Depeche Mode, Wembley Arena, London
[Record Mirror, 23rd January 1988. Words: Nancy Culp. Picture: 'Parker'.]
Wembley 1988- practically two years since Depeche Mode’s last gigs here, and what do we find? Basically, no radical surprises or shock tactics, just good old-fashioned entertainment.
With a stage set resembling a cross between a scene from ‘Metropolis’ and a Nuremberg rally – all fake plinths and platforms with coloured flags hanging coyly down from the lighting gantry – you’re left to wonder if the band really are taking the piss out of their Germanic fetishes. Against all odds, there’s something terribly charming about Depeche Mode’s penchant for dubious visual imagery, equally dubious leatheriness and a set of songs ostensibly about sex in all its glorious permutations.
Their flirtation with life’s seamier side has all the shock value of a five-year-old doing Elvis impersonations in front of a mirror. The opening strains of “Behind The Wheel” waft out from under what one can only describe as Mrs Jumbo’s old black net curtains. The lads are hidden from view as the dry ice belches out, only to be revealed when the funereal net shudders sharply heavenwards in a gesture that verges on the camp.
Now here’s the crux. Depeche Mode are awfully and unintentionally hysterical. From Dave’s manic pelvic thrusting and bum-wiggling; to Martin’s fetching leather joddies, motorcycle boots and black bondage harness which all make him look like Hooky’s little brother; to Fletch’s curious knee-jerks and arm-waggling mid-song, Dep Mode are even funnier than Spinal Tap in their New Romantic period and it’s all totally unselfconscious to boot.
“How Ya Doin’ London?” bawls Dave in a newly-found transatlantic stage voice. It’s left largely to him to fell the yawning gap between the audience and the lofty keyboard pulpits of the other three. He whirlibirds on the spot, does that funny little knee tremble during the final encore, “Master And Servant”, and generally makes you feel whacked out on his behalf. Running manically from one end of the stage to the other, he’s front man, chorus line and erotic dance troupe all rolled into one.
Material is largely taken from the excellent “Music For The Masses” album with a few mid-period goodies chucked in and beefed up for the occasion. “Black Celebration” conquers, “People Are People” amuses, “A Question Of Time” limps a bit, then Martin trundles down the ramps to a massive roar from the crowd and takes centre stage to warble “A Question Of Lust”. Martin is so cute he should be marketed as a cuddly toy; what’s more, his voice and song-writing ability improve with age.
Although at times the sheer magnitude of the task of filling such a huge venue with a largely immobile show gets too much, leaving the proceedings to sag like a soggy sock once or twice, by and large Dep Mode have matured immeasurably into a fine but still criminally underrated all-round group. My feet barely stopped moving for more than half a second all evening and the grin on my face will have to be surgically removed…
[Record Mirror, 23rd January 1988. Words: Nancy Culp. Picture: 'Parker'.]
Wembley 1988- practically two years since Depeche Mode’s last gigs here, and what do we find? Basically, no radical surprises or shock tactics, just good old-fashioned entertainment.
With a stage set resembling a cross between a scene from ‘Metropolis’ and a Nuremberg rally – all fake plinths and platforms with coloured flags hanging coyly down from the lighting gantry – you’re left to wonder if the band really are taking the piss out of their Germanic fetishes. Against all odds, there’s something terribly charming about Depeche Mode’s penchant for dubious visual imagery, equally dubious leatheriness and a set of songs ostensibly about sex in all its glorious permutations.
Their flirtation with life’s seamier side has all the shock value of a five-year-old doing Elvis impersonations in front of a mirror. The opening strains of “Behind The Wheel” waft out from under what one can only describe as Mrs Jumbo’s old black net curtains. The lads are hidden from view as the dry ice belches out, only to be revealed when the funereal net shudders sharply heavenwards in a gesture that verges on the camp.
Now here’s the crux. Depeche Mode are awfully and unintentionally hysterical. From Dave’s manic pelvic thrusting and bum-wiggling; to Martin’s fetching leather joddies, motorcycle boots and black bondage harness which all make him look like Hooky’s little brother; to Fletch’s curious knee-jerks and arm-waggling mid-song, Dep Mode are even funnier than Spinal Tap in their New Romantic period and it’s all totally unselfconscious to boot.
“How Ya Doin’ London?” bawls Dave in a newly-found transatlantic stage voice. It’s left largely to him to fell the yawning gap between the audience and the lofty keyboard pulpits of the other three. He whirlibirds on the spot, does that funny little knee tremble during the final encore, “Master And Servant”, and generally makes you feel whacked out on his behalf. Running manically from one end of the stage to the other, he’s front man, chorus line and erotic dance troupe all rolled into one.
Material is largely taken from the excellent “Music For The Masses” album with a few mid-period goodies chucked in and beefed up for the occasion. “Black Celebration” conquers, “People Are People” amuses, “A Question Of Time” limps a bit, then Martin trundles down the ramps to a massive roar from the crowd and takes centre stage to warble “A Question Of Lust”. Martin is so cute he should be marketed as a cuddly toy; what’s more, his voice and song-writing ability improve with age.
Although at times the sheer magnitude of the task of filling such a huge venue with a largely immobile show gets too much, leaving the proceedings to sag like a soggy sock once or twice, by and large Dep Mode have matured immeasurably into a fine but still criminally underrated all-round group. My feet barely stopped moving for more than half a second all evening and the grin on my face will have to be surgically removed…