The Perfect Fantasy
[Melody Maker, 26th September 1981]
I’m biased… some six months ago I was lucky enough to corner four funny kids, whose collective denomer was little more than a buzz about town, for a chat in the Lyceum changing room.
The results prompted some nirk – one of the many eager, as always, to dote on the past through rose-t(a)inted perspectives – to put pen to paper and cite our little tete-a-tete as endemic of the so-called slipped standards in your soaraway MM.
Four further weeks (love ‘em! love ’em!) saw Depeche Mode slapping down the mortgage on a chart position destined to be theirs for years and years to come – sweet revenge; a pert two-fingers to our letter-writing friend and the definitive dawning of a New Life.
You think that’s all? Listen. I knew they could be good, knew they were good, but this good? …never!
Depeche were so right they made you forget about The Venue, forget about the bar and the burgers, crack a smile, grab your partner and dance. Two sold-out shows – the earlier one for under 18’s (I couldn’t get in), the later one for big bro’ and sis’ – both in support of Amnesty and both (I’m reliably informed about the first) damn near perfect.
But obviously – they had to be. As unintentional perpetrators of a polite revolution Depeche are / were the first to intuitively put into practice longstanding electro-pop theories; are responsible for this year’s three best chart singles; are the reason The League’s “Hard Times / Love Action” is a laugh and not a logorhythmic exercise; the reason Orch. Man’s “Souvenir” has slipped from edgy bubblegum into easy ballads; one good reason, with “New Life” / “Just Can’t Get Enough” (Oh, didn’t you know – they’re the same song, suckers!) why TOTP is sometimes still worth watching.
Because of Depeche Mode, ’81 pop is no longer having to say you’re sorry.
Tonight, the wonder is that they sound just like the records. They could never be technically bad – their machines wouldn’t let them down that far – but they could certainly soullessly go-through-the-motions – something which, ta God, they’re too young and excited to do just yet.
They look a vision too – all malleable puppy fat equally at home over tea with your gran or snogging down the disco. So sweet; I worry. Sooner or later (please make it later!) they’ll start getting tainted, serious, showbizzy. Not yet though. New selections from the forthcoming LP nod more towards Motown than Krautrock mantra, and “Pretty Boy” [3] even slips too far that way dipping into Shangri-Las’ self-parody. Daniel Miller should have learned with The Silicon Teens – too much sugar makes you sick.
One other grouse: they played too long – fifty-five minutes instead of the usual 40-odd. That much dancing begins to get ugly, physical, real. Depeche Mode are a fantasy potential more-than-fulfilled, the Archies of the Eighties, a dream coming true. So short, so sweet; don’t nudge, don’t pinch – I never wanna wake up.
[Melody Maker, 26th September 1981]
I’m biased… some six months ago I was lucky enough to corner four funny kids, whose collective denomer was little more than a buzz about town, for a chat in the Lyceum changing room.
The results prompted some nirk – one of the many eager, as always, to dote on the past through rose-t(a)inted perspectives – to put pen to paper and cite our little tete-a-tete as endemic of the so-called slipped standards in your soaraway MM.
Four further weeks (love ‘em! love ’em!) saw Depeche Mode slapping down the mortgage on a chart position destined to be theirs for years and years to come – sweet revenge; a pert two-fingers to our letter-writing friend and the definitive dawning of a New Life.
You think that’s all? Listen. I knew they could be good, knew they were good, but this good? …never!
Depeche were so right they made you forget about The Venue, forget about the bar and the burgers, crack a smile, grab your partner and dance. Two sold-out shows – the earlier one for under 18’s (I couldn’t get in), the later one for big bro’ and sis’ – both in support of Amnesty and both (I’m reliably informed about the first) damn near perfect.
But obviously – they had to be. As unintentional perpetrators of a polite revolution Depeche are / were the first to intuitively put into practice longstanding electro-pop theories; are responsible for this year’s three best chart singles; are the reason The League’s “Hard Times / Love Action” is a laugh and not a logorhythmic exercise; the reason Orch. Man’s “Souvenir” has slipped from edgy bubblegum into easy ballads; one good reason, with “New Life” / “Just Can’t Get Enough” (Oh, didn’t you know – they’re the same song, suckers!) why TOTP is sometimes still worth watching.
Because of Depeche Mode, ’81 pop is no longer having to say you’re sorry.
Tonight, the wonder is that they sound just like the records. They could never be technically bad – their machines wouldn’t let them down that far – but they could certainly soullessly go-through-the-motions – something which, ta God, they’re too young and excited to do just yet.
They look a vision too – all malleable puppy fat equally at home over tea with your gran or snogging down the disco. So sweet; I worry. Sooner or later (please make it later!) they’ll start getting tainted, serious, showbizzy. Not yet though. New selections from the forthcoming LP nod more towards Motown than Krautrock mantra, and “Pretty Boy” [3] even slips too far that way dipping into Shangri-Las’ self-parody. Daniel Miller should have learned with The Silicon Teens – too much sugar makes you sick.
One other grouse: they played too long – fifty-five minutes instead of the usual 40-odd. That much dancing begins to get ugly, physical, real. Depeche Mode are a fantasy potential more-than-fulfilled, the Archies of the Eighties, a dream coming true. So short, so sweet; don’t nudge, don’t pinch – I never wanna wake up.