The Haçienda Read online

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2009

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Peter Hook 2009

  Endpapers © Ben Kelly

  This book is copyright under the Berne convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Peter Hook to be identified as the author of this work

  has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  Every reasonable effort has been made to contact copyright holders

  of material reproduced in this book.If any have inadvertently been overlooked,

  the publishers would be glad to hear from them and make good in future

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-84737-135-5

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-84737-847-7

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

  Dedicated, with love, to my mother, Irene Hook

  Rest in Peace:

  Ian Curtis, Martin Hannett, Rob Gretton, Tony Wilson and Ruth Polsky,

  without whom the Haçienda would not have been built

  The Guilty Parties

  Foreword

  Prologue

  1980

  1981

  1982

  1983

  1984

  1985

  1986

  1987

  1988

  1989

  1990

  1991

  1992

  1993

  1994–1996

  1997

  Epilogue

  Postscript

  Acknowledgements

  Bibliography

  Index

  It was always going to be a problem.

  In fact, when it was suggested by Claude Flowers that I write my Haçienda memoirs in 2003, the first thing that came to mind was that famous quote about the sixties. How if you remember them then you weren’t really there. That’s how I felt about the Hac.

  So, I was going to need a bit of help, and putting this book together has been a lot of a combined effort. It was Claude who got the ball rolling and prompted me to remember a lot of stuff I thought I’d forgotten, while Andrew Holmes provided those very important ‘in between bits’and sorted out all the paperwork.

  Anything you like, I’ll take the credit for. Anything you don’t, blame them.

  Hooky

  What a fuck up we made of it.

  Or did we? Sitting here now, I wonder. It’s 2009 and the Haçienda has never been more well known. Still doesn’t make any money, though; no change there then. This year we celebrate twenty-one years of acid house; we are holding Haçienda nights all across the UK and now have merchandise deals for CDs, T-shirts, shoes, postcards, posters, a bespoke bike frame, even a fine-art project with Ben Kelly, for God’s sake. Where will it end?

  It looks as though our manager Rob Gretton was right about the Haçienda, just as he was at Ian Curtis’s wake when he told us, ‘Joy Division will be huge in ten years’ time.’ It wasn’t much solace at that particular moment but he was spot on: Joy Division were huge in ten years;also in twenty and thirty years.Still are.A great testament to the music.

  Then, when the Haçienda was going bankrupt – voluntarily, I might add – he said we needed to buy all the names from the receiver.

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘They’ll be worth something in the future.’

  ‘No chance,’ I thought. ‘Who cares?’ I was sick of it.

  He cared. No one else was interested so I gave him the money to buy them. Since then it’s been a long, hard process of tying up the loose ends. A never-ending stream of registrations and legal fees. Battles with bootleggers. But we got there in the end. Now, hopefully, we can enjoy the fruit of our labours . . .

  But I need to tell you the story first, don’t I? I need to tell you how the Haçienda changed the shape of clubbing in England. Where it all went wrong, and how what should have been a dream come true became a cautionary tale.

  And what a story it is. Because while there’s a lot about the Haçienda that shouldn’t be glorified – the gangsters, the drugs, the violence, the cops – there’s also the stuff of legend: the fact that it was a superclub before the term had even been invented; that it was the birthplace of acid house in the north and the home of Madchester,two musical movements that went round the world; that it was the scene of too many great nights and gigs to recall – not that you were in any state to do so.

  When the Haçienda opened,Factory and New Order had no experience running a commercial enterprise; we just invested our money and trusted the staff, mostly our friends, to sort everything out. Bad idea. Your friends are your friends not because they’re good at business. But we learned that the hard way.We learned everything the hard way.

  At first the band didn’t have much to do with it; in fact, for the first few years, I didn’t even use my connection with the Haçienda on a social level let alone get involved in the business side of things. I never felt involved with it, to be honest. I got free entry and that was about it (some members of the band couldn’t even manage that sometimes); so even though I had this club – this huge club costing me a fortune – I was reluctant to go, and certainly didn’t feel like it was mine any more than a punter would. None of us did. But, as the problems mounted, we had to get more and more involved, until by 1988 I was helping to run it. By that time the mess was too big for anyone to fix.

  And I was into it too far to get out.

  As my accountant likes to tell me, I won’t appreciate how much cash the Haçienda lost until I stop earning money.

  ‘Then,’ he says, ‘it’ll hit you like a juggernaut.’

  We once worked out that, from the time it opened in 1982 to when it closed in 1997, each punter through the door cost us £10. We wasted that much through bad management and sheer stupidity. As far as we were concerned it was history we were making,not money.But if I’m ever skint I’ll walk around Manchester asking everyone to give me my tenner back.

  I’ll split it with the rest of them, honest.

  Beyond that, though, I’ll never truly know how much money we lost on the Haçienda because our record label,Factory,New Order’s partner in the club,never accounted to the band,ever:no one has ever told us how many records we sold in England or around the world.

