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Macclesfield Crematory
Closer to Ian Curtis Trip to Macclesfield And again I must ask myself. Is it weird to visit the grave of someone you don’t even know? It seems like a lot of people find it difficult to understand and explanations are hard to be put into words without sounding sappy. To me, it’s simply an act of paying gratitude or tribute to someone who means something to you. If we honour those who were close to us in person why not those who were with us when no one else, no one real could have been. There are times that require more than someone who listens, gives advice, distracts you or brings you pizza. It takes someone who understands. Not in the compassionate sense of the word but in the very fact that the person has gone through something similar or shares your opinion on something. This doesn’t apply to feelings of sadness only, it can mean all kinds of things. Futile ideas, worlddefining morals, incisive experiences. The times, when literal proof only can make us feel understood, because the words or stories we need can only be found in song lyrics or books. Sometimes we come across them at exactly the right time. At that moment, music or literature changes our lives. As dramatic as it sounds, it couldn’t be more true. It’s one thing to get lost in stories that take you to other countries, centuries and moods. If a book makes you angry we admire the author’s skill. When a person does, we find it upsetting. There’s something exhilirating in getting caught up in words so much that they can have an actual effect on your emotions, it’s comforting and inspiring.
So here I am on a train to Macclesfield - hometown and place of death of Ian Curtis, singer and lyricist of Joy Division. Due to lack of preparation in terms of a map or general clue where I have to go, I seek the closest pub to ask for directions. It is St. Patricks day and as I enter, I am immediately offered help by good-humoured people in funny hats. A little too much help. Instead of explaining where I have to go they insist on my destination - which later turned out to be about a 30 minute walk - to be too vast a distance to be reached by foot. I am practically forced to accept £4 for a cab by one of the customers, the kind of honest offer you can’t decline without it being taken as crude insult. I am then warned that if they catch me aimlessly walking any street of Macclesfield that day - I shall be in severe trouble. Given no choice but to abide by their instructions I arrive at the graveyard one shamefully short cab drive later. Despite all my sketchy planning I find myself walking up to the grave in no time. Just then Love Will Tear Us Apart comes up on my mp3 player. I think the last time my tear ducts were put to the test like this was during The Lion King. Gifts, keepsakes, and letters by others cover the barely big enough tombstone. Looking at them, that odd feeling of companionship kicks back in. That poignant insight into something you already know. That music and everything it involves changes lives and people’s way of thinking, it can change the way we dress, places we go to and who we meet, it inspires our artwork, provokes views and give us something to hold onto when the real things in our lives feel brittle.