Fresh Depeche
[Record Mirror, 24th October 1981. Words: Mike Nicholls. Picture: Antoine Giacomoni.]
FRESH DEPECHE
No restaurants except for Chinese and Italian. No amusements apart from pool and bingo. No live entertainment save in the Towngate Theatre. No soul in the clubs but then there are no clubs at all.
This is the great British New Town. By no means definitive but an example all the same, Basildon is its name and somehow it has managed to produce sparkling pop sophisticats Depeche Mode.
Despite the surrounding suburban sterility a fabulous Phoenix has arisen out of these ashes. Ashes as in this contemptible conglomeration of breeze blocks, shopping malls, ring roads and chain stores. Perhaps I’m being a little strict. After all, this is home for the boys in the band and it hasn’t had any discernibly traumatic effect on their buoyant personalities.
Having previously spoken to them variously on the phone, in the office, down the pub and après-gig, the natural habitat is the obvious choice for the next rendezvous. The star-at-home situation always makes for much engaging piffle and with Depeche Mode the possibilities seem endless.
Consider the insight! Could their ultra-modern synthesised sounds stem from the fact that they all live in one great air-conditioned astrodome? What do they eat? Endless mounds of silicon chips? Partaken exclusively from hi tech multi-purpose furniture. The mind, as they say, boggles. But, alas, in vain, I see no Depeche domicile, though the lads are hospitable enough to greet me at their local railway station. I actually arrive by road but we won’t go into that.
Basildon British Rail terminal on a crisp autumn afternoon, innocently framed by the shiny formica photo-booth, mine hosts stand in line, Like cheery chaps about to embark on a school trip, Dave, Martin and Andy.
Missing, is Vince. His absence is all the more conspicuous by the fact that he’s the group’s sole songwriter. But he’s still smarting from an obvious trap he walked into when being interviewed by the sensational Daily Star. And won’t talk to the Press any more.
This was some time ago and his colleagues feel it’s time he bucked up. Yet they’re quite capable on their own.
Accompanying them are a couple of chums. And Dave’s girlfriend whose bright-eyed beauty ethereally mirrors his own. The pals depart with arrangements made to meet later. The rest of us decide where to converse. Since Basildon is not overendowed with coffee shops ‘n’ greasy spoons, someone suggests Littlewoods. A department store with its own cafeteria.
We queue up for “refreshments” and select a booth. Just room for four. Dave’s girlfriend waits patiently across the gangway. Muted clatter from neighbouring tables lends a relaxing soundtrack to our discourse. Also assisting the ease are the pastel-shaded fixtures and fittings. Doubtless designed by a team of industrial psychologists.
There’s no need for psychology in understanding Depeche Mode. They are straightforward, friendly, co-operative fellows. One could almost call them boy-next-door types, if it weren’t for the fact that even offstage they look unusually distinctive.
Lead singer Dave Gahan is the snappy dresser. Shirt, tie, pleated trews and tweed top-coat. Somewhat formal for a Thursday afternoon, methinks. Flash, too. As well as a pin in his tie there’s one in his nose. Both gold. Matching his watch, bracelet and earring. Aged 19, he’s a year younger than the other Modes.
At the other extreme, Andy Fletcher looks relatively rustic. Closely-cropped hair, ruddy complexion and unremarkable denims. Andy has become the resident scapegoat, grudgingly accepting his lot in new life with strained smiles.
Right now he confirms his role of butt of band’s in-jokes by referring to artics (as in articulated lorries) as “artex”. And Martin is quick to pounce: “Ha! Ha! put that down,” he earnestly entreats before turning back to the blushing boy.
“Don’t worry, Andy, that’s another few fan letters. Andy’s getting more mail than the rest of us put together these days because everyone knows we all take the piss out of him. They feel sorry for ’im, see.”
Notwithstanding such blatant baiting, Martin Gore is the most enigmatic Mode. Sartorially falling somewhere between the other two, he’s diligently probing an obscene dollop of lemon meringue pie. Its fizzy expanse hilariously matching his unwieldy blond curls.
Everything about Martin is similarly funny. His humour is dry to the point that it’s impossible to know whether it’s intentional. Most of what he says is double-edged. He’s not having me on and he’s probably the most easily recognisable of the crew. As he fetches another round of undrinkable teas, a group of lads at another table nod with polite admiration.
You must be heroes round here?
“Yes,” he agrees.
Well, there’s no point denying it. No need for false modesty. But you can’t help but think he’s surprised by it all: “People come up to us and say ‘well done! well done!’. And women whisper in your ear.”
