1983 07 23 New Order Sounds

STATE OF INDEPENDENCE

CONFUSION REIGNS AS NEW ORDER CORRUPT THE USA. BY MICK MIDDLES, PIX BY KEVIN CUMMINS

'You just can't believe me when I tell you what you mean to me'.

(New Order, 'Confusion')

"Hello shitheads."

(Pete Hook addressing audience in Washington)

THE WEEK the image cracked.

Two days before New Order arrive in New York — and you can feel it.

The anticipation this band generates is phenomenal, unrivalled.

Understandable maybe, if a general lack of activity prevails in these preceding days, but quite the reverse is true.

This is a big week. Just about everybody seems to be here.

A dreadful 48 hours of brash and unashamed ligging is taking place in and around the New York Hilton under the false monicker of 'New Music Seminar 83.'

If British record company employees turn your stomach with their proverbial "'Tastic, 'tastic, must have lunch" attitudes, then the Americans caricature this into something totally grotesque.

Almost obscene to the casual onlooker. These people are convinced that product comes first, is invented by themselves and only later sold to the audience — and the audience moronically swallows every piece of garbage thrown at them.

In America, perhaps they do. Which is where New Order come in. No band is better equipped to ridicule the American system than New Order.

Above and beyond, their careers do not depend on being nice to people they have no respect for. With a natural Mancunian brashness they smash the polythened American rock package wide open. Often verging on pure bar room vulgarity, they leave a thousand mouths wide open with disbelief.

"Hey, Pete. Will you sign an autograph for this girl out here?"

"Has she got big tits?"

SO NEW YORK awaits the arrival of New Order. The climax to a week of free Toto Coelo cocktails. Hanging out on the elitist Danceteria rooftop with Aztec Camera, Funboy Three, JoBoxers, Haysi Fantayzee, Bob Geldof, Malcom McLaren. The list is endless. Gigs happen all over the place from the best (Aztecs at Danceteria) to the worst (JoBoxers at the Ritz). Supported by a multitude of dreadful English apeing US outfits and Billy Idol videos.

"Hey, my God, have you seen Billy... He's so HOT!"

I kid you not.

Staring down on these falsely flamboyant styleless masses. Like a constant solemn reminder of the week's true (and only) event. Rows of Saville-ian stark New Order posters, as if surveying with distaste the goings on below.

The heat is unbearable, wet and eveloping.

The best action in New York is on the street corners where truly giant walkmans stand guard blasting out the wonderful WBLS radio station (a constant non stop disco mix where the DJs just sit and mix and segue the songs together, never speaking — Peter Powell take note) and black kids of no more than twelve spin, twist and wriggle to 'IOU', Buffalo Bill/Gals', 'Wikki, Wikki, Wikki', 'Billie Jean/Do It Again' and, you guessed it, 'Blue Monday'.

As if to sense the real action. New Order have recently been working in New York with producer Arthur Baker. The finished result is 'Confusion'. A song which, strangely enough, parallels Freeez's 'IOU', also produced by Baker and, it seems, simultaneously.

'Confusion', a mix of lively computed disco chants (?) and Barney's (Bernard Sumner's) drifting vocals, is heading directly towards those giant walkmans and directly away from the hospitality suites at the New York Hilton.

I hear the almost finished product before the band arrive. Countless plays finally assure me that it is their best work to date. Light years away from the rather dull (I thought) days of 'Everything's Gone Green'. The days of grey despondency now cast into history and forgotten. Prosperity with Integrity could easily be their motto.

If Johnny Waller's Uriah Heep were indeed guilty then New Order must be innocent. No record company paid for this Sounds venture into foreign parts.

"We don't like doing interviews simply because the questions asked have already been answered a thousand times and can be looked up so easily. There is really no point in going over all that groundwork again. But we will talk to anybody, really. We don't strive to be aloof and we DO in fact quite often politely answer the same questions. We only become angry when we're tired and bored."

Which, of course, is fair enough and in fact a policy which helps keep New Order articles, rare as they may be, interesting. Here's hoping.

WEDNESDAY AND New Order finally arrive in New York. Tired and drunk, the entire party floods into a dangerously packed Danceteria as Aztec Camera and Malcom McLaren perform in their various ways.

'Confusion' is actually played to the dancefloor and nobody from New Order notices it, still claiming they haven't heard it yet.

Barney slinks on the bar, eyes glazed, worlds away. The rest of the band stagger through the crowds of biz people and fall asleep, or whatever.

People still talk of New Order.

Only manager Rob Gretton is at his best as the eternal football hooligan bringing a welcome pocket of down-to-earth humanity to the proceedings. (Note. Gretton used to be the scourge of the Kippax in his youth. Actually, he probably still is).

