Rubber Bullets
[Melody Maker, 3rd October 1987. Words: Paul Mathur. Picture: Uncredited.]
The peculiar Frenchman Bellia informs me that French youth refer to this combo as Depede Moche, which apparently means something like Dirty Paedophiliacs. That’s just typical of the ridiculously rabid spleen that DM engender amongst usually right thinking folk, a contempt that most of their records thus far have dispatched straight back down critical gullets.
“Music For The Masses” sets itself up more than ever for body blows and vitriol, Depeche Mode having finally ditched the delicious rinky-dink finger pop for something more grown up, more sensible. Gone is the flashy simplicity of “Just Can’t Get Enough”, the objective debauchery of “Question Of Lust”, the deep and meaningful semiotics of “People Are People”. Now Depeche Mode write “Pimpf”.
“Pimpf” is a silly, sassy thing, rounding off a record that’s seamless, fluid, and, once the lights are out, particularly dull. And yet, once you flick every switch in the house, you can almost see the appeal of their newly found bogus economy. Titles have shrunk, the words that embrace them hurtling minimally in a completely different direction to the increasingly fussy tunes. Songs like “Sacred” and “Strangelove”, with their two-word lines, and their full face posturing, sound like Swans backed by a barrel organ which, I have to admit, is no bad thing.
“Never Let Me Down Again” might yet prove to be the most durable of their singles, its rhymes never bursting far above Pam Ayres, but its unselfconscious simplicity stopping the fist pulling instinctively back. “The Things You Said” and “Behind The Wheel” (“I’m going cheap / Tonight”) may never scale the foothills of poetic beauty, but retain a simple beauty that’s hard to resist.
It’s not what I waited for, and it’s never going to be the best of ammunition for barroom arguments over Pop’s Grubby Tapestry, but I’ll keep it around for a bit. Let’s just hope they don’t start going to Sunday School.
[Melody Maker, 3rd October 1987. Words: Paul Mathur. Picture: Uncredited.]
A review of "Music For The Masses" where the author seems to like the album in spite of himself. Consequently the review strives to be fair and is reserved about the album while never failing to give credit where it's due. Look out for the astute prediction on "Never Let Me Down Again".
The peculiar Frenchman Bellia informs me that French youth refer to this combo as Depede Moche, which apparently means something like Dirty Paedophiliacs. That’s just typical of the ridiculously rabid spleen that DM engender amongst usually right thinking folk, a contempt that most of their records thus far have dispatched straight back down critical gullets.
“Music For The Masses” sets itself up more than ever for body blows and vitriol, Depeche Mode having finally ditched the delicious rinky-dink finger pop for something more grown up, more sensible. Gone is the flashy simplicity of “Just Can’t Get Enough”, the objective debauchery of “Question Of Lust”, the deep and meaningful semiotics of “People Are People”. Now Depeche Mode write “Pimpf”.
“Pimpf” is a silly, sassy thing, rounding off a record that’s seamless, fluid, and, once the lights are out, particularly dull. And yet, once you flick every switch in the house, you can almost see the appeal of their newly found bogus economy. Titles have shrunk, the words that embrace them hurtling minimally in a completely different direction to the increasingly fussy tunes. Songs like “Sacred” and “Strangelove”, with their two-word lines, and their full face posturing, sound like Swans backed by a barrel organ which, I have to admit, is no bad thing.
“Never Let Me Down Again” might yet prove to be the most durable of their singles, its rhymes never bursting far above Pam Ayres, but its unselfconscious simplicity stopping the fist pulling instinctively back. “The Things You Said” and “Behind The Wheel” (“I’m going cheap / Tonight”) may never scale the foothills of poetic beauty, but retain a simple beauty that’s hard to resist.
It’s not what I waited for, and it’s never going to be the best of ammunition for barroom arguments over Pop’s Grubby Tapestry, but I’ll keep it around for a bit. Let’s just hope they don’t start going to Sunday School.