The Dirty Mac Pop Brigade
[Unknown magazine, January 1988. Words: Sam King. Picture: Greg Freeman.]
Depeche Mode Wembley Arena
Tonight the Mode-ettes, the gangly school of dancing girls whose musical virginity was lost to Depeche Mode’s early singles, have got it all. They’ve got the sweet side of Depeche Mode, a band of pop idols whose normally lusty, perverse undertones are overshadowed tonight by a superbly twee series of disposable melodies.
For tonight Depeche Mode, whose charm has always been their inarticulate combination of filth and fun, turn the tables and show us their true rock superstar colours. After all, they reason, everyone needs heroes, even if they do appear to be a cross between Elvis Presley and a pinhead, or an over-bejewelled Gene Wilder.
And perhaps this is their real achievement, the embodiment of the sexual fantasies of a legion of Traceys and Sharons. Perhaps here, in the combination of four inconspicuous yet somehow utterly typical lads, lies the emotional fulfilment of a subculture.
Depeche Mode are an immaculate contradiction, the child’s party piece as subversion, but then they have always been contentious. They are the unseen guerillas in the machinery of pop, continually turning its ephemeral sweetness back on itself with each song.
And it’s all pretty hard stuff. From the sexual perversion of “Behind The Wheel” or “Master And Servant” (a dead giveaway) to the gripping power struggles of “Grabbing Hands” or “People Are People”, it’s all about control. The twee melody disguises nothing and Depeche Mode, the ultra safe synthpop band are seen for what they are, subversive molesters of our pop sensibilities.
For Depeche Mode have abandoned pop’s trivia, the chart blandness pioneered by Stock, Aitken, Waterman. They’ve gone where their hearts have been right from the start, the extremes of the avant-garde.
Tonight, however, they don’t quite make it, don’t quite manage to balance the vitriol of Laibach with the throwaway lyric, the offensiveness of Throbbing Gristle with the diminutive smile, or the mental adventurism of Neubaten with the bland sarcasm of Wembley itself. Tonight, what should have been a nursery rhyme in razors becomes merely a playlist priority as Depeche Mode continually fail to cut through the aural stodge of today’s pop mentality.
Collaborators in Depeche Mode’s emotional recreation, the Mode-ettes remain unaware of their idols’ inherent deceit until they, too, are sucked into a labyrinth of perverse sexual relationships. They’ve got exactly what they wanted and there’s even a certain amount of voyeuristic pleasure in watching the inevitable happen.
[Unknown magazine, January 1988. Words: Sam King. Picture: Greg Freeman.]
Depeche Mode Wembley Arena
Tonight the Mode-ettes, the gangly school of dancing girls whose musical virginity was lost to Depeche Mode’s early singles, have got it all. They’ve got the sweet side of Depeche Mode, a band of pop idols whose normally lusty, perverse undertones are overshadowed tonight by a superbly twee series of disposable melodies.
For tonight Depeche Mode, whose charm has always been their inarticulate combination of filth and fun, turn the tables and show us their true rock superstar colours. After all, they reason, everyone needs heroes, even if they do appear to be a cross between Elvis Presley and a pinhead, or an over-bejewelled Gene Wilder.
And perhaps this is their real achievement, the embodiment of the sexual fantasies of a legion of Traceys and Sharons. Perhaps here, in the combination of four inconspicuous yet somehow utterly typical lads, lies the emotional fulfilment of a subculture.
Depeche Mode are an immaculate contradiction, the child’s party piece as subversion, but then they have always been contentious. They are the unseen guerillas in the machinery of pop, continually turning its ephemeral sweetness back on itself with each song.
And it’s all pretty hard stuff. From the sexual perversion of “Behind The Wheel” or “Master And Servant” (a dead giveaway) to the gripping power struggles of “Grabbing Hands” or “People Are People”, it’s all about control. The twee melody disguises nothing and Depeche Mode, the ultra safe synthpop band are seen for what they are, subversive molesters of our pop sensibilities.
For Depeche Mode have abandoned pop’s trivia, the chart blandness pioneered by Stock, Aitken, Waterman. They’ve gone where their hearts have been right from the start, the extremes of the avant-garde.
Tonight, however, they don’t quite make it, don’t quite manage to balance the vitriol of Laibach with the throwaway lyric, the offensiveness of Throbbing Gristle with the diminutive smile, or the mental adventurism of Neubaten with the bland sarcasm of Wembley itself. Tonight, what should have been a nursery rhyme in razors becomes merely a playlist priority as Depeche Mode continually fail to cut through the aural stodge of today’s pop mentality.
Collaborators in Depeche Mode’s emotional recreation, the Mode-ettes remain unaware of their idols’ inherent deceit until they, too, are sucked into a labyrinth of perverse sexual relationships. They’ve got exactly what they wanted and there’s even a certain amount of voyeuristic pleasure in watching the inevitable happen.