The 500 - #154 - Moanin' at the Moonlight - Howlin' Wolf

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #154
Album Title: Moanin' at the Moonlight

Artist: Howlin' Wolf

Genre: Chicago Blues, Electric Blues

Recorded: Wessex & Air Studios, London, England

Released: July, 1959

My age at release: Not born
How familiar was I with it before this week: Some

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #477, dropping 322 spots
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Smoke Stack Lightning

As I continue this blog series counting down through Rolling Stone magazine’s 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, I still have 153 records left to bring to your attention. Among them are more than 20 albums by artists who were directly shaped by the raw power and deep soul of Howlin’ Wolf -- born Chester Arthur Burnett. In fact, when you scan the full list of 500, nearly 50 albums bear the unmistakable imprint of this American blues legend, whether through direct influence, stylistic echoes, or heartfelt homage. His growling voice, electrifying guitar, and wailing harmonica didn’t just define Chicago blues -- they helped lay the foundation for rock and roll, especially the rise of British rock in the late ‘60s.

As I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, I went through a serious blues phase in my early 20s -- sparked by picking up Crossroads, the massive four-CD Eric Clapton box set. This was pre-internet, so my deep dive into the blues came through liner notes and CD rentals from places like The Software Library and the Western Store on my university campus in London, Ontario.

Before setting out on a solo road trip to Calgary, more than 3,200 kilometers from home, I made a handful of cassette tapes packed with blues tracks. Among them, a heavy dose of Howlin’ Wolf, much of it lifted from a CD I’d rented called The London Howlin’ Wolf Sessions. This was a fortuitous choice. I later learned  this album was a significant piece of music history. It was one of the first true blues “super sessions”, pairing a towering blues legend with some of rock’s most revered second-generation players – Eric Clapton, Steve Winwood, Charlie Watts, and Bill Wyman. It wasn’t just a record; it was a bridge between eras, and it became part of my soundtrack on the open road.

I did not pick up that CD because I understood its legendary importance. It was just one of the half-dozen blues recordings available at those outlets. However, retroactively, I am learning to understand the gravitas of those sessions.

Imagine, if you will:

May 1970. The air inside Olympic Studios is thick with anticipation -- and cigarette smoke. Eric Clapton, already a guitar god, adjusts his amp with a flicker of nervous energy. Ringo Starr behind the drum kit, taps out a rhythm while engineers check levels. Although Bill Wyman and Charlie Watts are unavailable on the first day of recording, the room still buzzes with star power.

Then he arrives

Howlin’ Wolf -- six-foot-six, topping 300 pounds, and every inch a legend -- steps into the studio. Nearly 60, he carries the weight of the blues in his voice, his stance, his very presence. This isn’t just a recording session. It’s a summit. A seismic meeting of generations.

By his side is Hubert Sumlin, his longtime guitarist and musical shadow. He has been flown in at Clapton’s insistence after Chess Records initially balked at covering Sumlin's expenses. Clapton once said he’d give anything to play with Wolf. Now, guitar in hand, he watches his hero take the mic.

The room falls silent.

The tape rolls.

And history begins.

Clapton (left) with Wolf during those May, 1970 London recording sessions.

Moanin’ in the Moonlight is the second of two Howlin’ Wolf albums featured on Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Albums list. Though technically his debut LP, it’s a compilation of 12 singles released between 1951 and 1959. At its heart is Wolf’s most iconic track, Smoke Stack Lightning, a song inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame and widely hailed as one of the greatest blues recordings of all time. Its hypnotic riff and Wolf’s primal vocals have echoed through decades of music, appearing in films, commercials, and countless cover versions.

Many artists on The 500 list have reinterpreted it (The Grateful Dead, The Yardbirds) but one of my personal favorites is the version by Soundgarden, featured on their 1988 debut album Ultramega OK. Their take is gritty, distorted, and full of early grunge energy. Interestingly, while researching this post, I discovered that Chris Cornell later expressed regret about including the cover instead of an original track. (See below.)

Soundgarden's Chris Cornell in an interview about Ultramega OK. 

