Thursday, July 21, 2011

musical urbanism: statement of a scholarly project


It's promotion review time for me, and in writing a research statement for the three anonymous sociologists evaluating my work, I've had the occasion to compile and synthesize my thinking on musical urbanism into a single essay.  Think of this post as a users manual for understanding what I've been up to academically with this blog.  Your comments are very welcome!  [And if you're my future evaluator, please skip this and read the final draft of this statement in the materials I've given you.]

My third and most recent field of research is a project in urban cultural analysis that I call musical urbanism.  Since this project is still under development, and since it involves a somewhat unconventional approach to a topic seldom addressed within urban studies, here I provide a programmatic discussion of paradigm and methods.  In this project, I examine popular music—an area that for almost 30 years I've been enthusiastically following and involved in (as bandleader, on-air disc jockey, college-radio music director, touring musician, and most recently house/techno DJ)—as a site for asking three general questions:

1. How do cities sustain creative milieus and cultural movements?
2. How are cities and the urban condition represented in art and popular culture?
3. What's local (to a city, neighborhood, group) in any given art form or cultural movement?

Alone, any one of these questions has their scholarly traditions in the social sciences.  Thus, as a contributor to the research on "creative cities," I have a repertoire of sociological responses for the first question.  Also, as a student (but never a participant before now) of cultural studies and the sociology of music, I'm familiar with the methods for answering the third question, which tend to involve ethnographic analysis of particular cultural forms, practices and audiences, concluding with a move into theoretical generalization.  I find such approaches unsatisfactory for this project, however.  For one reason, they have difficulty in accessing the exuberance, alienation and other deeply emotional responses that motivate musical producers and consumers alike.  For another, they evacuate the specific content, meanings and experience of musical creativity and consumption, as analysts too often take away a familiar set of generalized sociological findings—solidarity, social movements, globalization, etc.—from localized activities undertaken in certain historic and geographical contexts.  Coming out of the multidisciplinary field of urban studies, where I've appreciated the attention to specific, contextualized meaning paid by historians and literature/film scholars, I think a sociologist can benefit by incorporating methods from the humanities on this topic.

My point of departure is the phenomenon of urbanism, the modes of material life and consciousness found in cities.  In contemporary sociology, where urban sociology is no longer the master enterprise it was for the seminal Chicago School, urbanism is necessarily a humbler concept.  This idea no longer captures and conveys the central causal factors of modern life; indeed, as global flows of capital, people, ideas and commerce become our structural frame of reference, it's easy to dismiss the analytical relevance of the urban to music, culture and social life more generally.  However, what urbanism still highlights are the ways local and non-local contexts articulate with one another into concrete spatial formations for the conduct of everyday life—formations that we call cities or, maybe more accurately, places, a concept that doesn't presume a certain territorial scale or condition of modernization.  Significantly, as urban sociologist Michael Ian Borer emphasizes, places are the sites where people practice culture.  Accordingly, urbanism offers a lens onto concrete (if not necessarily localized) practices of musical collectivity, creativity, and representation.

AN ARGUMENT FOR MUSICAL URBANISM

My project is given greater urgency by two developments in popular music production and consumption today.  First, the spread of digital file-sharing has precipitated a "crisis" of the music industry model premised on selling physical commodities and enforcing intellectual property rights.  Although this crisis maybe overstated (it seems to have bypassed country music, jazz, and other commercial music genres not weighted toward a younger demographic), it echoes broader social anxieties about the "virtualization" and impoverishment of face-to-face interaction, local group/neighborhood identities, and urban relations.  Recent findings from Barry Wellman and other community sociologists give cause to suspect such zero-sum relationship between physical and virtual media of social life and cultural activity.  Nonetheless, empirical questions for research include: (a) which urban materiĆ©l, relations and identities remain relevant to cultural practice and consumption; (b) how urban life, subcultural communion and public space are mediated by digital networks and an evolving music industry; and (c) why urban identities and affiliations ("I represent my city," hip hop MCs and fans ritually proclaim) remain compelling in an Internet world.

