And now for something genuinely depressing.
There are these magazines, which are entertaining but not of a very high journalistic standard. They’re aimed at the digital-ADD afflicted younger generation of readers. Those who prefer to ingest information in the form of very small sound bytes. These magazines used to flourish (they don’t anymore, not in this economy) by publishing scads of silly lists of the Top-50-[adjective]est-[plural noun]- that-ever-[verb] type. A popular theme being crazy things done by crazy-ass crazy rock stars. Admittedly, few things in this world are more entertaining than the exploits of crazy-ass crazy rock stars. However, I find that it’s in very poor taste (not that these things are held to very high standards of taste, mind you) to lump on such a list – alongside the merely flamboyant but basically sane (i.e. Elton John*) and the Iggys and Ozzys whose misbehavior stemmed from substance abuse and who turned out to be quite normal once they’d cleaned up – someone like Ian Curtis, who really had some very serious mental health issues and for god’s sakes hanged himself. That’s a tad bit offensive. There’s drug addled, and there’s eccentric, and then there’s honest-to-god suicidal.
Even minus the suicide, any band whose name purportedly refers to prostitution in the death camps is bound to take home the gold for depressing the hell out of their listeners. This song, whatever horrible thing it may be about (suicide, probably), is depressing to me because it reminds me of having the most absolutely unfestive Thanksgiving dinner of my life. That was fall 2010. I had Thanksgiving at work. Though the food was good, without a doubt, no one wants to have their Turkey Day turkey sitting on a bin of sugar in a windowless kitchen, surrounded by (much as I love ‘em) coworkers who insist on wrapping everything in a tortilla before they’ll eat it, listening to Joy Division. I suppose I could’ve skipped the Joy Division, but somehow it felt like the perfect touch of death-icing on my gloom cake.
*Don’t try to tell me about Elton John’s suicide attempt. He left the gas on – and the window open. Don’t try to tell me he hasn’t got his self-preservation shit together.