Howlin' Wolf died in 1975 at the age of 65, which is not surprising for such a large man. As a friend once commented about the relationship between longevity and size: "If you go to an old age home, you'll see a lot of 90-year-old smokers having an afternoon cocktail, but they are all tiny. You don't see a lot of former basketball players and NFL linemen shuffling about".

Howlin’ Wolf left behind a treasure trove of blues recordings -- gritty, powerful, and timeless. His influence echoes through the music of today. And as we head into the final 150 albums on this list, we’ll hear the unmistakable sound of his legacy carried forward by the likes of Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Cream, and The Rolling Stones. These artists didn’t just admire Wolf; they built their sound on the foundation he laid. Their legacy has inspired the current generation of artists, including The White Stripes, Alabama Shakes, St. Vincent, and The Black Keys.

The 500 - #155 - Self Titled (Debut) - The Pretenders

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #155
Album Title: Self-Titled (Debut)

Artist: The Pretenders

Genre: New Wave, Rock, Punk Rock

Recorded: Wessex & Air Studios, London, England

Released: January, 1980

My age at release: 14
How familiar was I with it before this week: Quite

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #152, rising 3 spots
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Precious

In the mid-70s, as I was beginning to chart the course of my musical identity, the female voices that dominated my radio speakers were smooth, melodic, and bathed in a soft-focus glow. Olivia Newton-John sang with a breezy sweetness, and Anne Murray’s voice on Snowbird was maple-syrup smooth. Toni Tennille had a rich, theatrical warmth, while ABBA’s Agnetha and Frida's shimmering harmonies glittered like a disco ball. They were also beautiful, so I didn’t just enjoy their singing, I also felt the tug of prepubescent crushes wrapped in every catchy melody.

Olivia Newton-John, one of my adolescent crushes.

However, as the ‘70s became the ‘80s and my teen-age years arrived, something shifted. Deborah Harry of Blondie exploded on the scene with the hit single Heart of Glass from the record Parallel Lines (#140 on The 500). In 1979, it was Pat Benatar's debut single, Heartbreaker, and her voice was a revelation -- a classically trained mezzo-soprano with the firepower of a rock goddess. Her debut album In the Heat of the Night introduced a vocal style that was both technically precise and emotionally raw. She could soar with operatic clarity one moment and snarl with gritty defiance the next. In both cases, another teen-age crush was formed.

Pat Benatar's debut record, In The Heat Of The Night.

Then, in 1980, the first album from The Pretenders, a British band featuring American singer Chrissie Hynde hit the airwaves. I was immediately taken by the first single I heard on Detroit radio, Brass In Pocket. It was a blend of rock, pop and soul but was also part of the new wave sound that had been crossing over to mainstream audiences in recent years.

When Ms. Harry, Ms. Benatar and Ms. Hynde hit the scene, they didn't just sing -- they commanded attention. They brought grit, attitude and a sense of ownership to their music; their image felt radical. These women weren’t just fronting bands, they were leading them -- writing the songs, shaping the sound, and refusing to be boxed in by industry expectations. They weren’t just eye candy, they were a force. Listening to The Pretenders’ debut album, I remember feeling that shift viscerally. It wasn’t simply a new sound; it was a new stance. Chrissie Hynde didn’t ask for permission to be there. She just was. And that presence -- cool, tough, unapologetically female -- redefined what a woman in rock could be.

The Pretenders, (l-r) James Honeyman-Scott (guitar), Chrissie Hynde (guitar, vocals),

Pete Farndon (bass), and Martin Chambers (drums).

Of course, looking back now, I recognize that this shift I felt so viscerally wasn’t new. It was just new to me. There had already been powerful, ground-breaking women challenging the norms of the music industry long before these ‘70s rockers hit the stage. Artists like Janis Joplin, with her raw, soul-baring vocals, and Patti Smith, who fused poetry with punk and refused to be categorized, were already tearing down walls in the late '60s and early '70s. Grace Slick of Jefferson Airplane brought a fierce, psychedelic edge to rock. Joni Mitchell and Carole King redefined what it meant to be a singer-songwriter, writing deeply personal, complex music that stood on its own artistic merit. Tina Turner, even before her solo resurgence, was a powerhouse performer who brought fire and grit to every stage she stepped on. Collectively, those women, only a few of many I could mention, have nine records on The 500.