Second, the "creative city" thesis advanced by Richard Florida and others indicates that global musical production is heavily concentrated in a select few urban centers, despite the possibilities for geographic dispersal created by technological advances in music recording, marketing, and exchange.  Yet at the same time, much of the economic activity in these great cities that once supported musical creativity, performance and production (record stores, performance venues, equipment repairs, etc.) has been transformed by corporatization, digitization and hollowing out; as the independent "brick and mortal" retailers and specialists have gone, increasingly so do the corporate entertainment super-stores and the A&R men prowling the scene for new acts to sign.  Furthermore, the cost of living in these cities eventually exceeds levels that are supportive to an artistic career and life.  This contradiction of economic agglomeration is a familiar syndrome for industrial geographers and researchers of new urban economies, who might anticipate that the investments and costs and associated with creativity and production will be externalized onto the creative milieu itself: the city and its residents, institutions and social relations. 

Recent debates about young "neo-bohemians" and "hipsters" (see the writings of Richard Lloyd and Mark Greif) suggest some urban expressions of these spatial contradictions.  Musicians and other creatives accept lower incomes and greater employment risk in exchange for recognition of their status superiority, for instance; and entrepreneurial activity extends to the cutting edges of subcultural lifestyle (fashion, food, crafts, etc.) and ethos (environmental sustainability, political advocacy, blogging).  Whether these hypotheses persuade or not, they raise broader questions that I consider in this project.  What physical and cultural dimensions of the city constitute "forces of production" in the creative economy?  How do creative labor, its places of residence and communion, other urban institutions and "support staff" accommodate the creative economy's social reproduction burdens, as manifested through personal lifestyle and life-stage, ancillary economies, built environment, urban amenities and texture?  How do cultural forms and practices—musical works and genres of course, but also cultural trends, leisurely pastimes, entertainment activities, lexicon, humor and cultural practice—symbolize these urban forces and signify them to creative constituencies both near and far? 

AN OUTLINE OF PARADIGM AND METHODS

As this discussion suggests, the study of urban music and related urban cultures sometimes gets drawn into policy debates and other practical discussions about the wisdom of certain urban economic development strategies or the viability of the music industry.  I'm reluctant to incorporate the premises and terms of these discourses into the musical urbanism paradigm, if only because they too often seek to contain and instrumentalize cultural practices that actually encode and give expression to social conflict and alienation.   

With the musical urbanism paradigm I walk a different fine line.  On the one hand, in keeping with my research on quality of life, I inherit the mission of critical theory by questioning the dominant terms with which music is generally presented: the solipsistic romance of disaffected youth, for instance, or the consultants' advocacy of economic value for corporations and urban branders.  On the other hand, I find it helpful (and frankly more pleasurable!) to adopt the perspective of the music fan.  By embracing the aesthetic pleasures of music and celebrity myths, and by diving into the sometimes raucous debates over the significance of this or that album, group, or event, cultural analysts can acknowledge and even begin to incorporate the collective affect and emotional "surplus" (to cite literary theorist Rey Chow) that is music's special feature. 

Pop music is a global phenomenon, and as my research develops I'm eager to investigate non-Western cases.  Paradigmatically, I'm inclined not to adopt the ethnomusicologist's cultural relativism, however, because the modernist in me sees pop music as something of a singular historical achievement.  Sociologist Chris Rojek reminds us that pop music (as opposed to folk/"popular" musics) is essentially a modern development, reflecting an "urban-industrial backbeat" comprised of technologies of musical amplification, economies of mass production, and broadcast media that constituted mass audiences in the 19th and 20th centuries.  In the new millenium's global-network society, it's important not to lose sight of the ubiquity of urban-industrial social relations and—this is especially crucial—the centrality of global capitalism, including its global music industry, that lie behind pop music and the urban today, even as we readily concede that global capitalism is always contested and can never fully homogenize musical form, never completely dictate cultural reception.

Methodologically, musical urbanism combines the structural analysis from political economy with a historical-comparative approach informed by the humanities and the hermeneutic fields of sociology.  At the initial stages of this project, I've used existing scholarship to access popular music history, the biographies of particular groups or events, and the history/analysis of music industry and technology; for the recent developments, a critical reading of industry trade media has proven effective.  I've also gotten my feet wet into ethnographic fieldwork conducted in musical events, although not yet as part of a longer-term, systematic project.  Soon I hope to conduct interviews with relevant musicians, industry representatives, journalists, cultural historians, and other well-placed observers. 

Cultural products are also obvious sources of data in this project.  This includes the music itself, although I heed the caution that music's meaning is never quite as immediate as it might seem; its exposition and analysis requires intertextual engagement with history, music criticism, and audience response.  Regarding the last, fan sensibilities and discourses constitute their own cultural entity, ubiquitous and uncontainable within global pop culture, that can be observed in the media about music.  Such media include music journalism, fan blogs, popular nonfiction books, documentary films, and even entertainment/celebrity-gossip TV programming.

