Spending thirty minutes talking to Peter Hook is like his life in microcosm: it’s a wild ride. In nearly thirty years of interviewing people, I don’t think I have ever laughed so much, or been so captured by so many brilliant, funny, sometimes sad stories, in such a brief period.
By Miles Salter
Feature photo by Mark McNulty
Hook was one of four young men who formed Joy Division in 1976. The band’s direct, simple, and otherworldly music would make them one of the most influential outfits to come out of England. They followed this with New Order, the more dance-oriented band that enjoyed acclaim and reward in the 1980s but were unhinged by acrimony (more on this later).
Since 2010, Hook has been captain of his own ship, Peter Hook and The Light, who are set to play Leeds on 29 November 2025. Hook is enthusiastic about Leeds audiences, who have always been rowdy in the best way. ‘Leeds has always had a fantastic audience,’ says Hook. ‘Even though the football rivalries run deep.’ In his youth, Hook worked for the Manchester Ship Canal company, who owned the land where coach loads of football fans would disembark to see Leeds play Manchester United. A lifelong Man U supporter, Hook was bemused by the increase in security whenever Leeds played, in case of trouble. ‘They’d triple the number of coppers at the game,’ he says.
For our conversation, he is nursing a painful shoulder injury, incurred when one of his dogs dived into traffic. Hook rescued the miscreant canines, but in the process had his arm yanked very badly as the dogs went in opposite directions. ‘I was like Jesus on the cross,’ he says. ‘I can’t play and I can’t practice.’ By this time, I am laughing hysterically. If he has an antidote for rock star behaviour, he says it can be found in pet care: ‘I still have to pick up the dog shit.’
Hook’s musical journey took off after seeing The Sex Pistols in 1976 at Manchester’s Lesser Free Trade Hall (tickets were 50p). He’d read about the band in the music press and, tantalised by the chance of uproar, enticed Bernard Sumner to go with him. ‘They have a fight at every gig,’ he told Sumner. ‘We should go down and see this.’ Hook would see the Pistols four times, and the first occasion was memorable, partly for who was in the audience: the future members of Joy Division and New Order, Morrissey (later of The Smiths), Pete Shelley of The Buzzcocks, Mark E Smith of The Fall were all there that night.
Afterwards, Hook and his mates took their first tentative musical steps. Joy Division were formed that year. Hook borrowed £35 from his Mum and bought a bass, which cost £30, but not the case – it would have cost another £5, and he had to get the bus home, so carried the bass in a plastic bag. His Mum never understood his life in music; even when his wealth enabled him to buy her a house, she was still asking ‘Why can’t you get a proper job?’ Hook’s brother is a policeman. As a child, he stuffed cardboard into his shoes, which had holes in them. The family were not well off. These days, he has a lot of shoes.
Joy Division’s career was short, spectacular but doomed. Defiantly themselves, they made music that went against the grain in almost every way. They didn’t make pop music; they weren’t a rock band like Led Zeppelin, but neither were they punk. They were distinctly themselves. The death of singer Ian Curtis, troubled by epilepsy, depression and an erratic love life, brought the band to a vicious halt.
Curtis killed himself in May 1980, the day before Joy Division were due to depart for their first tour of America. In the days before his death, Curtis gave away his possessions. Hook still visits his grave. The precise location of is only known to a small number of people, but, says Hook, ‘I know where he is. It’s very nice to go and see him. I go and tidy the grave up. It’s become more important to me since New Order split.’ Each 18 May, the anniversary of Curtis’ death, his band play a gig in celebration of Joy Division’s music.
New Order followed Joy Division but made music that was more dance oriented. The band included Joy Division’s Hook, Bernard Sumner, and Stephen Morris, plus Gillian Gilbert. Hugely successful in the 1980s, their song Blue Monday is the biggest selling 12” single ever released in the UK. The band were highly successful, but with the adulation came issues.
‘In the 1980s, record companies would bend over backwards to give bands everything they wanted because there was so much money at stake.’ Drugs and booze became part of the story. ‘It’s impossible to resist,’ he says. ‘Peer pressure. Tiredness. Ego.’ Inhis autobiography, Substance, Hook writes ‘Never trust a musician.’ He tells a funny story that bears that out from the early days of Joy Division. The band were booked to play a venue in Preston. When faulty gear meant they weren’t paid, they set upon a freezer they found backstage, kicking the padlock until it broke. ‘We all went home with two frozen chickens each,’ he said. Never trust a musician? ‘They’ll steal anything,’ says Hook. ‘Your wife, your mother…’ (And, perhaps, your frozen chickens.)
