How do you get at how and why somebody meant something to you when it is someone you have never even known? I never saw Ian Curtis live in concert. All I have ever had is the lyrics, the songs, the music, the articles, the interviews and the photos. And yet I felt something for him; some kinship. Blake and I talked about him endlessly, or so it seemed. We related to his anguish, in one sense, to his humble origins, in another sense. His perspective captured thoughts and feelings we possessed. His situation echoed ours, to a degree.

We had similar interests, as well: poetry, literature, music, Bowie. I was reading Sartre and Camus and Simone de Beauvoir and other existentialist philosophy. I wrote poetry. I wanted to be in a band, but I didn’t play an instrument, and I couldn’t sing.

I immediately fell in love with the music.

The songs seemed to take the feelings and thoughts that were swirling around inside of me and channel them elsewhere. The music was cathartic. People assumed that listening to Joy Division was an element of my early adulthood depression, but it was more of an element of what kept me going.

I do not admire suicide. I would have liked to have seen what Ian Curtis might have become. His is a sad story. I am glad that the members of Joy Division carried on and became New Order. That they can talk about those days, now, and give us some insight into Curtis’ illness and other struggles.