"It's like Woodstock, all these people here for something and they don't really know what it is," observes a reasonably sober Steve Morris.

"What do you think of New York then, Mick? It's a shithole isn't it, this place and all of New York. It's better on the West Coast, we enjoy it much more over there.

"We've enjoyed this tour very much though, so far. Been a laugh actually. Chaotic, completely chaotic, as you will soon find out."

Day two begins at 3pm in the plush Holiday Inn lobby of New Order's hotel. Rob, Steve and Gillian, all suntanned to the point of embarrassment, await their hire car for a drive to the soundcheck at Paradise Garage. Steve drives. "I've driven for ten minutes in this city and my bottle has completely gone."

We make it, through the traffic and Rob's confused navigating.

Paradise Garage. Simply a huge garage, sagging under the weight of masses of disco lights. Decorated in black and grey corrugated metal, like a huge Hacienda minus any sense of style, and plus the best PA system in the world.

Today though, is not just another soundcheck. The video crew stand in the wings awaiting their chance to film 'Confusion'. Aptly titled, chaos reigns.

Hookey is missing, Barney goes to find him. Hookey returns. Barney is missing and so on.

Manchester exile, ex-Certain Ratio singer Simon Topping, walks briskly in (tonight playing congas for the excellent support act Quando Quango), his appearance halting the action onstage.

"Fooookin' 'ell Simon, smart haircut or what!" bellows Barney, and everyone has to stop mid-soundcheck (already running hours late) whilst old friendships are rejuvenated.

"Are you bastards going to soundcheck or just have a party?" screams a frustrated Ossie (New Order's fifth touring member and best soundman in Britain).

'Love Will Tear Us Apart' booms out of Hookey's bass and sighs of relief are heard all around. The film crew move in. Take over. Tell the band to spray water over each other for sweat effects. Red rag to a bull. Chaos regains its accustomed hold.

'Confusion', though, is stunning. With sound effects and chants, the live result is an overwhelming mass of disco punctation. Great entertainment, nothing more, or less.

New Order's only arrogance is their correct belief that they are extremely good at their craft. People meeting the band for the first time often go away thoroughly confused, perhaps even upset and annoyed if their humour does not connect with the group's. In America especially, this is the reason why they are so incredibly misrepresented in the rock press.

New Order are, personality wise, as arty as GBH. Less so than Blitz. Anyone expecting the presumed aura of cool will find themselves torn apart by six or seven sharp tongues.

The scene on the Paradise Garage roof is typical. Gretton sunbathes with mock apathy while a Rolling Stone photographer and his three assistants, spend, literally, three hours setting up umbrellas and lights for a quickly arranged photo session. Gretton is irritated. Two hours later the band agree to appear, but don't.

"Where are they then? Are they up here yet?" exclaims the now angry master of photographic ceremonies.

"Can you see them?" replies Gretton.

"No I cannot."

"Then they are not fuckin' well 'ere then."

"Will you please go and get them. You are the manager."

"No."

Yet again, downstairs, the band agree to go up but only Gillian appears and for five minutes before yawning her way back down. Barney has gone for an orange juice.

"Will you pose for us?" says the photographer to a startled Kevin Cummins.

"You lot."

Points to me.

"Pretend you are New Order. No-one will know. They are faceless, are they not? You won't? Well, I'm going. Tell them they are the most unprofessional band I've have ever met."

He storms off.

We tell New Order.

They squeal with delight.

PARADISE GARAGE fills to capacity and then some. Outside, the street is crawling with the unlucky, scavaging for tickets. The disco inside is hard and loud. Again dangerously packed.

Quando Quango run through a rhythmic short set of sax-funk (see future Sounds). Impressive and stimulating, even to a crowd with no apparent wish to be stimulated. They clap politely at the finish.

After their set and in the New Order dressing room, Simon Topping is conspicuous by his absence.

"Miserable bastard." moans Ossie.

But the tension is mounting and the band sit around, relatively quiet. Gretton is continuously hassled by a heavy club management wishing to hurry the show along. Three times they storm into the dressing room, genuinely threatening. Eventually, under considerable stress and in fear of the consequences. Gretton ushers the band onstage.

The excellently massive house PA gives us New Order at their best.

Without doubt, and for a change, everything runs perfectly. 'Ceremony', 'Your Silent Face', 'The Village'. Their pop set.

They tend to vary to suit the mood. Tonight, happy.

Hookey's bass is now held ridiculously low, almost at his feet, in an unintentional parody of J.J. Burnel. But as he blasts out the strong, distinctive opening riffs to 'Age of Consent' it becomes clear that tonight is special. Ossie's control over the sound effects, weirdly superb. The crowd, incredibly, fail to recognise this. Barney is annoyed. He shows it.

