1986 01 New Order Jamming

BARNEY RUMBLES AND SCENIC RAMBLES

New Order main man Bernard ‘Barney’ Albrecht scrapes the sleepy dust from his eyelids and spins a long yarn.
Mick Middles takes another swig of the magic potion, leans back and falls over. Photos by Steve Wright.

Preamble.

"I wanna tell you about maa two dogs, 'cos, 'cos they are luvlee."

Beer breath exploded in my face. I step away from the bar in careful avoidance of the unsteady arm which I know is about to extend round my shoulders. If there is one thing I detest more than a violent drunken slob, it’s a friendly drunken slob.

Unfortunately, this latter category are the only humans stupid enough to brave the terrifying frost on this most unromantic of Stockport evenings. On nights like this, all the cloth cap cliches you may wish to throw at the life of a northern town . . . will be gratefully accepted.

They are all true, tonight. Like our football team, we have no defence. I’m not in here for drunken conversation. Merely for a modest measure of Dutch courage.

I’ve interviewed New Order before.

The enveloping sadness of the pub diverts my thoughts away from the list of questions in my pocket. The drunk next to me is the eccentric embodiment of a dour lifestyle. Too real. Far too real. I feel pretentious and stupid. Grabbing my foaming smelly prize, I retreat to my cohorts and dive back into the safe world of unadulterated sycophancy.

Amble on.

So we spill out of the smokey pocket of comfort and tread an icey pathway towards the welcoming lights of Yellow Two Studios. From the outside it looks for all the world like a branch of McDonalds. From the inside, it looks like a Habitat showroom. Copies of The Face on the coffee table, a copy of The Mary Chain album on the record deck and bottles of Champers in the fridge. The day’s exploits are scattered across the rest room in the form of a collection of personal objects. Empty beer cans, half eaten chocolate biscuits, synthesizer operation manuals, one extremely famous red Gibson and a number of suspicious Rizla packets. Unfortunately, though hardly surprisingly, the owners of these objects are not in evidence. Further investigation reveals that they have whisked their American producer John Robie away and across the sprawling metropolis of Stockport in search of a Thanksgiving celebration.

The interview was to begin at 10pm. It is now 10.30pm. One senses a lengthy evening ahead. With this possibility in mind, one feels no guilt in removing the inner contents of the beercans and placing the liquid, with the greatest of ease, in one's stomach.

Ramble on.

1 hate the way the trendier areas of the music press portray New Order. That is, the image of obnoxious and aloof pillars of arrogance. Drunken yobs, the antithesis of Joy Division pretension. The recent NME double page did little but further the image. The band, it seems, cannot win. The irony being that yours truly must take a certain amount of the blame for this after penning a fairly bawdy little New Order travelogue in the heady ‘Blue Monday’ days of 1983. I admit to being over-exposed to the band's violent sense of humour. It was a rather patchy and unconfident piece of writing. However, it did help pull the band free from a suffocating stigma of arty-farty nonsense. So let us wipe the slate clean, once and for all. New Order are not obnoxious people. To the best of my knowledge, they have never been deliberately obstructive. The music press, on the other hand, have strived to continue the most intense of love/hate relationships. Significantly, one month after the NME had heaped bucketfuls of essential importance on the band's shoulders, they failed to place them within their truly banal ‘ 100 Best Albums’ chart. A strange omission but, then again, New Order’s hugely successful flirtations with dance music hardly makes them fashionable amongst the raincoats.

11.15pm. Three quarters of the way through 'The New Avengers' and half way through the second can of Boddingtons. . . a stirring in the reception. A look of anticipation (well, it is a little like a dentist waiting room. Thinks, "who is drilling who?") is met by the beaming smile of manager Rob Gretton. I’d know that sarcasm anywhere.

' ‘The thing is, ’ ’ he states, in genuine apologetic terms . . .

"That Barney has yet to finish his vocals. It could take some time, in fact it could take a great deal of time. Like eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I’m not kidding."

He isn’t kidding. For reasons best known to myself, I’d singled out Barney for the interview proper. Just my luck.

"I’ll wait."

"Good. Then we might as well enjoy ourselves. You’d better settle in."