SELECTED WRITINGS

My musical urbanism project is in its very earliest stages of research.  I've taught an undergraduate seminar under the same name at Vassar College's Urban Studies Program three times since 2007, having the very good fortune of co-teaching with two remarkably astute literature professors, Heesok Chang and Hua Hsu.  However, only since the beginning of 2011 has my research and writing in this field begun in earnest.

Through a blog Musical Urbanism, I've begun analyzing case studies, proposing additional research topics, reflecting on methodology, and reviewing scholarly and popular books about music and cities.  The blog format works well at this early stages, I think.  The small to medium-size essays I post allow me to write quickly in order to establish this project's breadth of topics and approaches, and to reach different kinds of readers (academics, urbanists, music fans) whose responses help me clarify and revise my thinking on this project.  The various writings featured on the blog may or may not be incorporated into a future academic book on musical urbanism, which will be written and organized more systematically to elaborate the project's paradigm and methodology, examine several case studies in greater depth, and engage the scholarly literature more extensively than the blog does. 

The reviewers are welcome to browse the Musical Urbanism blog, but I'm officially submitting for review the following ten essays.  Again, these are early statements that shouldn't be mistaken for paper-length scholarly works, but I think they usefully illustrate the analytic scope of my project.


These essays illustrate how I view the connections between urban geography and subcultural expression, creative ethos, and industry machinations.  My scholarly debt to Adam Krims' Music and Urban Geography is made clear in the third essay, which demonstrates how closely the urban analyst might analyze a single song.


Like most of today's great cultural cities, New York has long been a geographical center for cultural production, attracting artists and would-be artists in artforms including but not limited to underground rock music.  Yet between the 1970s heyday of punk rock and indie-rock in the present, the underground's musical class has changed significantly in terms of cultural capital and class reproduction.  This pair of essays attempts to understand these changes, with the first essay demonstrating the kinds of original data I would gather for this project.


Probably the most influential idea in arts-based urban revitalization today emphasizes attracting the geographically mobile, amenity-sensitive "creative class" to cities.  The first essay here addresses how the creative class views cities through a distinctly non-local gaze, in this case involving popular culture.  The second essay, which I presented at a "Media and the Community" event in Poughkeepsie this spring, critiques the "creative class" strategy via a contrarian manifesto for arts-based urban revitalization.


This summer, Deirdre Oakley's urban sociology blog Social Shutter featured my visual ethnography, reprinted in the first essay, of a heavy metal music festival in downtown Baltimore.  In the second essay, I encourage the reviewer to click through to the slideshow of my original photostream and to read the captions, which impressionistically address objects and practices of everyday life that I observed at this admittedly extraordinary event.


Many listeners' appreciation of the abstract musical textures in post-punk, electronic, and other self-consciously modernist forms of pop music draws on the aesthetic sensibility that "hears" the urban-industrial landscape within the music.  This essay examines that aesthetic sensibility as it's been associated with a seminal post-punk group, analyzing it as the historic achievement of particular actors operating within specific social and geographic contexts.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

how Joy Division came to sound like Manchester


I'm always puzzled when I hear how Elvis Presley or Mick Jagger "sounded black" when they first appeared on the radio.  Back in the 70s, when I was a kid listening commercial radio that played pop, soul, and disco music, I never once mistook the vocals of Presley and Jagger as coming from African-American singers.  Perhaps this was because these pop icons had been on TV and magazines for more than a decade when I first became familiar with their music.  Perhaps. 

But even today, after I've gotten better at identifying the many strands of popular music and sequencing their historical influences upon later music, I still don't hear their voices as black.  Yes, it's clear now how the attack of their performance, the grit in their voice, and the slur of their vowels show the influence of blues and R&B singers before them—artists who weren't recognized by mainstream white pop music audiences back then.  And yes, their historical significance is in some part due to the fact that they introduced African-American music to white audiences (whether or not that was cultural exploitation, go ask Public Enemy).  But that's just it: Presley and Jagger sounded black to listeners who had no historically available vocabulary to interpret the social and cultural transgressions set off by the singers' vocals, performance, artistic choices and careers other than the discourse of race at the time.  Hence, they "sounded black."