"Just about the most unresponsive crowd we've ever played to. Yank bastards!"

The opening sequencer to 'Blue Monday' brings cheers, but still the words are altered by Barney's adlib:

"How does it feel — to stand in front of bastards like you."

It's a highly danceable set as well, although, to be fair, the sweaty claustrophobia doesn't exactly entice me into dance either. The music is compelling, indicating perfectly the class difference between New Order and would-be similar outfits.

"Oh you've got green eyes. Oh you've got brown eyes. Oh you've got grey eyes. "

'Temptation' gives the perfect ending, with a catch. Both sequencer and drum machine left running to complete the set without the band. A full four minutes.

"Hey did you see that! A fake, the band just walked offstage and the music kept playing!"

"Yeah, hah, that gets them every time," says Steve Morris.

Obviously, no encore.

The dressing roomed, tired band wait patiently for the disco to re-start, alleviating the tension. It does.

New Order win the evening.

DO YOU enjoy all of this?

Gillian: "Yes. I do actually. I really enjoy it, every minute. Why? Do I look miserable?"

You look as though you'd be glad to get back home.

Gillian: "No, not really. I would in the sense that we are moving soon and have things to do but, still, it's good fun really. I've got a good tan out of it."

Steve: "We are going for a long holiday in Italy, anyway."

Barney: "Just three more dates to go and then, at last, a rest."

You've still got the Hacienda to play.

Barney: "Shit, shit. I'd forgotten about that. I've got to admit to being totally wrecked. I'm now used to going to sleep at seven in the morning and waking up at... Well this morning I was watching cartoons at eight-thirty, that's how much sleep I get."

Have you really not heard the finished 'Confusion' yet?

Barney: "No, I'm scared to hear it yet. I really am. It seems, if we all agree, that it will be the next single and that's why we are scared to listen. Have you heard it? What do you think?"

The best thing you've ever done. I prefer it to 'Blue Monday" (actually, by a long chalk). The vocals are a bit low though.

Barney: "Everyone has said that, but that is only a rough mix anyway.”

How did you meet Arthur Baker?

Barney: "Through Michael Schamberg (the video king in New York and, it appears, controller of Factory's New York office). We went into that studio in New York with no song whatsoever. We've never done that before so it was in fact a completely experimental thing with a producer we didn't know. He was working on Freeez at the same time which is probably why it sounds similar, although the songs are very different really. There is, I believe, a mix already been made of the two songs together, which is interesting.”

Why did you stop working with Martin Hannett? 

Steve: "We learnt everything from him. We have no qualms about doing it on our own. Actually that is not strictly true, something about the album that isn't quite right. I don't know if we will be working with Arthur Baker again, depends..

There is a planned Channel Four TV film about to be made... 

Steve: "Yes, the people from Whatever You Want. It's about the band and they plan to make it half band, half social comment which... I don't know whether they will be able to combine the two.

Maybe it will work... maybe not.

"I'd prefer to make a proper film. Not musical and not about the band, but I suppose you have to start somewhere. We do tend to run ourselves in an unplanned sort of way, like day-to-day, there never seems to be time to actually sit down and plan something. No great master plan. We are all too knackered all the time."

Knackered New Order sneak slyly away from Paradise Garage, searching hopefully for food and sleep. The Paradise Garage mafia smile, sit back, and count the takings from the fullest night they have ever had. Somewhere else in New York, the booker from Roseland wonders why on Earth he turned New Order down on his belief that they couldn't fill the place. The kids wonder how instruments can play themselves.

WASHINGTON.

2.30p.m. New York, Newark Airport and Barney sleeps on the concourse amidst a huge stack of luggage and unaware of the glances cast by nervous travellers as they hurry past him as they would hurry past tramps in the Bowery. Tour manager Ruth Polski (darling of the New York hip set and booker of the Danceteria, on loan to New Order) seems in a fit of panic. Seven minutes before the flight to Washington and no sign of Rob or Steve. Hookey is ill, hung over and apologetic for being so. He decides to go and find Steve with the hire car.

Barney: "We are early. Usually there is only one minute before take off when we arrive. I hate airports, always fall asleep, twelve times on this tour so far."

2.40p.m. Our plane, for once typically, leaves on time minus the threesome of Rob, Steve and Hookey.

"I bet they are getting pissed somewhere," muses Barney.

Ruth Polski fights hard to contain her worry, uneasy in the knowledge that Barney may indeed be right. We fly South, over farmlands and what looks to be a welcome contrast to the insane vortex of New York soon appears beneath us. Washington DC.

As we land, back in a Newark bar, Rob, Steve and Hookey are just sinking their first of eight Melonbali cocktails.

The real drama has yet to happen.

Continues next week