Glory Boys
[Unknown magazine, January 1988. Words: Andy Darling. Pictures: Uncredited.]
It’s a lot like life, this Depeche Mode package. Not in a privileging of the lyric way whereby we hear about life in a series of couplets that invariably rhyme “soul” with “dole”, but in a holistic way. The Pet Shop Boys, hyper-aware that those who purchase their records are resident in the sticks, sing paeans to observations of “Suburbia”. In Realist Text days, Sham 69 and The Members wallowed stoically, parochially, a bit of geo-politics thank yew, thank yew. No such meta-pop prepositions or punk-pop preoccupations for Depeche Mode. They’re it. Dave Gahan is the youth club show-off, the lad who dared wiggle his bum at the disco; Fletch is the tall kid with ginger hair who kicks his legs up a bit and kids everyone he learned Karate; Martin is the little one who got hold of a book about the Bauhaus, liked the pictures, and did A Level Art at the Tech.
It should all go embarrassingly wrong, of course. It should’ve ended years ago when they looked like legs of pork in knickerbockers and danced like Virgil Tracy. Or when they were co-opted by Left lyric watcher after singing “People are people, so why should it be, that you and I should get along so aw-fully.” So why was I stomping my feet for a second encore?
Vastly underrated is the power of melody. We whistle “When I Fall In Love” while penning manifestos about sonic assault, atonal onslaught and the imminent death of structured structure. It’s tough writing about melody though, and much easier waxing lyrical about “difficult” musics, musics that fundamentally aren’t. The pleasure afforded by recognition of a melody by its familiarity is so universal it feels banal even to think quietly about it. It’s quite a thing to admit to. Depeche Mode are a Good Tune Band, using Ennio Morricone pentatonics with the odd discord thrown in.
Their gift is the ability to make each tune big enough to remember, big enough to sound like you’ve listened to it more times than you’d care to admit to. Perhaps they’re stored in the Easy To Remember section of the brain, the I’ll Name That Tune In One department. Perhaps they fit into the “Ooh, I keep singing that awful song, I hate it, that’s the thing” syndrome, the insidious, the subliminal. Not entirely.
As recognisable as the melodies are the treatments, or rather The Treatment. I’ll name that tune in one noise. Isolated clatterings are greeted by whoops from us all, key signatures not like on the records, but metonymic capsules for the night, each suitable similar and different. “Resonant” in the keyword for Depeche Mode: Dave’s voice, closer to Rick Astley’s than Blixa Bargeld’s, Alan’s sheet metal banging, more Dead Or Alive than Test Department, Fletch’s keyboarding more, oh what shall we say, Ron Mael than Marty Rey, ditto Martin’s, all sound like they’ve been put through a Resonator Tube, given body.
Their harmonies no longer resemble a thin version of Steeleye Span’s “Gaudete”. I’m reminded of adverts for Brylcreem and Bounce dog food, and words like Rubber Room. Quite a step for the skeletons that were “Just Can’t Get Enough” and “Dreaming Of Me”, that blushed with hiatuses.
But I come not to praise Depeche Mode as Artists-Now-Mature, nor as Golden Shit. More like something between the two. A bit like the suburbs, in fact. A bit of them eager to crash in the parameters (usually signalled by Mark [sic] coming to the front and singing) a bit of them eager to just have a laugh when Fletch moves forward and claps his hands above his head), a bit of sex appeal exudation (when Dave thrusts his groin), a bit of prudery (when the others positively don’t). Suburban lads, not afraid to expose their feminine side every now and then. But not too much. Like I say, a lot like life. The most fun you can have with your feet on the ground. You only sing when you’re winning.
[Unknown magazine, January 1988. Words: Andy Darling. Pictures: Uncredited.]
It’s a lot like life, this Depeche Mode package. Not in a privileging of the lyric way whereby we hear about life in a series of couplets that invariably rhyme “soul” with “dole”, but in a holistic way. The Pet Shop Boys, hyper-aware that those who purchase their records are resident in the sticks, sing paeans to observations of “Suburbia”. In Realist Text days, Sham 69 and The Members wallowed stoically, parochially, a bit of geo-politics thank yew, thank yew. No such meta-pop prepositions or punk-pop preoccupations for Depeche Mode. They’re it. Dave Gahan is the youth club show-off, the lad who dared wiggle his bum at the disco; Fletch is the tall kid with ginger hair who kicks his legs up a bit and kids everyone he learned Karate; Martin is the little one who got hold of a book about the Bauhaus, liked the pictures, and did A Level Art at the Tech.
It should all go embarrassingly wrong, of course. It should’ve ended years ago when they looked like legs of pork in knickerbockers and danced like Virgil Tracy. Or when they were co-opted by Left lyric watcher after singing “People are people, so why should it be, that you and I should get along so aw-fully.” So why was I stomping my feet for a second encore?
Vastly underrated is the power of melody. We whistle “When I Fall In Love” while penning manifestos about sonic assault, atonal onslaught and the imminent death of structured structure. It’s tough writing about melody though, and much easier waxing lyrical about “difficult” musics, musics that fundamentally aren’t. The pleasure afforded by recognition of a melody by its familiarity is so universal it feels banal even to think quietly about it. It’s quite a thing to admit to. Depeche Mode are a Good Tune Band, using Ennio Morricone pentatonics with the odd discord thrown in.
Their gift is the ability to make each tune big enough to remember, big enough to sound like you’ve listened to it more times than you’d care to admit to. Perhaps they’re stored in the Easy To Remember section of the brain, the I’ll Name That Tune In One department. Perhaps they fit into the “Ooh, I keep singing that awful song, I hate it, that’s the thing” syndrome, the insidious, the subliminal. Not entirely.
As recognisable as the melodies are the treatments, or rather The Treatment. I’ll name that tune in one noise. Isolated clatterings are greeted by whoops from us all, key signatures not like on the records, but metonymic capsules for the night, each suitable similar and different. “Resonant” in the keyword for Depeche Mode: Dave’s voice, closer to Rick Astley’s than Blixa Bargeld’s, Alan’s sheet metal banging, more Dead Or Alive than Test Department, Fletch’s keyboarding more, oh what shall we say, Ron Mael than Marty Rey, ditto Martin’s, all sound like they’ve been put through a Resonator Tube, given body.
Their harmonies no longer resemble a thin version of Steeleye Span’s “Gaudete”. I’m reminded of adverts for Brylcreem and Bounce dog food, and words like Rubber Room. Quite a step for the skeletons that were “Just Can’t Get Enough” and “Dreaming Of Me”, that blushed with hiatuses.
But I come not to praise Depeche Mode as Artists-Now-Mature, nor as Golden Shit. More like something between the two. A bit like the suburbs, in fact. A bit of them eager to crash in the parameters (usually signalled by Mark [sic] coming to the front and singing) a bit of them eager to just have a laugh when Fletch moves forward and claps his hands above his head), a bit of sex appeal exudation (when Dave thrusts his groin), a bit of prudery (when the others positively don’t). Suburban lads, not afraid to expose their feminine side every now and then. But not too much. Like I say, a lot like life. The most fun you can have with your feet on the ground. You only sing when you’re winning.