Canadian treasure Joni Mitchell, whose album Blue is at #30 on The 500.

The Pretenders were formed in Herefordshire, England, in 1978. Hynde grew up in Akron, Ohio, and was raised on rock and roll radio from the ‘50s and ‘60s. However, she longed for more than a small town in the American midwest could offer. She moved to London in 1973, and became enmeshed in the burgeoning punk scene. She worked as a music journalist with the New Musical Express (NME) Magazine and spent time at Malcom McLaren and Vivien Westwood's fetish boutique SEX.

Westwood and McLaren outside the SEX boutique.

While in London Hynde became entrenched in the "scene" and played guitar for a number of failed bands while being romantically linked to Sex Pistol's members Steve Jones and Sid Vicious, as well as Ray Davies of The Kinks. She nearly joined several bands, including The Damned and The Slits, and even had a failed project with Mick Jones of The Clash. She once joked that she "tried to get a band together for three years and was fired from every one".

Hynde in London, 1977, before The Pretenders.

Eventually, the stars aligned and she connected with the line-up that  became The Pretenders and they began playing locally, while working on songs that were destined to become their debut release.

The Pretenders, performing live.

The group has persisted for nearly 50 years and released 12 studio records, including their most recent, Relentless, in 2013. Hynde has been the only consistent member, although drummer Chambers was only absent between 1986 and 1994. The other original members, Honeyman-Scott and Farndon died in 1982 and 1983 respectively. Both deaths were the result of drug use. Honeyman-Scott suffered heart failure, brought on by cocaine use at age 25. Farndon died at 30, a year later, drowning in a bathtub after a heroin overdose.

Honeyman-Scott gravestone. 

The Pretenders were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2005. Hynde and Chambers continue to perform, with Chrissie not only maintaining her legacy as a rock icon but also as a passionate advocate for animal rights. A committed vegetarian, she was arrested in New York during a protest against the use of Indian leather in Gap products -- a campaign that ultimately led the retailer to halt leather sourcing from India.

This marked a significant victory for behind the shiny consumer façade, many Indian leather supply chains are rooted in exploitative practices. Marginalized workers face inhumane conditions and toxic exposure, while animals endure brutal treatment before slaughter. Hynde’s activism helped draw attention to these unacceptable practises -- and proved that persistent and principled protests can spark real change.

Choosing a track for this week’s addition to The 500 Playlist wasn’t easy. The Pretenders’ debut album is, as a friend recently put it, "a perfect record" and "one I would take with me if I could take only five albums to a deserted island". Another said, this is "on my shortlist for one of my all-time favorite albums. Listened to this one many hundreds of times, and never get sick of it. Perfection."

From their shimmering cover of The Kinks’ Stop Your Sobbing to the surf-rock, sci-fi swagger of Space Invader, to Brass in Pocket (the track that first pulled me into their orbit)-- it’s wall-to-wall contenders. In the end, I landed on Precious, the searing opener with its jagged guitars and Chrissie Hynde’s snarling, no-apologies delivery. It captures everything I love about her style: confrontational, cool, and charged with a magnetism that’s equal parts danger and allure.

The 500 - #156 - Paul's Boutique - Beastie Boys

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #156
Album Title: Paul's Boutique

Artist: Beastie Boys

Genre: Hip Hop, Sampledelia

Recorded: 3 Studios in Los Angeles, U.S.A.

Released: July, 1989

My age at release: 24
How familiar was I with it before this week: Quite

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #125, rising 31 spots
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Shake Your Rump

In January, 1996, I was rumbling alone along a remote Northern Ontario highway in my weathered 1990 Chevrolet Cavalier. To the right, under the quiet gleam of the winter moon, rose the Canadian Shield -- a timeless sweep of granite and snow, like something lifted from a Group of Seven canvas. The earth’s ancient bones jutted through drifts of white, stoic and scarred.

Franklin Carmichael's Mirror Lake (1929).

To the left, glimpses of Lake Superior’s frozen shoreline appeared now and then between dark ranks of boreal pine, each sighting brief but breathtaking. I'd left London, Ontario, the day before and was heading back to Lakehead University in Thunder Bay after the Christmas break – 1,400 kilometers northwest, deeper into winter’s grasp.

