I remember the first time I met Ian Curtis. January sea mist wrapping its fingers across the city. 4:45pm, legs hanging over the arm rest of a pattern-less comfy chair. Pale, swollen light swimming through net curtains and splashing hesitantly on the crisp white wall behind me. A faint yellowness, a hue of vitality before the evening cold.
I click to play. Three seconds of silence, dust settles on the blistered table top. A click of drums, a bass line barrelling at me, hypnotic, dancing, filling the space between the beats. A voice reeling, reaching, seeping through the layers of seaside gloom.
‘I’ve been looking for a guide to come and take me by the hand.’
A knife cut across the mildewed windowsills and inactive storage heaters. A whisper in the noise, a beacon of times ahead.
‘I’ve got the spirit, but lose the feeling.’
End, play, end, play. A new dawn fades.