A La Mode Again
[The Observer, 16th October 2005. Words: Kitty Empire. Picture: Uncredited.]
It is not often that a band lives long enough to see their early sound come back into fashion. But after 20 years, Depeche Mode are Eighties synth-pop's leather-veined survivors. The threesome (formerly a foursome) easily conquered the US in the Eighties and Nineties with songs that married religious imagery with purgatorial electronic music.
In the process, they earned all the hits, tattoos, nasty drug habits and inter-band tensions that come with that kind of superstardom. They influenced pretty much anyone who made electronic music after them, most audibly the Pet Shop Boys.
Now, with Eighties synth-pop once again a leitmotif in rock, Depeche Mode have reconvened. Few expected them to do so after Exciter, their so-so album of 2001, quickly spawned a tetchy solo album each from singer Dave Gahan and songwriter Martin Gore.
The band looked as if they might finally peter out altogether, having lost their keyboard player, Alan Wilder, in 1995. The following year, they nearly lost Gahan to a cocktail of heroin and cocaine that left him clinically dead for a while.
Instead, Playing the Angel finds Gahan, Gore and Andy Fletcher refreshed and keen to make a racket.
One of the thorniest issues in the band's internal politics throughout the long stadium years was singer Gahan's determination to join Gore as a songwriter, much in the same way that Gore had always sung a track or two on every Depeche Mode album. With a solo album out of his system, the singer finally got his way, with Gahan penning three of the album's 12 tracks. [1]
One of them is actually the best track on the album, 'Nothing's Impossible'. It's a simple song of dour hope, strafed by dissonant effects, but always anchored to a thoroughly Modeish skulking melody. The bittersweet lyrics suggest a love song, but lines such as 'How did we get this far apart?' could apply equally to the ructions within the band. If therapist Phil Towle ever wanted another rock'n'roll job after taking on Metallica (the subject of the recent rock-doc Some Kind of Monster), he could do worse than address the passive-aggressive stiff upper lips of Depeche Mode.
The rest of the album swings back and forth, impressing, then depressing. Martin Gore's favourite muse - guilt - is especially keenly felt here, as he recently went through a painful divorce. There is no faulting this record's rumbustious sound design, either, punched up by producer Ben Hiller. He contributed the large helping of groaning analogue synths that flesh out the Mode's pulsating electronics and itchy digitals.
The album opens on a musical howl of alarm; but this wailing wall of sound unfortunately occasionally drowns out Depeche Mode's flair for melody, the enduring synth-pop ace in their electronic rock pack.
If anything, there is perhaps a little too much music on some of these tracks. Songs such as 'The Sinner in Me' linger too long, nudged from their line by extraneous countermelodies, middle eights, pre-choruses and portentous bits. Depeche Mode's most satisfying songs have usually been their most direct. Those ranks are swelled by the murky gothic swing of 'John the Revelator'. It's not a straight cover of the country-blues standard, but it lets rip in a way little else does. [2]
The existence of a greater number of songs as simple as 'Precious' would have just tipped the balance in bringing Depeche Mode back into contention as bona-fide pop heroes. As it is, they're content to play to their gallery, an exceptionally loyal multitude who will lap up even Depeche Mode's more pretentious workouts (such as 'Macro').
They have come a long way from the keyboard pop of 20 years ago, but you can't help feeling that if someone taped up nine of Martin Gore's fingers, leaving him only one to play with, they might have made a truly excellent album.
[The Observer, 16th October 2005. Words: Kitty Empire. Picture: Uncredited.]
It is not often that a band lives long enough to see their early sound come back into fashion. But after 20 years, Depeche Mode are Eighties synth-pop's leather-veined survivors. The threesome (formerly a foursome) easily conquered the US in the Eighties and Nineties with songs that married religious imagery with purgatorial electronic music.
In the process, they earned all the hits, tattoos, nasty drug habits and inter-band tensions that come with that kind of superstardom. They influenced pretty much anyone who made electronic music after them, most audibly the Pet Shop Boys.
Now, with Eighties synth-pop once again a leitmotif in rock, Depeche Mode have reconvened. Few expected them to do so after Exciter, their so-so album of 2001, quickly spawned a tetchy solo album each from singer Dave Gahan and songwriter Martin Gore.
The band looked as if they might finally peter out altogether, having lost their keyboard player, Alan Wilder, in 1995. The following year, they nearly lost Gahan to a cocktail of heroin and cocaine that left him clinically dead for a while.
Instead, Playing the Angel finds Gahan, Gore and Andy Fletcher refreshed and keen to make a racket.
One of the thorniest issues in the band's internal politics throughout the long stadium years was singer Gahan's determination to join Gore as a songwriter, much in the same way that Gore had always sung a track or two on every Depeche Mode album. With a solo album out of his system, the singer finally got his way, with Gahan penning three of the album's 12 tracks. [1]
One of them is actually the best track on the album, 'Nothing's Impossible'. It's a simple song of dour hope, strafed by dissonant effects, but always anchored to a thoroughly Modeish skulking melody. The bittersweet lyrics suggest a love song, but lines such as 'How did we get this far apart?' could apply equally to the ructions within the band. If therapist Phil Towle ever wanted another rock'n'roll job after taking on Metallica (the subject of the recent rock-doc Some Kind of Monster), he could do worse than address the passive-aggressive stiff upper lips of Depeche Mode.
The rest of the album swings back and forth, impressing, then depressing. Martin Gore's favourite muse - guilt - is especially keenly felt here, as he recently went through a painful divorce. There is no faulting this record's rumbustious sound design, either, punched up by producer Ben Hiller. He contributed the large helping of groaning analogue synths that flesh out the Mode's pulsating electronics and itchy digitals.
The album opens on a musical howl of alarm; but this wailing wall of sound unfortunately occasionally drowns out Depeche Mode's flair for melody, the enduring synth-pop ace in their electronic rock pack.
If anything, there is perhaps a little too much music on some of these tracks. Songs such as 'The Sinner in Me' linger too long, nudged from their line by extraneous countermelodies, middle eights, pre-choruses and portentous bits. Depeche Mode's most satisfying songs have usually been their most direct. Those ranks are swelled by the murky gothic swing of 'John the Revelator'. It's not a straight cover of the country-blues standard, but it lets rip in a way little else does. [2]
The existence of a greater number of songs as simple as 'Precious' would have just tipped the balance in bringing Depeche Mode back into contention as bona-fide pop heroes. As it is, they're content to play to their gallery, an exceptionally loyal multitude who will lap up even Depeche Mode's more pretentious workouts (such as 'Macro').
They have come a long way from the keyboard pop of 20 years ago, but you can't help feeling that if someone taped up nine of Martin Gore's fingers, leaving him only one to play with, they might have made a truly excellent album.