The larger point here is a basic one in cultural anthropology: meaning doesn't emerge immediately out of language—or of any symbolic system, visual, aural (most relevant here) or otherwise.  Instead, people attribute meaning to the vocabularies and grammars of language by collectively assigning referents, at the most basic level, in terms of binaries or contrasts.  "Hot" makes sense only in reference to a symbolic opposite, "cold", and "white" only by contrast to "black."  In this way, symbolic systems aren't transcendent; rather, they're collective accomplishments that emerge through the play of history, its changing social contexts, and the symbolic codes and tools that mediate language to its users.

So what does it mean when we hear that music sounds like a city?

Joy Division's Mancunian myth

Joy Division offers as good a case study as any to break down the myths we revel in when we say a particular band or music "sounds like" a particular place.  Most serious music fans today can associate Joy Division with the northern English city of Manchester.  Some will appreciate Joy Division's historic distinction as the first truly important Mancunian band to break out in Manchester, bypassing the centrality of London and its music companies, recording studios, and entertainment media.  Many more fans will know that a string of legendary bands (New Order, the Smiths, Happy Mondays, the Stone Roses, that whole "Madchester" scene, Oasis) followed upon the DIY/"made in Manchester" tradition that Joy Division pioneered.  And a remarkably extensive literature and filmography portraying the band in its moment (three feature-length films?!) have helped spread the idea that the group's aloof, reticient, yet undeterred stance somehow captures a quintessence of the Manchester ethos—at least before the drug ecstasy turned the city into the UK's manic dance capital for a time.

But Joy Division is often assigned a deeper aesthetic relationship to Manchester than just these social-historic characterizations.  For many listeners, Joy Division sounds like Manchester.  That is to say, their music doesn't just come from the late 1970s Manchester of deindustrialization, a carceral welfare state epitomized by concrete housing estates built in brutalist architecture style, Margaret Thatcher's subsequent class warfare upon Britain's industrial proletariat, and the discovery of expressive and artistic possibilities in the wake of punk—their music recreates and conveys this historic milieu through its sonics and aesthetics.  From Grant Gee's 2007 documentary Joy Division (all quotes in this essay come from this source unless otherwise noted):

Liz Naylor: When Unknown Pleasures came out, it was sort of like, This is the ambient music for my environment.  I mean, when I think about Joy Division, they're an ambient band, almost.  You don't see them function as a band.  It's just the noise around where you are.



Paul Morley: It was almost like a science-fiction interpretation of Manchester.  You could recognize the landscape and the mindscape and the soundscape as being Manchester.  It was extraordinary that they managed to make Manchester international, if you like—make Manchester cosmic.



Jon Wozencraft: Unknown Pleasures is also a very iPodded kind of world.  It's urban, but it's not.  It's about a landscape, but that landscape is primarily an interior landscape.  And so, what is very, very important about it now is to see where we've travelled from since then and exactly why it still sounds so bloody contemporary.

These statements, like so many others issues by writers and fans alike, erudite and thick, constitute a pervasive myth about Joy Division's relationship to late 1970s Manchester.  The myth goes that through its music, Joy Division manifests and summons a historic urbanism with uncanny fidelity; like vinyl grooves reproducing soundwaves from a bygone time and place for eternity, audiences can seemingly revisit the Manchester of that era just by listening to the recordings.  This would be a remarkable feat, considering that singer Ian Curtis never made lyrical or vocal reference to the city, specific landmarks or groups, or really any concrete references to ways of life.  Such is the remarkable power of Joy Division's music and—let's give credit where it's due—the echoey, disembodied production of Factory Records house producer Martin Hannett, that audiences today almost can't help but come away from the recordings and videos with a visceral sense of alienation and withdrawal that Mancunians from that era could recognize as indigenous.

To call these aesthetic associations between music and place myth isn't to diminish the artistry of Joy Division and their collaborators, nor to shatter the sense of emotional 'truth' and personal resonance that audiences can take away when listening or watching the band.  However, calling it myth troubles the pleasant delusion that music as symbolic/aesthetic system can immediately record history.  The sense of time-place recognition that audiences experience is a social construction; at least hypothetically, we can understand in terms of a chronological sequence of social contexts and symbolic interventions that mediate the music to its audiences so that they can competently and consciously experience a sense of time-place recognition—before they can "hear" Manchester in the music of Joy Division.

