I still miss John Peel. I'll never forget listening to his show late-on, often with a grimace, sometimes with gratitude, always with amusement and enormous deference. I hadn't quite realised just how much he curated and cultivated the musical landscape of my teens, simply by being part stubborn-survivor curmudgeonly BBC provocateur (almost accidentally defining his role in opposition to Smashy and Nicey career drones and refusing to fill any kind of pigeonhole) and part ballsy, timely champion of DIY underdogs. This funny, slightly-peeved (at Peel not quite having received his due; this book puts a fair bit of that right) catalogue does a fantastic job of both preserving plenty of Peel show highlights and emphasising how ridiculously all-encompassing Peel's role and influence was, certainly from the advent of punk onwards. (Jack White: 'Peel was the most important DJ of all time.' Bernard Sumner: 'Without John Peel there'd be no Joy Division and no New Order.') It's no exaggeration to suggest that he entirely transformed the musical landscape for the better, and Good Night and Good Riddance is a disarming and rousing volume no music fan can afford to avoid.
'Years are remembered for those who were born and those who are gone. Earlier this month John Lennon was murdered outside his apartment block in Manhattan, an act of inexplicable annihilation that has devastated the baby-boomer generation. Lennon’s music has re-entered the world’s charts (he currently has three hits in the UK Top 10) as people turn to his voice for comfort and for answers to impossible questions. Peel was immensely saddened, it goes without saying; but 1980 was a year when death seemed all around.
One of the losses that hit him hardest – coming in July, two months after the suicide of Ian Curtis – was the death from a heroin overdose of the Ruts’ singer Malcolm Owen, who was twenty-six. Owen was always conscious of the dangers of heroin, and wrote about them openly, so the manner of his death was both terribly foreseeable and terribly depressing. Peel repeats a session tonight that the Ruts recorded when Owen was somewhere near full strength, which includes ‘Staring at the Rude Boys’ (a Top 30 hit that he lived long enough to see) and ‘In a Rut’, the 1978 debut that announced him as the most electrifying punk vocalist since Strummer. ‘In a Rut’ appears at 19 in the Festive 50 of 1980, which culminates with numbers 1 to 10 tonight.
There are major changes in the listeners’ choices this year. Notable surprises so far have included steep declines for ‘White Riot’, ‘God Save the Queen’ and ‘Suspect Device’, while Siouxsie and the Banshees have no song placed higher than 37. Buzzcocks and Magazine have completely dropped off the radar. Newcomers include Killing Joke and the Teardrop Explodes. The Fall, who had one song in the 50 last year, increase their tally to four. But the indisputable stars of the Festive 50 – and plainly the most important music-makers in the lives of Peel’s listeners right now – are a band that ceased to exist in May, when their singer decided to switch off his television and end his own life.
Unplaced in last year’s Festive 50, Joy Division have no fewer than seven songs in this year’s chart: ‘Twenty Four Hours’ (41), ‘She’s Lost Control’ (22), ‘New Dawn Fades’ (20), ‘Decades’ (14), ‘Transmission’ (10), ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ (3) and ‘Atmosphere’ (2). A couple of them are taken from the band’s second album, Closer, which topped the independent charts for two months in the summer. A third, the valedictory single ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’, made the national Top 20 in July. Joy Division, like the Cure, have been introduced to a Mike Read and Kid Jensen audience – too late. But why do they have so many songs in the Festive 50? Is it some sort of mark of respect? Grief? Fond memories of a band that commingled beauty and despair like no other songwriters of their age? Surely not some misplaced notion that a suicide in the band must mean they should now be taken seriously. Is that it? Is it because Curtis’s lyrics were looking over the precipice all along, or because his suicide proves the depression wasn’t an act? How do you calculate the emotional mathematics of a listenership voting for seven Joy Division songs, when the weights and measures of the songs have undergone such internal changes since May?
‘I always think of them in a rather romantic way as being introspective and rather Russian,’ Peel will remark of Joy Division years from now. ‘I read somewhere that that kind of introspection was classed as Russian … Obviously, the death of Ian Curtis sort of mythologised them to a degree, which I think the surviving members of the band must have found very difficult to cope with.’ But not even Peel will sound too sure what it was about those songs – the melancholia? the memories of his own teenage isolation and gloom? – that pulled him in. He’s fortunate, he really is, if the only decision he has to make about music is whether it’s good or bad.
The Festive 50 has been won by the Sex Pistols’ ‘Anarchy in the UK’ as usual, but it’s the high preponderance of Joy Division – and particularly, one imagines, the sudden arrival of ‘Atmosphere’ in the top three – that gives Peel pause as he winds down the chart for another year. All those young listeners. All those unknown souls listening in the darkness to ‘Atmosphere’, a fragile song of unspeakable distress that could be about a failing marriage or a failing life. ‘Happy New Year to all of you,’ he says, and fades up the signature tune. Then he thinks of something else and fades it down again. ‘Obvious thing to say … but I do mean it.’'