A familiar route between my home in Southwestern Ontario to

 Lakehead University

My companion on the long drive wasn’t just the road -- it was the pile of cassette tapes scattered across the passenger seat. Among them were familiar favorites that had seen me through many a stretch of this 15-hour journey: Naveed, the debut from Toronto's Our Lady Peace; Superunknown by Soundgarden; Radiohead’s The Bends; Purple by Stone Temple Pilots; Pearl Jam's Ten; and the soundtrack to Kevin Smith’s slacker cult classic, Mallrats.

But there was one newcomer in the mix -- a cassette I’d borrowed from my Teachers College roommate, Randy. It was Paul’s Boutique by the Beastie Boys, and as I switched from cassette to cassette shortly after passing Wawa, Ontario, I had no idea just how weird, and stressful, the ride was about to get.

Some of my favourite listens from 1995.

As I mentioned in my March 2024 blog post about the Beastie Boys' debut album, Licensed to Ill (#219 on The 500), it took me some time to appreciate the group's clever approach to hip-hop. Initially, I dismissed them as brash, frat-boy rock with a misogynistic edge. But over time, I began to understand their humor and artistry, quietly becoming a fan -- though never to the point of buying their records.

That changed when Randy played Paul's Boutique in the college townhouse we shared with two other Teacher College students, Craig and Brendan. From the first listen, I knew something was different. The band had dramatically evolved their sound, and while I didn’t yet grasp the full extent of their creative journey, I recognized that this was something entirely new -- something that piqued my curiosity.

Beastie Boys (1989) (l-r) Michael "Mike D" Diamond,
Adam "MCA" Yauch, and Adam "Ad-Rock" Horovitz

In the three years since the release of License To Ill, the group had matured. They had moved from New York to Los Angeles, intent on making a record with more creative depth. Paul's Boutique embraced a more sophisticated, sample-heavy production style. They collaborated with production duo The Dust Brothers to create a layered, funk-driven sound. The result was a record that was built around more than 100 music samples, taken from jazz, rock, soul and disco. Their lyrics had evolved too. While Licensed to Ill leaned into juvenile humor and rowdy anthems, Paul’s Boutique showcased more intricate wordplay and storytelling.

The Dust Brothers (l-r) Michael "E.Z. Mike" Simpson
and John "King Gizmo" King in their studio (2005).

I can’t recall which cassette was playing as I piloted my Chevy Cavalier along an isolated stretch of the Trans-Canada Highway near Terrace Bay, Ontario. But I do remember the sudden, unmistakable sound of a flat tire, flapping against the snow-covered asphalt like a rubber death rattle. I pulled over, stepped out into the biting cold, and made my way to the rear. The driver’s side, back tire had blown. With numb fingers, I began emptying the trunk, shifting my belongings, destined for my campus townhouse, just to reach the car jack and spare tire buried underneath. I worked quickly, hoisting the car into position, pausing briefly to breathe warmth onto my frozen fingers.

There is only one thing worse than a flat tire. That’s two simultaneous flat tires, in the dead of night, stranded in winter on a remote Ontario highway. And that was my fate, with two flats on the rear axel of my car. In the 4 a.m. frigid blackness, it was a nightmare scenario. I had only one spare, and it had been a while since a vehicle had passed me. In a time before cell phones, I was stranded, truly alone.

A gray, 1990 Chevrolet Cavalier, similar to the one I owned in 1995.

I lowered the car onto its rims and climbed inside, wrapping myself in the comforting warmth of the cabin. A dozen minutes passed in graveyard silence as I watched snow sweep indifferently across the highway. Suddenly, headlights appeared in the rearview mirror. I stepped out, my hazard lights flashing, desperately hoping to catch the attention of this passing motorist.  A mini-van slowed and pulled onto the shoulder. The passenger window rolled down, and after a brief explanation, I found myself onboard with a family of four and their dog. The children slept soundly in the back while the husband and wife told me they were returning to Edmonton, Alberta, after spending Christmas in Toronto with relatives. A short time later, they dropped me at a Husky Service Station, where, thankfully, I was able to call the Canadian Automobile Association (CAA) to arrange for a tow-truck, my membership proving invaluable.

