The Long And Winding Mode
[The Observer, 21st October 2001. Words: Sam Taylor. Picture: Betrand Guay / AFP.]
Their latest album was four years in the making, so there is nothing particularly depeche about them any more, but the Mode remain seriously fashionable. Less so in Britain, perhaps, where their audience is generally as old as the band [1], but if you go to see them in France, Germany, Italy or the States, you are in for a big surprise.
First, the people in the audience are young. Second, they adore the band. And they are right to do so. For, despite starting out as one of those fey boy synth pop acts accused of conspiring to destroy musicianship back in the early Eighties, Depeche Mode have slowly grown into one of the best live rock acts on the planet.
They begin by playing the worst song of their entire career – “The Dead of Night”, a sort of return homage to Marilyn Manson, who is a big fan of theirs – and, at one point, perform five ballads in a row. Yet they are swept towards the triumphant encore by 20,000 screaming, dancing Parisians. The truly impressive thing about the fans is that they sing along not only to the old hits (“Enjoy The Silence”, “Personal Jesus”) but to the new tracks. And considering that the band’s latest album, Exciter, really ought to have been called Dishwater – as that’s how dull it is – this shows more than a little dedication.
It is certainly hard to imagine any of their contemporaries getting this kind of treatment. I have seen the Human League, Duran Duran and Culture Club live in the past couple of years, and in each case what they were peddling was essentially nostalgia. Any new songs were greeted with groans and a mass exodus to refill plastic glasses and relieve bladders. Even U2 get heckled if they fail to play “Pride” or “Where The Streets Have No Name”. Depeche Mode, by contrast, completely ignore their first four albums (a shame, as they contain some wonderful songs) and intersperse the new material with obscure album tracks like “It Doesn’t Matter Two” and “Halo”.
It helps that Dave Gahan and Martin Gore look so good together. Both are skinny and muscular and wear their hair slicked back. Gore, the introverted songwriter, is dressed all in white, with a feather boa like a camp angel. Gahan, the exhibitionist singer, is all in black, an amiable demon, though it doesn’t take him long to lose his shirt. The third member, synth boffin Andrew Fletcher, looks like their financial adviser, or possibly their dad.
There is something intriguing about the relationship between Gore and Gahan, who met as schoolboys in Basildon and have been through fame, drugs, nervous breakdowns and spiritual awakenings together, yet oddly seem to have almost nothing in common. In the sense that Gore writes sensitive, tortured lyrics that Gahan then belts out while prancing maniacally around the stage and yelling “Yeah!”, they are reminiscent of Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey. The difference is that you can imagine Gore and Gahan waking up in the same bed (though you may not want to).
What distinguishes the show, apart from the quality of the songs and sound, is the energy that flows from the stage. This is not simply a question of physical fitness – Gahan, in fact, has a little paunch peeping over his belt, which presumably explains why he spends so much time with his hands thrust into the air – but of artistic intensity. Most bands, when they reach the 20-year stage, tend to relax a bit. They do a 15-minute acoustic session, sitting on stools, the singer wanders off for a shower while the hired musicians play solo spots; often, when you reach the first encore, you can see the guitarist’s eyes drift off to the golf course where he would rather be. But Depeche Mode play music as though this really is the acme of their lives.
It is certainly the acme of their careers. Though everyone should own a copy of their singles collections, not one Mode song sounds as good on CD as it does when played live. In this sense they are probably unique. And it’s not that the recorded versions are bad, either, just that, listening to “It’s No Good” or “Walking In My Shoes” or “Never Let Me Down Again”, you hear a texture to the rhythms that is flattened out by the recording process: the layers of squelching, churning, hammering, melodic synth riffs gain a new clarity and depth. Sonically, they are up there with modern club heroes such as the Chemical Brothers and Orbital.
Visually, too, the concert is perfectly constructed. Anton Corbijn’s set design starts off starkly minimalist – just a few leaning rectangles made from striplights and spotlights – but it changes and grows, subtly, as the show progresses. Towards the end there are some smart videos: “In Your Room” is backed up by a goldfish swimming in a sky-blue water; on the first crash of beats, a shark enters the water too. You spend the whole song waiting for it to eat the fish.
The only fault is the diminished quality of Martin Gore’s new songs, which are meant, I suppose, to be stripped down and delicate. The results, on “When The Body Speaks” and “Breathe”, are insipid. “Dream On” is better, its spooky two-part vocal here turned into a mass chant, while even the risible new single “Freelove” becomes a singalong. If Gore can refind his muse, and Gahan stay off the smack, Depeche could still be in mode when they reach their thirtieth anniversary.
[1] - Maybe the author and I have been looking in different places, but in my experience Depeche Mode are not so much less fashionable in the UK as that they've had worse press. And I certainly wouldn't say that most of their fans are the same age as them: whenever I've been to Mode-related parties the younger contingent has always been just as strong. [continue]
[The Observer, 21st October 2001. Words: Sam Taylor. Picture: Betrand Guay / AFP.]