Hook’s estrangement from New Order is, he says, ‘one of the sad things that rumbles on.’ Before New Order reformed in 2011, they created a new company, in effect giving Hook 1.25 percent of the takings. This was done behind Hook’s back, and he was not asked to be involved. The bass player remains angry about what happened. ‘They took the trademark,’ he says, explaining that for every pound they make, he gets a penny. ‘I’ll never forgive them for what they did to my family,’ he says. ‘It’s the utmost treachery.’ This is a strong statement, given that a settlement was reached in 2017. Hook has been publicly unwilling to bury the hatchet, saying that ‘New Order are conning their fans.’ He remains bitter about lost revenue from royalties, merchandising and performance fees. Will a reunion ever happen, I ask. ‘Not without a boxing ring being there,’ he says.
The band helped to bankroll the Hacienda, the infamous Manchester nightclub that made its mark in the late 1980s. Hook wrote a book called The Hacienda – How Not To Run A Club. I ask him to tell me a story that sums up those laddish, funny years, and he obliges. ‘Someone tried to steal the safe. It was very old. It must have weighed about two tonnes.’ The safe was found, having been dragged towards the exit of the club. ‘They got it to the door and gave up.’ Paul Mason, the club’s manager, called a meeting and the staff were addressed. ‘Paul said “we’ve been robbed. Who tried to take the safe?” The bouncers looked incredibly shifty. Honestly, it should have been in the film.’ (24 Hour Party People, starring Steve Coogan, told the story of The Hacienda and was released in 2002. Control, Anton Corbijn’s film about Ian Curtis, released five years later, is beautiful but terribly sad.)
The Hacienda eventually closed. Is Hook glad he did it? ‘Absolutely. It was like having your own playground. The Happy Mondays were there, The Stone Roses. Amazing times.’ It wasn’t all fun and games, though – the Hacienda became a focal point for local gangs. In January 1991, a member of the club’s security team was threatened with a machine gun, and the following month the club temporarily closed its doors while the organisers entered discussions with police. When local magistrates and police visited the club in 1997, they witnessed an 18-year-old male outside the club beaten with a metal bar and pushed in front of an oncoming car. That year, the club closed for good.
1997 was a tumultuous year for Hook – his marriage to comedian and writer Caroline Aherne ended. Aherne is remembered with huge affection by those who knew her. I recently watched a documentary that paid tribute to the Mrs Merton and Royle Family star, with everyone saying lovely things about the comedian, but she clearly had her demons. In Substance, published in 2016, Hook wrote about their violent relationship: Aherne would attack him physically and emotionally. He believes the relationship led to his clinical depression. He wrote: ‘I was an abused husband and it’s embarrassing, and you feel ashamed, and you can’t tell anyone. I needed help.’
Hook and Aherne split after a terrible row, during which he was terrified that Aherne was going to stab him. The following morning, she left their Didsbury home. In his book, Hook claims she said, ‘I’m leaving, I’m going to kill you if I don’t.’ When I ask Hook about Aherne, he offers a balanced retrospective. ‘She could be hilarious; she could be absolutely fascinating. She was very generous, but her drinking was out of control…’
Hook has met lots of slightly unhinged creatives, but says ‘comedians are the worst… they’re very alone. Caroline could be very toxic and very dangerous.’ Asked about Aherne’s childhood, Hook will not offer details, but hints there were elements that contributed to Aherne’s difficulties. Patrick Aherne, Caroline’s brother, was appalled by Hook’s revelations.
Hook’s life has been extraordinarily colourful. At 69, he says he feels better than he has for a long time (he’s clean these days). I wonder if he feels like a survivor. In a recent interview, he said ‘I do realize that the grim reaper is loitering, shall we say, round my stage door.’ Numerous colleagues and friends have gone – Curtis, Aherne, music associates Tony Wilson and Rob Gretton – but Hook is still standing. Is he in therapy? ‘Every day is a therapy day,’ he says. It’s not quite a straight answer, but, perhaps like other things he has told me, it’s halfway there.
Peter Hook and The Light play O2 Academy, Leeds on Saturday, 29 November 2025. Tickets are available here.
Miles Salter is a writer and musician based in York. He fronts the band Miles and The Chain Gang.
