-long-coats loosened their skinny ties and learned to feel the groove.
To hear (then) freshly minted keyboard and guitar wizard Bernard Sumner tell it: “when we were in the US that first time … it was like we dropped into this parallel universe where it was okay to have fun. Where it was okay to stay up all night dancing and just messing about”
Curtis has said much the same: “People always think of us as this urban decay, punk outfit, but I was always into new things. I don’t care about genres, I’m into what I’m into. Like, I was at Paradise Garage one night with Barney and it was as though we could feel the ground shifting under our feet; not just the sound of something new; but the sense that there were new ways of being yourself out there, just waiting for us to find them.
As soon as we got back off tour we tried to accent more of that rhythmic side that was at the heart of what we did. With Stephen gone it gave us the freedom to experiment more and Temptation came out of that. You can hear some of Donald’s influence in there too: he was a crucial part of the way our sound started evolving.”
Bass player Peter Hook characterises the change of direction in less existential terms: “at the back of my mind was the thought that if we made dance records we’d probably cop off with more women.”
This aside, it’s difficult to say which were behind the abrupt volte-face in both the tone and concerns of Curtis’s lyrics. Gone is the existential doom and stasis of their third album Paradise. The clouds are clearing, the sun coming up. This is the sound of a heartbroken J.G. Ballard being driven to an all-nighter by Kraftwerk’s Florian Schneider.
Surprisingly, Curtis himself revealed some of the reasons behind these changes: “that first tour. Leaving behind England, and I suppose more specifically, Manchester, gave me some space. It gave me the time I needed to sort out some difficult bits of my personal life. I was in a bad place. Ultimately, it took years.”
Joy Division’s subsequent movements are well documented elsewhere. The hop from Temptation to the joyous euro-disco of 1983’s The Terminal Beach was not far. The latter saw Joy Division dominate not only the UK charts but also TV screens. Their quixotic and electric (in all senses of the word) live performances on TOTP, transforming Curtis into an unconventional teen heart-throb who graced the cover of Smash Hits multiple times.
Temptation was the track that hinted that all this was coming to pass, prefiguring the Madchester gold rush (a cultural moment which, despite ushering in, the band always viewed with the avuncular amusement of disco dad royalty). Meanwhile The Terminal Beach’s success bankrolled everything from Factory Records’ journey from marxist agitprop upstart to hegemonic multi-media brand and the Happy Monday’s tragedy tinged fourth album Stop Me and Buy Me One.
Was something lost in all this success? Perhaps.
For all those old post-punks screaming sell-out, one need look no further than the fact that Joy Division mk II (now consisting of Sumner and Curtis and assorted session musicians) are now on constant tour, converted into animatronic versions of their twenty-year-old selves, grinding out pitch-perfect versions of Love Will Tear Us Apart three times a week.
But as one-time Factory boss turned BBC Director General Anthony H. Wilson says of his protégés, “Success is its own prison, darling, but art is always art.”