Watching Joy Division's performance of their token live song on the BBC2 TV show Something Else on 15 September 1979 (audio file) still makes me regret that I missed out in ever seeing them in concert. Peter Hook starts the song with his simple incredibly cool bass line, Stephen Morris joins in by hitting his drum kit like a devil on speed, a second after that Barney Sumner evolves the main melody on his slightly distorted guitar and finally after a little more than half a minute the personnel is complete when Ian Curtis utters the first word "Radio" in his muffled baritone. And then he delivers the first sentence

which could have been a zen koan with the answer included. The pure energy, the raw power of this song in which the intensity peaks in the second half when Ian moves in his bizarre abrupt way and shouts

does not cease to astound me every time I hear and watch it. You can see the pain he feels on his face, the obsession transmits to the spectator. In the last verse the lines

reflect the physicalness of this song perfectly.

Michka Assayas wrote in his novel Exhibition about attending the phantastic concert at Les Bains Douches in Paris end of 1979 (which fortunately has been recorded and released a couple of years ago). The audience consisted of less than 100 persons (how was it possible?) who hardly didn't react at all to the music. I suppose they were all spellbound. Curtis didn't speak in between songs. He seemed to be penetrated by a sensation of terror. Half a year later he was dead. He had carried out his own transmission with the rope of the clothes rack.

This song has been covered more than ten years ago by a band from Duluth, Minnesota. Their name is Low and I had the pleasure to see them a while ago. They can put on a live show like few other groups. Their music emanates a spirituality, a softness, a warmth which is hard to resist. Yes they have a religious background. They are Mormons. Anyways they made Transmission their own song. They took all the speed, all the frenzy out of it. They sucked it to the bones. Without loosing the intensity. It sounds almost more oppressing in slow-motion than in punk mode. Ian Curtis does not have to turn over in his grave. I would give a lot to listen to him singing the Low version today.

• Lyrics

In the train from work I finished Richard Ford's short story How Was it to be Dead?, a love triangle about a woman and two men. The narrator is her current husband, the other man is her first husband from whom she was never divorced. He had vanished in Vietnam and has reappeared after 30 or so years. When reading

I could not help myself from grinning. And felt alienated by myself immediately after. Not because of the cheesiness of the joke. It suddenly came to my mind how I dislike seeing people smile when reading books in the public space. In general I like smiles as everyone I suppose. But those smiles have to be directed at someone else. Have to be part of a communication. Even the seemingly unmotivated smile of a stranger thinking of a funny situation or the smile out of sheer happiness would belong into this category as they are echoes to a real life experience. Whereas the person with the book disconnects himself from his current environment and smiles in a selfish, masturbatory way which detaches him even more from the people around him. If the young long-haired guy with glasses sitting opposite from me had asked me why I had smiled I would probably think differently about this but this has never happened to me with strangers if I remember well. Neither as smiler nor as watcher of someone smile. Next time I see someone grin with a book in front of him or her I will ask the question. And this post will have served its purpose.