Depeche Mode - Birmingham Odeon
[Melody Maker, 23rd October 1982. Words: Simon Scott.]
Some people reckon that Gary Numan has a lot to answer for. Some even feel it might be worth remobilising the Task Force to prevent his re-entry to this country. Almost single-handedly he made computer printouts designed as pop songs fashionable.
The problem is, no-one told him that the style went out a long time ago. No-one told Depeche Mode either.
Their saving grace used to be the occasional sublime catchy pop tune such as “New Life” and “Just Can’t Get Enough”. These were just about enough to keep people hoping that somewhere, Depeche Mode may have something worthwhile to contribute. Those days are long gone, and Depeche Mode are busy hammering the final nails in the coffin of android pop, by taking it on the road.
If you use a Revox as a rhythm section, immediately the format is restricted in terms of timing, starting and stopping, and simple dynamics. These problems can be overcome by very strong material, good vocals, and clever visuals. Depeche Mode have dispensed with all of these, and that only hastens their demise as a credible live act.
There must be a concept somewhere, it’s the only explanation for the half-completed, or even half dismantled repertory theatre stage set that framed the motionless figures and their banks of keyboards. The light show was equally uninteresting, an attempt at severity and sombre mood was conveyed by three different colours in six scintillating permutations.
As for the actual music, the people on stage whose job it was to improvise over the taped backing simply plinked and plonked away using one of three basic tones, each one reminiscent of the light and shade you can achieve with some old piano strings and a ping pong ball. Giving synthesizers to Depeche Mode and expecting them to realise their potential is rather like leaving a home computer on the table at a chimps' tea party.
The only thing that kept me awake was the occasional light relief when one of the old hit singles was given a grinding run through. They may have lost all their original wit and sparkles, but it did remind me of how good this band used to be. The remainder of the set was large chunks of their new album, a directionless mishmash of old Ultravox riffs and gregorian chant vocals.
This was the first of two sold-out nights at Birmingham, so they must be doing something right, and I must be missing what it is. Whatever it is that makes people shell out hard-earned money to watch this band, in pursuit of enjoyment, is totally lost on me. By the way, which one’s Vince Clarke?
[Melody Maker, 23rd October 1982. Words: Simon Scott.]
Some people reckon that Gary Numan has a lot to answer for. Some even feel it might be worth remobilising the Task Force to prevent his re-entry to this country. Almost single-handedly he made computer printouts designed as pop songs fashionable.
The problem is, no-one told him that the style went out a long time ago. No-one told Depeche Mode either.
Their saving grace used to be the occasional sublime catchy pop tune such as “New Life” and “Just Can’t Get Enough”. These were just about enough to keep people hoping that somewhere, Depeche Mode may have something worthwhile to contribute. Those days are long gone, and Depeche Mode are busy hammering the final nails in the coffin of android pop, by taking it on the road.
If you use a Revox as a rhythm section, immediately the format is restricted in terms of timing, starting and stopping, and simple dynamics. These problems can be overcome by very strong material, good vocals, and clever visuals. Depeche Mode have dispensed with all of these, and that only hastens their demise as a credible live act.
There must be a concept somewhere, it’s the only explanation for the half-completed, or even half dismantled repertory theatre stage set that framed the motionless figures and their banks of keyboards. The light show was equally uninteresting, an attempt at severity and sombre mood was conveyed by three different colours in six scintillating permutations.
As for the actual music, the people on stage whose job it was to improvise over the taped backing simply plinked and plonked away using one of three basic tones, each one reminiscent of the light and shade you can achieve with some old piano strings and a ping pong ball. Giving synthesizers to Depeche Mode and expecting them to realise their potential is rather like leaving a home computer on the table at a chimps' tea party.
The only thing that kept me awake was the occasional light relief when one of the old hit singles was given a grinding run through. They may have lost all their original wit and sparkles, but it did remind me of how good this band used to be. The remainder of the set was large chunks of their new album, a directionless mishmash of old Ultravox riffs and gregorian chant vocals.
This was the first of two sold-out nights at Birmingham, so they must be doing something right, and I must be missing what it is. Whatever it is that makes people shell out hard-earned money to watch this band, in pursuit of enjoyment, is totally lost on me. By the way, which one’s Vince Clarke?
