Depeche Mode, Wembley Arena, London
[Melody Maker, date unknown, 1998. Words: Carl Loben. Picture: Stephen Sweet.]
DEPECHE MODE
Wembley Arena, London
Cited by many electronica artists as an early influence, Depeche Mode began life as chirpy synth-poppers in the early Eighties before moving into superb clangers of scrap metal for their third album. Then they went all industrial, got huuuuuge, and their singer got himself a heroin habit. It’s a soddin’ shame they’re now such pants.
Dave Gahan’s clean now, of course, although with his addiction has gone much of Depeche’s latterday appeal. Indeed, but for the tattoos, he’s again resembling the suburban geek who first wiggled his stuff on “TOTP” all those years ago – complete with snooker player’s mullet [1] and Top Man waistcoat. It’s a sanitised, Sierra-driving Depeche Mode who are out on this “Singles 1986-98” tour, and all the more disappointing for it.
They’ve got groovy gospel backing singers, though, and some massively kitsch “DM” light bulbs that blind with every power chord. And the personal questing is still prevalent on the somewhat glib “[Only When I] Lose Myself” (“Only when I lose myself in someone else / Do I find myself” [sic]) and a neo-gothic “Question Of Lust”. Some of these songs trawl the darkest recesses of despair, so it’s fairly incongruous to have a prancing, smiling Gahan relaying them so cheerfully. [2]
Those arm-waving to “Walking In My Shoes” recall a load of Blair-ites at a rally, but after some interminable, pseudo-religious dross about redemption and condemnation (err, “Condemnation”) [3] it’s a relief to be perked up by “All I Ever Wanted” [sic]. This is vintage Depeche – buoyant, thought-provoking, soulful. That Gahan delivers it while making like a constipated angle-poise lamp suddenly doesn’t matter. [4]
When they follow it with one of their finest, “Personal Jesus”, all is nearly forgiven. But they do that obvious there’ll-be-an-encore thing, and come back with some right old cack. Former perv Martin Gore, now in Bacofoil trousers, does an embarrassing ballad (“Somebody”), “Stripped” is skagged-out slop. Only a revelatory “I Feel You” and a triumphant “I Just Can’t Get Enough” [sic] make you wish they hadn’t split a good few years ago.
[Melody Maker, date unknown, 1998. Words: Carl Loben. Picture: Stephen Sweet.]
DEPECHE MODE
Wembley Arena, London
Cited by many electronica artists as an early influence, Depeche Mode began life as chirpy synth-poppers in the early Eighties before moving into superb clangers of scrap metal for their third album. Then they went all industrial, got huuuuuge, and their singer got himself a heroin habit. It’s a soddin’ shame they’re now such pants.
Dave Gahan’s clean now, of course, although with his addiction has gone much of Depeche’s latterday appeal. Indeed, but for the tattoos, he’s again resembling the suburban geek who first wiggled his stuff on “TOTP” all those years ago – complete with snooker player’s mullet [1] and Top Man waistcoat. It’s a sanitised, Sierra-driving Depeche Mode who are out on this “Singles 1986-98” tour, and all the more disappointing for it.
They’ve got groovy gospel backing singers, though, and some massively kitsch “DM” light bulbs that blind with every power chord. And the personal questing is still prevalent on the somewhat glib “[Only When I] Lose Myself” (“Only when I lose myself in someone else / Do I find myself” [sic]) and a neo-gothic “Question Of Lust”. Some of these songs trawl the darkest recesses of despair, so it’s fairly incongruous to have a prancing, smiling Gahan relaying them so cheerfully. [2]
Those arm-waving to “Walking In My Shoes” recall a load of Blair-ites at a rally, but after some interminable, pseudo-religious dross about redemption and condemnation (err, “Condemnation”) [3] it’s a relief to be perked up by “All I Ever Wanted” [sic]. This is vintage Depeche – buoyant, thought-provoking, soulful. That Gahan delivers it while making like a constipated angle-poise lamp suddenly doesn’t matter. [4]
When they follow it with one of their finest, “Personal Jesus”, all is nearly forgiven. But they do that obvious there’ll-be-an-encore thing, and come back with some right old cack. Former perv Martin Gore, now in Bacofoil trousers, does an embarrassing ballad (“Somebody”), “Stripped” is skagged-out slop. Only a revelatory “I Feel You” and a triumphant “I Just Can’t Get Enough” [sic] make you wish they hadn’t split a good few years ago.