Sock Free Hideaway

BEATS OF LOVE 

82. Vanishing Point by New Order

I STILL remember Peter Hook sending me a Facebook friend request and thinking he must be a remarkably subpar DJ.

His latest venture, Hacienda Gin, looks equally underwhelming. It slightly irks me that the two bands most synonymous with his name remain the most celebrated among my peers. They had their moments, but they were ultimately fashion victims. Still, credit where it’s due: his heavy, concrete-slab bass style is perhaps the most distinctive in post-punk, testament to a man who looked and carried himself like a welder but undeniably gave their sound its edge.

I fell in love with Low-Life but struggled with everything that followed. Gillian Gilbert deserves credit for steering them away from the dark, insular introspection that fuelled their mythology, guiding them toward a more vibrant, radio-friendly synth-pop. I absolutely loathed True Faith, their first blatant compromise for airplay, because it felt far too obvious, rendering Hook’s singular bass entirely pointless. By the time Technique arrived, the band had fully surrendered to the pulsating electronic beats that made his bass redundant. More importantly, so had the audience.

This track, however, is the magnificent exception. Like some monolithic relic, Hook wields his semi-redundant bass like an early agrarian farmer with a scythe, playing as if he’s unsure there will ever be another meaningful moment. Meanwhile, the rest of the band looks transported to Ibiza, armed with innovative technology. The contrast is spectacular.

It takes me back to seeing them perform it at Reading in 1989 under a torrential downpour, where we tried to surrender to their dynamism as if we were still in Manchester, though, from where I stood, The Sugarcubes went down better. Unlike True Faith, this track is afforded the space to breathe. The open air heightens the contrasts, lends weight to the lyrics, and makes the cumulative effect dizzying and overpowering. New Order never came close to recapturing this brilliance. 

Hook’s subsequent greed ensured they never would. Had he not snidely bought up the Hacienda trademark rights in 2001, he might still share a stage with his old bandmates rather than nursing a bitter, decades-long grudge. Instead, we're left with a shattered legacy, a fractured working relationship, and a bottle of underwhelming gin.