Mode Live Isn't Rubbish
[NME, 16th June 1994. Words: Randee Dawn. Pictures: Ken Winokur.]
Depeche Mode
Primal Scream
Jones Beach, Long Island, New York
Depeche Mode, circa 1985: tiers of synths, Dave Gahan in a blond pompadour like a goth relic, and the band barely move onstage. Martin Gore has an absurd leather miniskirt.
But tenacity has its virtues. Depeche Mode, circa 1994: watching an absurdly bearded Gahan take the stage in his lizard-king black outfit, romping around the vast space with girls screaming and rushing the stage, you find yourself thinking, “This is one of the luckiest people on the face of God’s earth.” He gets to dace around like a loon and the crowd love it. Whether he’s in Jesus-pose, throwing the mic stand around, or improvising some decidedly un-nifty dance steps, Gahan surrenders himself completely to self-indulgence and the masses swallow it whole.
Those masses number approximately 11,000 for this, the second of two shows in the New York City area. As soon as Gahan rips off his shirt, the crowd go wild. Cigarette lighters flicker on. Women rush the stage. Nobody cares that after hearing him warble sensitively, “A famine in your heart, an aching to be free” he then lets out an incongruous “Woah!”? Or that during “Personal Jesus” he grabs his crotch like a poor man’s Michael Jackson. The fact is that once you’ve reached stadium level, you get to do whatever the hell you please. You do it in broad gestures and with big video screens of obscure films and you sell your soul to the rock cliché because it works. You kneel, you fall, you emote and you fiddle about with yourself a lot. Depeche Mode do it and they do it well.
What’s sad, though, is that they are the last British band since 1988 to even approximate big-time success in the States. These days, America just isn’t interested in new Brit bands. It’s the home-grown acts, like Green Day, who ultimately sell more, sound better and usurp the market before anyone else can get there first. Manic Street Preachers are struggling in the States and one hit wonders like The Cranberries and Radiohead are all too soon forgotten. All of this makes the American listening public deaf to class acts like James when the real deal comes along. So who can make it big in America next. Lush? Oasis? The jury’s still out.
That said, since Primal Scream have been knocking about for years, do they have a hope? This is the band whose marketing strategy consists of appropriating the Confederate Rag. This is a band that thinks making like The Rolling Stones is a fresh approach and that the spirit of George Clinton can be conjured up merely by sampling the words “Get a little funky now”. And, critically, in these epic surroundings, this is a band whose lead singer has no onstage magnetism whatsoever.
But forget all that because, live, the Primal Scream experience defies all logic. As they open proceedings tonight in front of a rapidly-filling venue, what becomes increasingly obvious is that this music was designed for the broad gesture of the stadium event. They ooze a seductive appeal with singer Denise Johnson as the focal point of the show. Her great booming voice and infectious stage presence – waving at the girls in the front rows to get up and start moving- contrast sharply with Bobby Gillespie’s single performance gesture: clapping to himself. To be fair, by the time “Moving On Up” kicks into gear, Gillespie finds a second wind and begins to wiggle lackadaisically around the stage. But Gillespie aside, Primal Scream are a bright light burning onstage and their gloriously sloppy hoedown is the perfect fit for a place this size. Derivative? Who cares. Counting Crows are the biggest band in America right now. Give the Scream another nine years and America will be theirs for the taking.
[NME, 16th June 1994. Words: Randee Dawn. Pictures: Ken Winokur.]
Depeche Mode
Primal Scream
Jones Beach, Long Island, New York
Depeche Mode, circa 1985: tiers of synths, Dave Gahan in a blond pompadour like a goth relic, and the band barely move onstage. Martin Gore has an absurd leather miniskirt.
But tenacity has its virtues. Depeche Mode, circa 1994: watching an absurdly bearded Gahan take the stage in his lizard-king black outfit, romping around the vast space with girls screaming and rushing the stage, you find yourself thinking, “This is one of the luckiest people on the face of God’s earth.” He gets to dace around like a loon and the crowd love it. Whether he’s in Jesus-pose, throwing the mic stand around, or improvising some decidedly un-nifty dance steps, Gahan surrenders himself completely to self-indulgence and the masses swallow it whole.
Those masses number approximately 11,000 for this, the second of two shows in the New York City area. As soon as Gahan rips off his shirt, the crowd go wild. Cigarette lighters flicker on. Women rush the stage. Nobody cares that after hearing him warble sensitively, “A famine in your heart, an aching to be free” he then lets out an incongruous “Woah!”? Or that during “Personal Jesus” he grabs his crotch like a poor man’s Michael Jackson. The fact is that once you’ve reached stadium level, you get to do whatever the hell you please. You do it in broad gestures and with big video screens of obscure films and you sell your soul to the rock cliché because it works. You kneel, you fall, you emote and you fiddle about with yourself a lot. Depeche Mode do it and they do it well.
What’s sad, though, is that they are the last British band since 1988 to even approximate big-time success in the States. These days, America just isn’t interested in new Brit bands. It’s the home-grown acts, like Green Day, who ultimately sell more, sound better and usurp the market before anyone else can get there first. Manic Street Preachers are struggling in the States and one hit wonders like The Cranberries and Radiohead are all too soon forgotten. All of this makes the American listening public deaf to class acts like James when the real deal comes along. So who can make it big in America next. Lush? Oasis? The jury’s still out.
That said, since Primal Scream have been knocking about for years, do they have a hope? This is the band whose marketing strategy consists of appropriating the Confederate Rag. This is a band that thinks making like The Rolling Stones is a fresh approach and that the spirit of George Clinton can be conjured up merely by sampling the words “Get a little funky now”. And, critically, in these epic surroundings, this is a band whose lead singer has no onstage magnetism whatsoever.
But forget all that because, live, the Primal Scream experience defies all logic. As they open proceedings tonight in front of a rapidly-filling venue, what becomes increasingly obvious is that this music was designed for the broad gesture of the stadium event. They ooze a seductive appeal with singer Denise Johnson as the focal point of the show. Her great booming voice and infectious stage presence – waving at the girls in the front rows to get up and start moving- contrast sharply with Bobby Gillespie’s single performance gesture: clapping to himself. To be fair, by the time “Moving On Up” kicks into gear, Gillespie finds a second wind and begins to wiggle lackadaisically around the stage. But Gillespie aside, Primal Scream are a bright light burning onstage and their gloriously sloppy hoedown is the perfect fit for a place this size. Derivative? Who cares. Counting Crows are the biggest band in America right now. Give the Scream another nine years and America will be theirs for the taking.