The Case for Joy Division & New Order’s Inclusion in Rock-n-Roll’s Hall of Fame

For the third time, members of Joy Division and New Order have been nominated for a spot in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but as their previous two opportunities didn’t result in induction, the odds that this year will be different seem increasingly slim. Regardless of whatever institutional bias the Hall of Fame seems to have against the two bands, the groups’ prodigal talent for hypnotic, emotionally wrenching earworms makes their exclusion inexplicable. 

I should concede, I’m not a music critic and I know next to nothing about music theory, so all of my following musings should be taken with a grain of salt. Film is my area of expertise, and aptly enough, I first came across Joy Division through the film “24 Hour Party People,” an ebullient account of the chaotic Manchester music scene in the ’70s and ’80s, and was instantly captured by the group. Their songs encapsulated all of the rawness and frustration of truly great punk music, yet in spite of the anger and loneliness practically overflowing from their work, each song felt so remarkably composed and carefully orchestrated, a sort of organized anarchy that was missing from any other music I’d heard. Their songs descended into Hell and misery, yet instead of thrashing and raging against the pains of contemporary existence, they seemed eerily content with their fate. Joy Division’s sound was the very definition of post-punk; it was the truest, purest form of a burgeoning genre that has since influenced just about all alternative music. 

For me, the band’s magic stemmed from two sources: Peter Hook and Ian Curtis. Let’s begin with Hook, one of the most innovative bassists of the 20th century. To achieve their revolutionary stripped-down, sinister sound, the band’s guitar and bass pull something of a switcheroo: Hook’s morose, pulsating basslines carried the melody of their songs, while Bernard Sumner’s punchy, razor-sharp guitar accents the powerful tunes created by Hook. Paired with Stephen Morris’ steady, almost resigned drumming, Joy Division’s instrumentation felt exceptionally deliberate, with a bass-driven, dark sound punctuated by bouts of violently precise guitar, conjuring a soundscape that felt like it stood on the edge of the abyss, as though silence and emptiness lay in wait just below. It was grim and brutal, yet there were no stray notes, no imperfections. There was a menacing sort of intentionality about Joy Division’s sound that, to me, felt different from any punk I’d heard before; without that sense of clinical hostility, we may never have had bands like Radiohead, U2, or The Cure.

The second key to the sound was Curtis, the lead singer. When I first began listening to Joy Division, I wasn’t keen on his voice. It was too low, too uncomfortable, too strained. As time has gone on, however, I’ve come to understand that those very qualities are where his magic comes from. No one would claim that Ian Curtis had a “nice” voice, but the sheer desperation and pain that came with each abstract, explosive lyric was nothing short of miraculous. His voice was never quite right, never expressive or emotive enough, never at ease: Yet that unease, so packed with veiled emotion and anguish, worked with the band’s instrumentation to create something truly special. He could howl (“Transmission”), and he could warble (“Isolation”), and he could tear your heart out and rip it in two with his startlingly tender, wounded monotone (“Atmosphere”). Curtis was one of a kind, and can’t be denied as one of the greatest unconventional vocalists (and lyricists) in the history of rock. He was a voice out of time and place that seemed to bear all the pain and sorrow of the world while continuing to sing with a fatalistic majesty.

On May 18, 1980, the eve of Joy Division’s first North American tour, Ian Curtis died by suicide in his home at the age of 23, the result of long battles with severe epilepsy and depression. The group only released two albums, yet their influence lives on: the anthemic melancholy of “Love Will Tear Us Apart,” the iconic album cover of “Unknown Pleasures,” and especially the outsized footprint they left on the world of post-punk and rock music as a whole. 

Soon after Curtis’ untimely passing, the remaining members of the band formed New Order, a very different band with a similarly massive effect on music. Where Joy Division brought angst and discomfort, New Order were about as crowd-pleasingly groovy as you could find, spearheading the charge of synth-forward, electronic dance music that’s impossible to sit still to while still retaining many of the principles that Joy Division’s appeal was predicated on.

The musical structure of many songs is the same: Peter Hook muscles his way through unforgettable basslines, Stephen Morris stays simple and steady behind the drumset, and Bernard Sumner contributes foundational guitar work that holds the songs together like Gorilla Glue (their seminal hit “Age of Consent” is a near-perfect amalgamation of the band’s individual talents). Sure, there were ample synths and electronic beats provided by new member Gillian Gilbert that cemented their place as one of the legendary dance music groups of the 1980s, but to me, the band’s magic still lies in the style they cultivated with Joy Division.

Despite the vastly different genres the two bands practiced, New Order’s vocals still feel of a piece with Joy Division’s. Sumner took over as the band’s lead singer, and although his schoolboy tenor is a far cry from Curtis’ foreboding bass, he was still able to capture a longing, loneliness, and vulnerability that makes their songs feel grounded in emotion and truth instead of getting consumed by the upbeat electronica of the instrumentation. My favorite New Order song (and one of my favorite songs ever), “Leave Me Alone,” feels like a microcosm of the band; Morris’ hypnotic drumming, Hook’s emotive bassline, and Sumner’s weeping guitar back the latter’s vocals, which feel just as devastatingly resigned and worn-down as Curtis’. Sumner was not merely a higher-pitched copycat of Curtis, however: His lyrics and voice hint at hopefulness throughout the song’s duration before inevitably slipping back into cynical acquiescence. 

New Order and Joy Division were tremendously different on the surface: One was a highly danceable, often electrifying new wave staple, while the other brought momentous emotion and precision to post-punk like few bands ever have. But in spite of this apparent divergence, the bands shared a core musical identity and the same melancholy fatalism that concealed a raw, aching heart underneath. Regardless of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s opinion, these two bands will inevitably walk in silence towards the pantheon of music legends.

Lucas Chiorini can be reached at lchiorini@wesleyan.edu.