  So Tony Wilson,who owned Factory,wouldn’t say,‘New Order just sold 100,000 albums in China, here’s your cut of the profits.’ Instead, the way it worked was that Rob would collect royalties by walking in and demanding cash off him. If Tony had money, he’d give it to him; if he didn’t, he’d tell Rob to fuck off. That was how they ran it. With our approval, I should add. It was chaos, punk, anarchy and we loved it.

  Well, back then we did. Now, of course, it just seems like a good old-fashioned mess. Because not only were we never told how much we’d earned, but also we weren’t told how much we’d invested in the club, either, so we can’t know for certain how much of our earnings were used to keep the Haçienda afloat. It was clearly a huge fuck-up, but one we’ll never be able to gauge the true scale of.

  As my mother Irene used to say, God rest her soul, ‘You’ll never get into trouble if you tell the truth, our Peter.’ Let’s see if s
he’s right. This book is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  As I remember it.

  Hooky, 2009

  It’s eleven o’clock Saturday morning and I’m well up for it. Tonight’s going to be a big night for me. I’m doing the door in my own nightclub, the Haçienda: the biggest, wildest place in Manchester, in England and possibly the world. Where everything happens and anyone who’s anyone goes to do it.

  The reason I’m working the door? We’ve had a lot of trouble.

  We always have trouble, of course, but complaints against the doormen have reached an all-time high. The management say they’re on the take and that they’re worse than the gangs. The police say they’re worse than the gangs. Even the gangs are saying they’re worse than the gangs ...

  Meanwhile, the punters are unhappy, too, and there’s been a growing number of complaints from women. Violence against male punters isn’t exactly unheard of, but now they’re saying that girls are on the receiving end as well. A couple have been slapped, one punched, one beaten up,and we’ve had a few women alleging that what started as a ‘drug search’ ended with a bouncer’s hand down their knickers.

  I guess that’s really what’s made me take action and why it’s different from all the previous moaning about the doormen: these complaints have come from girls.

  Talking about it to our head doorman, Paul Carroll, he brushed it off: ‘You can just as easily be stabbed or shot by a woman as a man, Hooky. And anyway, if you’re so fucking clever, why don’t you come and do the door?’

  ‘Right, right,’ I said, ‘I will. Saturday. You’re on. You can rest easy now, Paul. I’ll be in charge!’

  Fucking hell. Me and my big mouth.

  I get the kids ready to take back to their mam’s house. One of the only good things about being a single parent, you always have a babysitter for your nights out. It’s unusual for me to go on a Saturday, though. I’m more of a Friday person myself: I prefer the music. Saturdays at the

  Haçienda tend to be a bit too dressed-up for me,both sartorially and musically. But tonight I’ll make an exception.

  I phone my mate Twinny and arrange to meet him in the Swan in Salford about one p.m. ‘Get stocked up,’ he says, ‘and I’ll bring the little fellas.’

  Dutifully I phone my friend in Chorlton and arrange a couple of Gs of Colombia’s finest for later.

  Now, what does one wear to do the door? Hmm.

  Black?

  Too formal.

  Something casual?

  No authority.

  I know, the linen look: Armani suit, white shirt, brown loafers – my summer 1991 outfit.Sorted.

  God, I’m excited. Scared, mainly. It’s amazing how fucking dangerous the door can be, from roaming hordes of Leeds stag-nighters to gangsters demanding respect by not paying and scores being settled both on the way in and on the way out. It all happens on the door.

  I get ready, shower and dress. My mate Rex brings me a glass of milk. He’s an old Joy Division follower,from when he was fourteen.It was he who tested our flight cases, by which I mean we’d lock him in one and roll it down five flights of stairs. He’s ended up homeless for a while, so he’s living with me and engineering in my studio for me too.

  ‘Best to line your stomach for later,’ he says in his strong Blackburn/Chorley accent.

  He’s a good lad.

  So, at last I’m ready. Phone the cab, do a cheeky line of speed and off I go. Man, these Withington cabs stink; I’m worried about my suit already. I stop off at my friend Wendy’s house to collect. God bless her, nice to see her. She’s a lovely lady. We chat for a while, she does me a sample and I’m off again.

  Salford, here I come. Home sweet home. The Swan is an old pub on Eccles New Road opposite Weaste bus depot, an area I’ve hung around my whole life. I was born in Ordsall and grew up there; when we formed the band in 1976 we used to practise upstairs at the Swan – it cost us 50p each, as long as we bought a pie and a pint. That was just before we got our drummer, Steve. Then Ian moved back to Macclesfield and we mainly practised there.

  That room above the Swan is still there, exactly the same. The pictures on the wall have been taken but the fag smoke has framed them perfectly forever.It’s very weird seeing it.I go up every now and then – if I’m melancholic about how Joy Division ended up, or pissed off with New Order. Reduces me to tears sometimes.

  But not today. Today I’m buzzing.

  I walk into the pub. Twinny’s already here and he’s with Cormac, Beckett and Jim Beswick, who gets the first pint. A nice tradition: you never pay for your first drink. Well, it’s only fair as I’ll be paying for them all in the club later.