Hookey offers a welcoming hand. Polite, affable and typically sardonic. Steve Morris and Gillian Gilbert are, as always, the most approachable of people. . . and many a journalist tremors at the thought of this interview. Downstairs, the studio kicks into action. The beat (which slides so close to electro) punches through the floorboards. The vocals take the scenic route and drift up from the staircase.

I've been good and I've been bad but common sense I've never had. No matter how I try and try I hide the truth behind our lies." 

That's Barney. Inflicting the, by now, accepted dosage of pathos into the song. Interesting how New Order’s lyrics often lower into submission before attacking with a vengeance in a climatic flurry. That's the formula and it is, without any shadow of a doubt, the most effective lyrical usage this side of Morrissey.

"I’ve never forgiven you for some of the things you’ve written in the past, ’’ spits forth a relaxed Gretton.

"You called me a fat man."

"I did not."

"You did."

And so on. I didn't, as it happens but Hookey seizes an opportunity he cannot resist.

"Way back. I remember you calling us a bunch of fascists."

"I never did. I didn’t say that either."

"You implied it though. You can’t deny that you implied that we were fascist by quoting our lyrics."

"Well . . they weren’t my lyrics, were they?"

The quality of conversation improves into mundanity. They are only baiting me. The trouble is that there is no hint of malice. C’mon lads, play the game. Being nice is extremely boring.

The interview

Barney shuffles in.

"Okay, okay I’m ready. We might as well do the interview now. We might not get another chance. ’ ’

I glance at my watch, 3.35am Jeezus. Too much Champers blurs my aggressive potential. Jolly trendy, what.

Downstairs. Alone aside from the infernal whirring of the camera device, Barney patiently casts his longing for sleep aside and utters the immortal words.

"Right, go on then. Switch that damn tape recorder on."

Into the first elongated probe.

Do you feel that you are presently undergoing a period of audience transition? There seems to be an identification problem at your most recent gigs, an unhealthy mixture of casuals and raincoats?

"Yes. I’ve wondered about this recently. I think it depends on where we play. The more regional the venue, the younger the audience. At Preston recently, there were two hundred people all involved in a giant fight. This was because of the odd mixture we attracted. I can't put my finger on why."

Maybe because those who followed you through Joy Division are now being equalled by those picking up on you from the dancefloors?

"Er... I don’t know. Last year, in America we played ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ and nobody could understand why we were playing it. They knew the song but they didn’t know it was by us."

Which is good, in a way. It means that you are not resting on old laurels?

"Yeah, maybe but I don’t think that we get anything like the recognition we deserve. We are much better than people give us credit for. We are very underrated.’ ’

And unfashionable? Your drift away from rock and into disco has torn you apart from what is, perhaps stupidly, considered hip. Are you conscious of this?

"We are not like that all the time, though. Sometimes we make pure dance music and if some people have decided to ignore dance music then that’s their problem, not ours. We can’t be blamed for people’s narrowmindedness. But a lot of our music isn’t what you would consider to be dancefloor anyway."

True enough, but your most successful singles seem to have been born in the discos. This creates a different audience. One which doesn’t really care about the personalities of the band or their lifestyles or their background. It’s a good way to move away from stardom ... to become faceless.

''Not sure about that. 'Blue Monday’ brought us back in there, didn’t it.”

Yep but. . . never mind. . . slurp. Change tack.

Do you enjoy fame?

"I don’t enjoy it when you go into a pub and people start nudging each other. I don’t enjoy being recognised at all but. . . well. . . it’s a small price to pay. We are very, very lucky to be living this lifestyle. I couldn’t ever work to routine. I never have been able to."

But there must be some routine in being in a band. Today, for example, you have been tied to the studio.

"No, not to any specific thing. If I felt like laying in bed all day I would have. If I want to write, I will. I don’t have to do anything unless I want to and I enjoy this. . .so much. It’s the most satisfying thing I know."

What, being in the studio?

"Yes, getting that sound. Getting it just how we want it. Getting a song to a perfect conclusion. That’s the one important thing. That’s success. Much more than how many records you sell. . . it’s just about getting that feeling of satisfaction."

Are you fascinated by the way people attach their own individual importance to your music. Where, once you have released a record it is out of your hands and it takes on a thousand different facets?

"Oh yes I still am. We have always played on that anyway. That’s why we never deal in specifics. If you deal in specific situational lyrics, you freeze the music."

But your lyrics are specific to you?