It would be impossible to innumerate the many possible social contexts and symbolic interventions that mediate audience's different understandings of Joy Division's Mancunian myth.  But I think we can identify some of the key ones to appreciate what the kind of analysis I have in mind can look like.

Britain's cultural geography

Before punk and post-punk emerged, England was an industrial country for almost two centuries.  Its geographic imaginary was deeply impressed by the legacy of politics, trade, and finance concentrated in London, industry established in Manchester and other northern cities, and agriculture relegated to the remaining countryside.  Where the production of British culture was concerned (let's leave the culture associated with British "heritage" aside for the moment), London was the only place to be, and artists from anywhere else would have to make their move to London if they didn't want to be regarded with disdain as hicks from the hinterlands.

This was the cultural geography that British pop music inherited.  The Merseybeat didn't escape the centrality of London, as the Beatles and their machinery quickly left Liverpool for London—a distance of just over 200 miles, but almost a different country entirely where British regional identity is concerned.  Even punk initially reinforced London's centrality in British pop music.  The list of first-generation punk groups who signed with big labels out of London is long, and it includes the Buzzcocks, Manchester's most significant band before Joy Division.  As Simon Reynolds observes in Rip It Up and Start Again: Post Punk 1978-1984, the DIY ethic commonly attributed to punk really took hold only with post-punk, and Joy Division's relationship to Factory Records in Manchester was a big part of the story.  But we get ahead of ourselves. 

One consequence was the relative poverty of urban/regional symbolism outside the of London orbit in British pop music.  There would be references to other places, of course; think of Sheffield Steel (a Joe Cocker album) or the association of heavy metal and the British midlands.  But look deeper into such music at the time—for instance, look at the lyrics—and you'll find very little substance in these regards.  British folk music might seize the moral high ground where reverence and place-specificity for the British countryside is concerned, but in pop music, images of dreary factories or drab towns were largely fodder for Londoners' imaginations. 

The state of British media

At least one might hold this perception if the British music press of the time was to be read literally.  The parochialism and snobbery it displayed toward music and musicians based out of London were probably, at least in part, instincts inherited from the legacy of Britain's geographic imaginary.  However, the fairly late development of serious music journalism also has to be considered. 

As Paul Gorman's In Their Own Write: Adventures in the Music Press suggests, Britain's music weeklies had only developed a narrative function beyond simple publicity in the early 1970s, inheriting the generational/countercultural voice from underground weeklies of the late 60s like International Times and Oz and, later, American publications like Creem and Who Put the Bomp.  A journalistic focus on not just music but its surrounding culture was especially the hallmark of the NME.  Melody Maker, its second-place rival in the late 70s, was slow to shift out of its reverent muso orientation, although the arrival of punk helped bring about this journalistic mission.  While punk bands sprung up across the isles, the press had yet to give proper attention to their cultural/urban specificity.  This was the media environment in which Joy Division appeared.

Consider as well the lack of television devoted to punk and postpunk music.  Joy Division never appeared on Top of the Pops; its televised performances were so rare as to constitute key moments in pop music history.  Many people vividly remember when they saw Joy Division play on Tony Wilson's So It Goes, or do two performances of "She's Lost Control" two months apart in 1979; such reminiscences are an important motif in the writing and films that posthumously surrounded the band. 

Why does all this matter?  In the relatively impoverished media environment of the late 1970s, Joy Division's debut album would for most listeners appear with almost no aesthetic precedent or artistic context to give it meaning.  Yet such was its sonic innovation and artistic power that listeners, writers, and music industry would feverishly try to make sense of it.  Hence the many comparisons to Bowie and krautrock, references that get the listener close but, I think, don't really do justice to the strange new sounds that Joy Division created. Some three decades later, the band's closest collaborators and earliest supporters still strain to find the words for this unprecedented music:

Peter Saville [talking about designing the cover of Unknown Pleasures independent of the band's input]: Hadn't heard the music.  They'd given me the elements; the wave patterns are astonishing.  I mean, what an amazing image for something called Unknown Pleasures.  I took it to Rob's house, took the artwork to Rob's, and he said, "I have a test pressing.  Do you want to listen to it?"  I didn't know if I could sit through 40 minutes of Joy Division... especially in front of their manager [chuckles].  But I couldn't really say no.  And within moments, I knew that I had a part in a kind of life-changing experience.  Minute after minute was beyond anything I could have expected.  It was just beyond... it was astonishing.