The Husky Service Station near Nipigon, Ontario.

Relistening to Paul’s Boutique in preparation for this blog tugged me back to that ill-fated, cross-province journey -- a trip I hadn’t mentally revisited in years. The details coalesced into a memory as vivid, as if it had just happened. Funny how music works. No matter how much time passes, the Beastie Boys’ second record remains forever linked to that highway event as if etched into the soundtrack of that frosty and wind-swept stretch of highway.

Looking back, it all feels far less nightmarish than it did in the moment -- less an ordeal and more an unexpected, youthful adventure. As they say, time plus tragedy usually equals a "funny" story, and with enough distance, even the worst frights become tales worth telling.

Addendum
In the summer of 2018, while visiting New York City with my wife, we found ourselves near the corner of Rivington and Ludlow streets, the original location used for the Paul’s Boutique album cover. It was actually a fictional store. The band had hung a sign over an existing clothing shop called Lee’s Sportswear. Excited, I snapped the photo below. It wasn’t until later that I realized I had photographed the wrong corner – the actual location is partially visible to the right, across the street. Doh!

The 500 - #157 - Closer - Joy Division

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #157
Album Title: Closer

Artist: Joy Division

Genre: Post Punk, New Wave, Gothic Rock

Recorded: Britannia Row Studios, Islington, England

Released: July, 1980

My age at release: 15
How familiar was I with it before this week: A little

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #309, dropping 157 spots
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Isolation

It’s easy to forget just how emotionally intense the teen-age years can be. Even after three decades teaching middle schoolers, I can still be caught off guard by young people’s unpredictable mood swings, impulsive decisions, and the waves of angst or apathy that seem to crash over them without warning. Sometimes, it takes a few deep breaths -- or even a good night’s sleep -- to move past the frustration and extend grace to these kids, who are often at the mercy of their hormonal tempests. On days like that, I find solace in music. A record like Closer, the haunting final album from Manchester’s Joy Division, helped me reconnect with the raw emotions that once defined my own adolescence. It reminds me where they’re coming from -- and, in a way, where I came from too.

My teen-age years were steeped in darkness and worry. I cycled through identities like sweaters -- trying each one on, hoping it would fit without itching. Most didn’t. I’d walk the school halls with my ears cloaked by headphones, the music louder than the world around me. Some days, I was defiant in class. I would challenge ideas, naively confident that I’d brilliantly uncovered some truth my English teacher had overlooked -- despite his degrees and decades teaching the same four novels. Other days, I'd sit in silence, brooding and distant, quietly hoping the pretty girl across the room would find something poetic in my storm-cloud demeanor.

Teen-age sleep patterns, we now recognize, are plagued by nightly battles between biology and responsibility, brains hardwired for nocturnal adventures, doomed to morning misery. My interests in literature, humour and media soon became as dark as the bags under my eyes. Nothing was off limits and my fascinations moved from dark, dystopian science fiction to vulgar comedy. One night, I might be rewatching a screening of A Clockwork Orange, The Shining or Eraserhead at our local repertoire cinema and the next I would be riding the bus reading off-colour jokes and biting satire in a National Lampoon magazine.

Despite my penchant for the macabre and the absurd, I was never teetering on the edge of delinquency or genuine darkness -- I had a firm grasp of right and wrong. My fascination with dystopian nightmares, crude humor, and provocative ideas wasn’t a sign of some deep disturbance; it was a performance, a way to carve out an identity that felt sharp, witty, and just rebellious enough to be intriguing. The paperback Truly Tasteless Jokes was also in my arsenal. It was a collection of disturbingly dark jokes designed to provoke laughter, discomfort, or admiration -- sometimes all at once. Because, in the strange social economy of teen-age boys, the ability to shock was its own form of currency, a way to seem cooler, sharper, a little more mysterious than it really was. It wasn’t about corruption; it was about style.

Joy Division were also exploring existential themes at about the same time I was discovering National Lampoon magazines, George Carlin, Redd Foxx and Richard Pryor records, and The Tasteless Jokes Book. The band's members were about ten years older than me and their group emerged from the punk scene in the late 1970s. They formed in Salford, England -- part of the Greater Manchester region -- and, after a few line-up changes, comprised Ian Curtis (vocals), Bernard Sumner (guitar), Peter Hook (bass), and Stephen Morris (drums).