"Yeah, they always mean something special. . . something personal to me."

When playing live, you often seem to twist the meaning to suit the evening. You often ad-lib. It can sound quite spiteful.

"It’s meant to. That’s the whole point of playing live. To take your music into different situations and see how it copes.”

But this can verge on flippancy?

“Maybe . . . that's another aspect.”

And flippancy can verge on rip off (and sometimes, at a number of gigs I could mention, it has).

"Depends on how we feel.”

You had a set of original ethics, it always seemed to me, which prevented you from, say, miming on TV. Often this was at the expense of the music. 'Blue Monday' on Top Of The Pops being the classic example. Don’t you think that these ethics dilute into silliness as time goes by?

"It is difficult to stick to original ethics but no, they don’t really change."

But how do you square this with your now extensive use of synths and tapes?

"We never, ever use tapes live.”

You do.

“We don’t. We use sequencers, not tapes."

Sequencers then. I’ve seen them carried on after you’ve left the stage?

"You can’t ignore technology and, more importantly, you’ve still got to play these things. It doesn’t matter if you play a Fairlight or a saw. It’s the tune that matters. A strong melody was always the most important thing and always will be. However easy it is to play, you have still got to produce that melody. That’s the art."

You have always had a certain naivety in the way in which you produce your music. That’s not a put down. In fact, I believe that to be your most endearing quality. Rather than sitting back and becoming boringly competent on one set of instruments, you move on and remain forever fresh.

"I’m not sure about that, y’know. We are very polished in some ways. ‘Blue Monday’ for instance, was a result of us reaching a certain perfection. We knew it was good. That wasn’t a naive song."

You are creeping towards being thirty. Are you still excited by popular music or are you more interested in retiring and building boats . . or something?

"I’m still excited about what we are doing, yes. When we first began we were excited by punk and The Stooges. Now, maybe it’s a different music but it's still the same basic thing."

Other people? The Jesus And Mary Chain?

"Well yes, it’s all just as important to me.

I, for example, really like The Smiths. I think that what they are doing is wonderful."

Do you think that some of your fans have taken you far too seriously in the past?

"I don’t know. I’ve taken our stuff very seriously so I can’t really comment on how other people take it."

What are you doing in this studio?

‘This is music for a film. What’s it called? (Scratches head). I don’t know but I must say that I don’t think the film is any good. It’s one of those American teenage things, very dodgy but we thought it would be interesting to do. Might make a good single y’see, we don’t have to pay recording costs for this. Plus John Robie is a genius. He’s very like us which is, misunderstood. I think that what we do is genius."

Why have you not attached this genius to the form of video? You’ve always had an uneasy relationship with video and yet it would seem to be a perfect vehicle for your experimentation.

"Well, I’ve always believed that the recording studio comes first, touring comes second and, maybe video third. So, simply, we have not had time to involve ourselves in video. We have spent six months touring this year so . . . where is all the time?

And for a home life? "My wife hasn’t seen me for four days. Not at all because I’ve been working fifteen hours a day. . . and she’s still managed to fall out with me."

So I let him go now. As his eyelids creep slowly downwards and my ability to communicate veers towards irritable fatigue. Back in the control room, Robie plays the mixing desk like a theatre organ and the band survey the finished result of the past four days. Only Hookey fails to make this final judgement as he is probably dreaming about riding motorbikes through muddy fields. Even in sleep, the drumstick clasped in his left hand taps a steady rhythm. The three awake band members listen intently, desperately seeking to be objective about the product of their obsession. Robie dances with ecstacy, spinning round, sliding the faders in perfect time with his movement. He looks like Ken Russell’s idea of a modern pop producer. . . the whole room swirls with his madness.

‘ ‘Well, I think that is a wonderful piece of music, ’ ’ he splutters forth at the track’s beaty conclusion.

New Order look unsure. Bite their lips and decide to sleep on it. Upstairs the rest room has suffered from the blitz. A Philip Glass movie careers to a halt on the video. More madness.

So we leave the building which contains such intense escapism. A shivering Stockport awaits. The blackness of reality has never seemed so unfriendly. A stark, crumbling town with a sick hospital and a mass of old people who can’t afford to stretch to two bars on the electric fire. On a night like this, escapism is important. Looking back, the studio seems like a Tardis.

It is a Tardis. 9