Paul Morley: And just as soon as [Unknown Pleasures] started, and the drums sounded like no drums had ever sounded, and everything seemed to belong in its own space, and not quite connecting somehow, something amazing had happened.

Thus the project of making Joy Division sound like Manchester began in earnest—a project that arguably the four musicians had no major role in after providing the affecting, ambiguous source material.  Here we have to look instead to the assemblage of other elements and other actors besides the group to see how the Mancunian myth develops.

Images

For an obvious starter, the visuals and graphics associated with the band helped establish their association with the sound of Manchester.  In January 1979, before Joy Division had released a full-length album, NME photographer Kevin Cummins shot the group for their first cover story against a desolate daytime backdrop of deteriorating buildings and ominous housing projects (this work is now collected in a rather expensive coffeetable book of Cummins' photography, also called Joy Division).  Cummins describes how his famous shot of the band on the Epping Walk Bridge came about:



Kevin Cummins: Already by then I've shot two-thirds of a roll of film, and I'm conscious of the fact that I didn't really think I had anything.  I'm walking up the bridge, and they're waiting for me, and I just felt it looked so bleak, and they were so un-rock and roll-like, that I took two frames and then took an upright shot of the same thing, and that's all I did of that picture.  And that's I guess become probably the most recognized Joy Division image.

By November of that year, Anton Corbijn's shoot for the NME added to the band's visual repertoire with a photo (later used for Paul Morley's book cover) of the band in a tunnel: three members calmly gaze away, hands in pockets, while Curtis acknowledges the camera—with uncertainty, anguish, resignation?  All of these iconic images are black and white, and I suspect many viewers would assume, it being punk rock and not London flash, that these were candid photos capturing the member's natural demeanors in their everyday habitats.



Between Cummins' and Corbijn's shoots, of course, Joy Division released their debut album.  Never mind the effect of the music contained within the sleeve—almost immediately the album cover became a classic.

Paul Morley: And I just remember the whole... the sleeve, you know.  It was just an uncanny moment, because it did belong in your collection next to Roxy Music, next to Velvet [Underground], and it didn't look wrong next to Diamond Dogs.  It was a great piece of work, but it didn't borrow any of that language; it didn't borrow any of that visual language.  It was totally itself, and I couldn't work out how or where it had come from.

Is it too much to argue that the juxtaposition between the naturalistic band photography and the sci-fi album cover create the symbolic poles between which Joy Division's urbanism is imagined?  The contrast between the two forms in terms of visual grammar and referents is great, but significantly both effectively convey a sense of space, albeit an eerily desolate or (in the album cover's case) unreal version of a human landscape.  Certainly the juxtaposition of the two conveys that "interior landscape" that Jon Wozencraft invoked to describe the music. 

In any case, the visuals establish a resonant yet ambiguous visual grammar.  Additional visual connections between Joy Division and Manchester urbanism would be made by adventurous aesthetes, most notably DIY filmmaker Charles Salem, whose 1979 short film No City Fun explicitly juxtaposed Unknown Pleasures to Manchester landscapes and Liz Naylor's text about Manchester (it ended up on Factory Records' release FAC 9: The Factory Flick).  But for most audiences, it would take a journalistic narration to articulate Joy Division's Mancunian myth.






Narrations

Like few other bands of the post-punk era, Joy Division attracted a zealous breed of journalists and other writers prone to remarkably purple prose when describing the band.  In one category, academic writers interpreted the band's artistry via esoteric, obtuse theorists like Martin Heidegger or Georges Bataille.  (I still can't wade through Jean-Pierre Turmel's 1979 essay accompanying the "Atmosphere"/"Dead Souls" single.) 




More influentially, Joy Division attracted hotshot music journalists who came of age with punk, most famously Paul Morley in the NME and Jon Savage in Melody Maker.  Like few others, Morley and Savage used their pulpit to advocate for the aesthetic liberation that punk created—i.e., what we now call post-punk—against the "social realism" (to use Savage's term) of oi, anarchist punk, and other unimaginative proletarian agit-pop in the wake of the Sex Pistols.  Hardly doctrinaire Marxists, these writers were nonetheless sociological in their writing, looking carefully for the influence of industrial-urban-political context on music. 

In Joy Division, Morley and Savage found their muse.  For one thing, they had to discover Joy Division, traveling to Manchester to interview the band and its collaborators and to see the environs for themselves.  No doubt this wasn't a simple assignment for London-based journalists, and years later their writing still betrays a sense of personal investment and commitment to the city (Savage eventually relocated to Manchester in 1979).