Joy Division (l-r) Morris, Curtis, Sumner, Hook.

Originally, they called themselves Warsaw, a tribute to one of their heroes, David Bowie, and his haunting instrumental song Warszawa from the 1977 record Low (#251 on The 500). However, they changed their name to avoid confusion with a London punk band called The Warsaw Pact. Rather than reverting to their original name, Stiff Kittens, they opted for Joy Division -- a name that, despite sounding upbeat, carried a far darker symbolism. "Joy Division" refers to a inhuman period of World War II history -- the name assigned to groups of women in Nazi concentration camps who were forced into sexual slavery. They were subjected to horrific conditions and brutal exploitation, serving Nazi officers and soldiers at the death camps.

Adult female prisoners were separated from men and sorted
into workforces at Auschwitz camp. Picture from a Daily Mail
article The Auschwitz Brothel.

The band chose their name as a provocative recognition of its atrocious origins. However, their decision to feature a sketch of a Hitler Youth on the cover of their first EP, An Ideal For Living, fueled the controversy, with allegations that the members were Nazi sympathizers.

At that time, Joy Division's music began to change. Their early sound was raw and aggressive, but they evolved into something darker and more atmospheric. Their macabre, gothic sonic aesthetic was shaped by post-punk minimalism and stark production quality. Furthermore, singer Curtis' lyrics became deeply introspective and explored themes of isolation, despair and existential dread.

In part, this was the influence of the books he was reading, which included works from Franz Kafka, Fyodor Dostoevsky and J.G. Ballard. However, Curtis was also struggling with depression and late onset epilepsy -- both exacerbated by his drug and alcohol use. In 1978, Curtis began to experience frequent seizures, which sometimes occurred on stage. The medication he took to manage his affliction had intense side effects, contributing to his struggles with depression and emotional detachment.

Curtis, performing with Joy Division in Rotterdam (1979).

Joy Division's intense touring schedule in late 1979 and early 1980 to support their first album, Unknown Pleasures, was additionally detrimental to Curtis' physical and mental health. Moreover, his marriage to Deborah Woodruff was heading to divorce just a few months after the birth of their daughter, Natalie, in April, 1979. In the early morning hours of May 18, 1980, Curtis took his own life. He was 23.

The group's final record, Closer, was released two months after Curtis' death. It is widely regarded as a post-punk masterpiece and feels like an unsettling farewell from the band's singer and lyricist. His words feel claustrophobic and painfully introspective, with the songs The Eternal and Decades sounding almost funereal, while Isolation and Heart and Soul seem to pulse with a cold, detached energy.

The opening track, Atrocity Exhibition, was based on a book by the same name from English satirist and writer J.G. Ballard. The 1970 novel is a collection of experimental stories that explore themes of violence, media manipulation, and psychological breakdown. Ballard is best known for his novel Crash (1973) about a group of car crash fetishists who are sexually aroused by reenacting famous celebrity vehicular accidents, including those of Jayne Mansfield and James Dean. Crash was made into an Oscar-winning film in 2004 featuring an ensemble cast of Hollywood A Listers -- directed by London, Ontario, native Paul Haggis.

Movie poster for Crash (2004).

Though I was drawn to the macabre and the unsettling in high school, I wasn’t truly immersed in the material.-- I was playing a part, experimenting with identity and testing the boundaries of what seemed dark and clever. Had I paid attention, I probably would have connected deeply with Joy Division’s lyrics, but back then it wasn’t about sincerity -- it was about performance. Ian Curtis, however, wasn’t performing. His struggles were real, woven into every word he sang.

Lyrics from Love Will Tear Us Apart, a non-album single
released in June, 1980 one month after Curtis' suicide.

As a middle-school educator, I need to remind myself that students need more patience and grace, even when they are frustrating me with their choices. Some angsty teens may be slipping into a costume and trying out intense brooding  as a personality. However, Curtis' story reminds me that some may truly be struggling and  patience is required to look beyond the surface and  recognize when the shift into darkness is more than a passing phase or an effort to fit in.