  There’s an electricity about the place. It’s just a normal, shitty, working-man’s pub but it seems too alive today. What’s going on? I look around to see what’s happening. There’s a crowd in the snug – unusual for one in the afternoon.

  ‘Ah,’ Twinny laughs. ‘It’s the Salford lot . . .’

  Turns out a bunch of the younger gang members had recognized two ‘dealers’ as undercover cops – a man and a woman posing as a couple – and arranged to meet them here, away from prying eyes, to quietly do a ‘deal’. Then a team of armed gangsters had turned up and hemmed the coppers in.

  I go over and have a look. Trapped like mice tormented by a cat, the poor bastards are pinned in the corner being made to smoke a joint while someone else chops out a line of whizz for them, insisting that they take one each. Fuck, what a joke. Seems they’d been recognized from court and there you go: some light entertainment for the afternoon. Fuckin’ hell. Half an hour later the coppers are being sent on their way, stoned, whizzing, with a kick up the arse. See you.

  We settle down to an afternoon’s hard drinking. Two more pints and I’m feeling very brave about later.

  ‘There are problems at the Haçienda,’ I tell the lads. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of it,sort it out.’

  The lads are laughing. The afternoon passes in a haze of dope smoke, beer and prawns from the market. ‘Rhythm is a Dancer’ on repeat. Beckett almost sells a car he’s got outside but ends up having a fight with a prospective customer who’s over-revving the engine. He even gets in the guy’s car and screws that, too. Hilarious. As daylight fades, I’m offered everything from racing bikes to CDs, washing machines, fags, sweets and holidays in Turkey . . . Fuck, it’s endless. And before you know it it’s nine p.m. Time for work. The lads go home to get changed while I head for the Haç.

  Manchester’s buzzing now.Loads of people everywhere.God,I love this city. I’m so proud to be part of its heritage. As I round Deansgate and head up Whitworth Street I can hear the bass drum from our sound system, the one I helped to build. I love the way it makes the Haçienda’s windows rattle. Who’d have windows in a nightclub? Us. Yes, fucking twelve of them, all rattling away like a manic mullah calling us to worship.

  I step out of the car. What, no red carpet?

  ‘Where have you been, cunt?’ asks Paul Carroll.

  Charming. I walk inside, towards the bar, get in the corner. I work out an arrangement with Anton, the bar manager, where he’ll bring me a treble vodka and orange every twenty minutes. A Special. I neck the first one. Then go to the door. Right, bring it on.

  I check the regular doormen: Damien Noonan, Pete Hay, Stav, several others I know to nod to. Good lads. They’re smiling. Why are they smiling?

  Because fuck this is boring. I’m whizzing me tits off. It’s very slow between nine and eleven p.m.,just a few trying to get the cheap ‘before ten thirty’admission,but we’re sold out – always are.We’ve sold 2000 tickets in advance at our bar, Dry, earning us a £2 premium on each. (Don’t tell the licensing, ha ha: we’re only meant to hold 1400.)

  Then, as we near eleven p.m., there’s a definite change of atmosphere. It becomes more intense, hectic, like things are about to spin out of control.Suddenly everyone’s rushing,shouting,wide-eyed.The pubs are closing and they all want to get in before the queues f
orm. Our bouncers are good, working well, recognizing a few teams as small-time gang members and refusing them entry,no trouble.A couple of drunks are sent on their way with a slap.

  ‘This is going well,’ I think sipping my third drink, watching someone arguing about the guest-list. He’s claiming to be Barney’s brother; there’ll be maybe five or six brothers and sisters for each member of New Order coming every night.This one gets knocked back and slinks off with his tail between his legs.

  Then it happens.

  One of the doormen is talking to a mate. I’m watching, and suddenly his mate disappears. He’s collapsed. It goes off like the Wild West: he’s been poleaxed, stabbed in the head. The guilty little fucker’s run off down Whitworth Street before our lads can do anything. The doorman cradles his mate’s bleeding head in his hands.

  ‘John. John ...’

  Fucking hell. But then he’s up and OK. Shit.

  Another Special comes my way. I grab Anton and say, ‘Better change that to every ten minutes,mate.’

  My heart’s pounding.Then it goes off again.One of the older Salford lot is arguing about paying the £2 guest-list that we have to charge in order to keep the licence.He’s got one of the very well-known Salford girls with him and it’s going off royal. Damien is shouting, then they’re all shouting. Fuck me. Suddenly two lads from a rival gang take the hump at being refused and kick off. They’re turfed out but retaliate by throwing bottles at the door. Our doormen give chase and catch them on the pool-hall steps,unfortunately for them.It took me a while to realize that there are two sorts of bouncers:the big,muscly ones we all know and love; and the little ones built entirely for speed, like cheetahs and lions.

  But fuck me. I’ve had enough of this.

  I check my watch. It’s ten forty-five. Paul Carroll and Damien are laughing their bollocks off as I skulk away, tail between my legs.

  Welcome to the Haçienda.

  I slide in through the famous doors, with their number 51 cut into them, wipe my feet on the ‘51’ mats. The place is packed now. Throbbing.Nearly full.Do I know everyone in here? Suppose I do.