Ian Curtis´ last day, 34 years ago
Alejandro De Luna
“Basically, we want to play and enjoy what we like playing. I think when we stop doing that, I think, well, that will be time to pack it in. That will be the end.”
(Ian Curtis, Radio Lancashire Interview, 1979)
Today´s thirty four years since Ian´s tormented mind, weak body and lyrical genius, left a 23 year-old miserable existence. We all know the legend: After watching Stroszek – a Werner Herzog film – listening to Iggy Pop´s The Idiot and clouding his wisdom with a bottle of whisky while he was alone in his house at Macclesfield, Ian used a rope to end with his internal conflict mainly caused by Joy Division´s first tour ahead in the United States, a bizarre love triangle, the destructive effects of epilepsy and a staggering depression.
This is the tragic story of a man who dealt with the darkest side of human existence leaving behind, one of the most honest and obscure legacies in pop music. A man´s poetry that Tony Wilson once described as “archaic English language and nineteen century grammatical constructions” and Paul Morley once compared with the likes of JG Ballard, Mary Shelley, Albert Camus, Franz Kafka or Fiódor Dostoyevski.
Ian Curtis. The soundtrack of post industrial decaying Manchester and the soundscape of frustrations, pains, failures and disorders expressed with the darkest and most eloquent baritone you´ll ever heard.
“I also heard that he told Rob Gretton he was coming to Macclesfield to watch a film on TV which he felt would upset his father if the watched it with him. This turned out to be Stroszek, a Werner Herzog film about a European living in American who kills himself rather than choose between to women.”
“After I had gone, Ian made himself still more coffee. In the pantry was the all-but empty whisky bottle from which he squeezed every last drop. He listened to Iggy Pop´s The Idiot. He tool Natalie´s [Ian and Deborah´s daughter] photograph down from the wall, retrieved our wedding picture from the drawer and sat down to write me a letter. It was long, very intimate letter in the same sprawling capitals he used to write his songs, He did say he wished he was dead, but didn´t actually say that it was his intention to kill himself. He talked of our life together, romance and passion; his love for me, his love for Natalie and his hate for Annik [Ian´s lover.]…By the time he had finished writing, he told me, it was dawn and he could hear the birds singing.”
“As it was well past 10 am, nearly midday, i dressed and prepared to take Natalie home. My mother offered to come with me, but I refused, confident that Ian would not be there. The curtains were closed. I could see the light bulb shining through the unlined fabric. Thinking Ian might still be asleep, I left Natalie in the car.”
“I didn´t call his name or go upstairs. At first I though he had left because the house smelled strangely fresh. The familiar clinging stench of tobacco wasn´t there. He must have caught the train after all. There was an envelope on the living-room mantelpiece. my heart jumped when I realized that he had left a note for me. He was kneeling in the kitchen. I was relieved – glad he was still there. ‘Now what are you up to?’ I took a step towards him, about to speak. His head was bowed, his hands resting on the washing machine. I stared at him, he was so still. Then the rope – I hadn´t notice the rope. The rope from the clothes rack was around his neck.”
(Deborah Curtis, Touching from The Distance)