Their latest album was four years in the making, so there is nothing particularly depeche about them any more, but the Mode remain seriously fashionable. Less so in Britain, perhaps, where their audience is generally as old as the band [1], but if you go to see them in France, Germany, Italy or the States, you are in for a big surprise.
First, the people in the audience are young. Second, they adore the band. And they are right to do so. For, despite starting out as one of those fey boy synth pop acts accused of conspiring to destroy musicianship back in the early Eighties, Depeche Mode have slowly grown into one of the best live rock acts on the planet.
They begin by playing the worst song of their entire career – “The Dead of Night”, a sort of return homage to Marilyn Manson, who is a big fan of theirs – and, at one point, perform five ballads in a row. Yet they are swept towards the triumphant encore by 20,000 screaming, dancing Parisians. The truly impressive thing about the fans is that they sing along not only to the old hits (“Enjoy The Silence”, “Personal Jesus”) but to the new tracks. And considering that the band’s latest album, Exciter, really ought to have been called Dishwater – as that’s how dull it is – this shows more than a little dedication.
It is certainly hard to imagine any of their contemporaries getting this kind of treatment. I have seen the Human League, Duran Duran and Culture Club live in the past couple of years, and in each case what they were peddling was essentially nostalgia. Any new songs were greeted with groans and a mass exodus to refill plastic glasses and relieve bladders. Even U2 get heckled if they fail to play “Pride” or “Where The Streets Have No Name”. Depeche Mode, by contrast, completely ignore their first four albums (a shame, as they contain some wonderful songs) and intersperse the new material with obscure album tracks like “It Doesn’t Matter Two” and “Halo”.
It helps that Dave Gahan and Martin Gore look so good together. Both are skinny and muscular and wear their hair slicked back. Gore, the introverted songwriter, is dressed all in white, with a feather boa like a camp angel. Gahan, the exhibitionist singer, is all in black, an amiable demon, though it doesn’t take him long to lose his shirt. The third member, synth boffin Andrew Fletcher, looks like their financial adviser, or possibly their dad.
There is something intriguing about the relationship between Gore and Gahan, who met as schoolboys in Basildon and have been through fame, drugs, nervous breakdowns and spiritual awakenings together, yet oddly seem to have almost nothing in common. In the sense that Gore writes sensitive, tortured lyrics that Gahan then belts out while prancing maniacally around the stage and yelling “Yeah!”, they are reminiscent of Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey. The difference is that you can imagine Gore and Gahan waking up in the same bed (though you may not want to).
What distinguishes the show, apart from the quality of the songs and sound, is the energy that flows from the stage. This is not simply a question of physical fitness – Gahan, in fact, has a little paunch peeping over his belt, which presumably explains why he spends so much time with his hands thrust into the air – but of artistic intensity. Most bands, when they reach the 20-year stage, tend to relax a bit. They do a 15-minute acoustic session, sitting on stools, the singer wanders off for a shower while the hired musicians play solo spots; often, when you reach the first encore, you can see the guitarist’s eyes drift off to the golf course where he would rather be. But Depeche Mode play music as though this really is the acme of their lives.
It is certainly the acme of their careers. Though everyone should own a copy of their singles collections, not one Mode song sounds as good on CD as it does when played live. In this sense they are probably unique. And it’s not that the recorded versions are bad, either, just that, listening to “It’s No Good” or “Walking In My Shoes” or “Never Let Me Down Again”, you hear a texture to the rhythms that is flattened out by the recording process: the layers of squelching, churning, hammering, melodic synth riffs gain a new clarity and depth. Sonically, they are up there with modern club heroes such as the Chemical Brothers and Orbital.
Visually, too, the concert is perfectly constructed. Anton Corbijn’s set design starts off starkly minimalist – just a few leaning rectangles made from striplights and spotlights – but it changes and grows, subtly, as the show progresses. Towards the end there are some smart videos: “In Your Room” is backed up by a goldfish swimming in a sky-blue water; on the first crash of beats, a shark enters the water too. You spend the whole song waiting for it to eat the fish.
The only fault is the diminished quality of Martin Gore’s new songs, which are meant, I suppose, to be stripped down and delicate. The results, on “When The Body Speaks” and “Breathe”, are insipid. “Dream On” is better, its spooky two-part vocal here turned into a mass chant, while even the risible new single “Freelove” becomes a singalong. If Gore can refind his muse, and Gahan stay off the smack, Depeche could still be in mode when they reach their thirtieth anniversary.
[1] - Maybe the author and I have been looking in different places, but in my experience Depeche Mode are not so much less fashionable in the UK as that they've had worse press. And I certainly wouldn't say that most of their fans are the same age as them: whenever I've been to Mode-related parties the younger contingent has always been just as strong. [continue]