[Record Mirror, 24th October 1981. Words: Mike Nicholls. Picture: Antoine Giacomoni.]
FRESH DEPECHE
No restaurants except for Chinese and Italian. No amusements apart from pool and bingo. No live entertainment save in the Towngate Theatre. No soul in the clubs but then there are no clubs at all.
This is the great British New Town. By no means definitive but an example all the same, Basildon is its name and somehow it has managed to produce sparkling pop sophisticats Depeche Mode.
Despite the surrounding suburban sterility a fabulous Phoenix has arisen out of these ashes. Ashes as in this contemptible conglomeration of breeze blocks, shopping malls, ring roads and chain stores. Perhaps I’m being a little strict. After all, this is home for the boys in the band and it hasn’t had any discernibly traumatic effect on their buoyant personalities.
Having previously spoken to them variously on the phone, in the office, down the pub and après-gig, the natural habitat is the obvious choice for the next rendezvous. The star-at-home situation always makes for much engaging piffle and with Depeche Mode the possibilities seem endless.
Consider the insight! Could their ultra-modern synthesised sounds stem from the fact that they all live in one great air-conditioned astrodome? What do they eat? Endless mounds of silicon chips? Partaken exclusively from hi tech multi-purpose furniture. The mind, as they say, boggles. But, alas, in vain, I see no Depeche domicile, though the lads are hospitable enough to greet me at their local railway station. I actually arrive by road but we won’t go into that.
Basildon British Rail terminal on a crisp autumn afternoon, innocently framed by the shiny formica photo-booth, mine hosts stand in line, Like cheery chaps about to embark on a school trip, Dave, Martin and Andy.
Missing, is Vince. His absence is all the more conspicuous by the fact that he’s the group’s sole songwriter. But he’s still smarting from an obvious trap he walked into when being interviewed by the sensational Daily Star. And won’t talk to the Press any more.
This was some time ago and his colleagues feel it’s time he bucked up. Yet they’re quite capable on their own.
Accompanying them are a couple of chums. And Dave’s girlfriend whose bright-eyed beauty ethereally mirrors his own. The pals depart with arrangements made to meet later. The rest of us decide where to converse. Since Basildon is not overendowed with coffee shops ‘n’ greasy spoons, someone suggests Littlewoods. A department store with its own cafeteria.
We queue up for “refreshments” and select a booth. Just room for four. Dave’s girlfriend waits patiently across the gangway. Muted clatter from neighbouring tables lends a relaxing soundtrack to our discourse. Also assisting the ease are the pastel-shaded fixtures and fittings. Doubtless designed by a team of industrial psychologists.
There’s no need for psychology in understanding Depeche Mode. They are straightforward, friendly, co-operative fellows. One could almost call them boy-next-door types, if it weren’t for the fact that even offstage they look unusually distinctive.
Lead singer Dave Gahan is the snappy dresser. Shirt, tie, pleated trews and tweed top-coat. Somewhat formal for a Thursday afternoon, methinks. Flash, too. As well as a pin in his tie there’s one in his nose. Both gold. Matching his watch, bracelet and earring. Aged 19, he’s a year younger than the other Modes.
At the other extreme, Andy Fletcher looks relatively rustic. Closely-cropped hair, ruddy complexion and unremarkable denims. Andy has become the resident scapegoat, grudgingly accepting his lot in new life with strained smiles.
Right now he confirms his role of butt of band’s in-jokes by referring to artics (as in articulated lorries) as “artex”. And Martin is quick to pounce: “Ha! Ha! put that down,” he earnestly entreats before turning back to the blushing boy.
“Don’t worry, Andy, that’s another few fan letters. Andy’s getting more mail than the rest of us put together these days because everyone knows we all take the piss out of him. They feel sorry for ’im, see.”
Notwithstanding such blatant baiting, Martin Gore is the most enigmatic Mode. Sartorially falling somewhere between the other two, he’s diligently probing an obscene dollop of lemon meringue pie. Its fizzy expanse hilariously matching his unwieldy blond curls.
Everything about Martin is similarly funny. His humour is dry to the point that it’s impossible to know whether it’s intentional. Most of what he says is double-edged. He’s not having me on and he’s probably the most easily recognisable of the crew. As he fetches another round of undrinkable teas, a group of lads at another table nod with polite admiration.
You must be heroes round here?
“Yes,” he agrees.
Well, there’s no point denying it. No need for false modesty. But you can’t help but think he’s surprised by it all: “People come up to us and say ‘well done! well done!’. And women whisper in your ear.”