Paul Morley: There was the Manchester damp and the shadows and omens called into dread being by the hills and moors that lurked at the edge of their vision.  It wasn't soft, where they lived.  It was stained green and unpleasant.  It seemed to be at the edge of the world.  You had to dream your way out of such a tranquilised, inert stretch of land/mindscape.  You had to use your imagination to believe that there was anything else than nothing else.  In these slow suburbs, your mind would ache for release.  And so would your body (1997 liner notes of Joy Division Heart and Soul box set; reprinted later in Morley's Joy Division: Piece by Piece, pp. 239-40).

Jon Savage: I'd just moved to Manchester the spring [sic], and 'Unknown Pleasures' helped me orient around the city.  I reviewed it for Melody Maker in typically over-heated style: "Joy Division's spatial circular themes and Martin Hannett's shiny, waking dream production gloss are one perfect reflection of Manchester's dark spaces and empty places: endless sodium lights and semis seen from a speeding car, vacant industrial sites—the endless detritus of the 19th century—seen gaping like teeth from an orange bus..." (1994 liner notes of Joy Division Heart and Soul box set)

Perhaps any Londoner would come away from 1979 Manchester with the same astonishment that Savage recalled in a 2008 article ("The Things That Aren't There Anymore"): "a disturbing new landscape that, like the city itself, the music and its people, triggered an almost overwhelming emotional response".  But few worked to cement the link between urbanization (deindustrialization, urban decline and social-political neglect), urbanism (alienation but also DIY resourcefulness against a northern English character), and sonics like Morley and Savage did.  The mode of inquiry and style of writing may have come naturally to them, but against a journalistic tradition of London-centrism, disdain for the provinces, and latching on to the next big thing, we shouldn't overlook how Morley and Savage were journalistic entrepreneurs of Joy Division's Mancunian myth.

Contexts for listening

The elements of the Mancunian myth—an evocation of an alienated subjectivity shaped by the industrial-urban contexts of Manchester—were now present.  They only awaited a deep meditation by the listener.  How did Joy Division stimulate such close, attentive listening? 

Not to dispense of the intrinsic mystery and beauty of the group's music, but I think we might also recall how someone would get to hear Joy Division in 1979.  A lucky few in Britain and West Europe might see the group in concert, thereby viewing them in a context removed from Mancunian associations.  However, most listeners had only their recorded output to turn to.  Originally, this would have been on vinyl only, a medium that fixes the listener in a stationary relationship with a record player.  Radio might liberate the listener from this environment, although we shouldn't overstate how often Joy Division was broadcast (John Peel notwithstanding) before Ian Curtis's death.  Otherwise, a spatially contained listening experience would have been typical, most likely in the domestic space of the bedroom or other rooms where the stereo would be located.  For a multimedia experience, the listener might also gaze at the record sleeve or simultaneously read an article about the band. 

Think about how this might reinforce the solitary, solipsistic experience of Joy Division's music.  In extended listening sessions, the mind might retreat from its psychedelic activity (no drugs required) and seek to an object or theme to alight upon.  Here the Mancunian associations provided by the photography and journalism of the band might offer fertile ground for mental recreation.  Having been prompted about the band's place of origins, the listener can hardly resist imagining the landscapes that the music conveys.  Correspondences between real place (Manchester), artistic consciousness ("what the band must have felt") and aesthetic response (the "interior landscapes" that listeners inhabit) have time to develop.

How Joy Division shaped the way we listen to cities

Put together, these social contexts and symbolic interventions provide a formula for a reverent listening that Joy Division rewards with powerful emotional responses and a lasting imagination of the place, time and mindset that the group occupied.  If this sounds like just another word for fan devotion, I hope the preceding argument makes clear how these social contexts—of complete geographic and cultural centralization of music industry/press in London, and of a stationary mode of listening—no longer quite exist anymore, and how the symbolic interventions of graphics, photography and journalists that Joy Division attracted are by now quite rote. 

If nowadays we can access through many other bands and styles of music the "forgotten city" urbanism of geographical marginalization and expressive alienation characterized by Joy Division's Mancunian myth, this is an achievement of many people, not just the band themselves, in the historical moment surrounding Joy Division's brief existence.  We simply didn't listen to cities in that way before Joy Division.  Now, in a very different world, we can do it all the time.