"The Mode preface their latest hits collection and Euro tour with this mournful little ditty, in which Dave Gahan pours his finest opiated Thom Yorke whimper into a cavernous vault of sleaziod trip-hop courtesy of producer Tim Simenon. Less pompous and more vulnerable than much recent Mode fare, it's a low-voltage charmer which grows on repeat hearings. The obligatory big beat and old-skool hip-hop mixes are pretty rank, though."

Unknown reviewer
New Musical Express, 9th September, 1998

Reprinted WITHOUT PERMISSION for non-profit use only.

Last time they toured it nearly killed them. Now they're dressing in Bacofoil.

LAST summer, a survey was conducted among Finland's twentysomethings to discover more about their loves, lives, and pastimes. The results, subsequently published on the Internet, painted a rather curious picture. Thirty per cent, for example, deemed being born Finnish as the equivalent of winning the lottery and yet twice that figure also admitted to suffering from low self-esteem. And while a third claimed that neighbouring Sweden harboured a greater number of homosexuals, and a majority asserted that they regularly indulged in open-air sex, only a fraction of those quizzed were able to admit that they were capable of honesty. Such statistics, then, suggest that the good people of Finland are actually a bunch of depressive liars who remain patently incapable of deciding quite what they are. On the other hand, all were fiercely proud of the saunas and everybody agreed that the countryside is awfully pretty.

Those that make the pilgrimage to a dull grey corner of the country's capital to see Depeche Mode play live appear united only in their love for a band typified by unrelenting bleakness. In a vast sports arena that normally plays host to marauding ice hockey teams intent on extreme physical contact, these Mode fans come in all shapes and sizes. Those whose sensible attire suggests that days are spent in the confines of air-conditioned offices take the seats that flank the perimeter, while the more ardent followers converging messily on the main floor represent a breed of humanity rarely seen outside Marilyn Manson conventions. All manner of goth is present here, its skin the colour of skimmed milk, eyeliner black as pure evil.

While Dave Gahan may have been mistaken for many things in his time - the new Keith Richards, the king of rock 'n' roll, dead - he is emphatically not the Second Coming. Finland, however, appears oblivious to this. Because when the singer strolls on stage, his tattooed body hidden under a smart, pin-striped suit, his face overrun with a smile a mile wide, the whole audience erupts in absolute rapture and, in pockets, utter frenzy. As if suddenly dealt a lethal electric shock, 10,000 unhappy, untrustworthy Finns remain in a constant state of exquisite hysteria, the like of which no survey has recorded. Afterwards, the band will claim that the crowd proved far more reserved than the 40,000 Russians who mobbed them a week earlier, effectively confirming that admirers of Depeche Mode have no understanding of restraint whatsoever.

For the next four months, Depeche Mode will tour the world in support of their second hits collection, The Singles 86>98. They will carry out this potentially fraught task with the utmost of care, mindful that the last time they attempted similar, the singer became a junkie, the songwriter a physical and emotional wreck, the keyboardist suffered a nervous breakdown and Alan Wilder, their drummer, walked out after much bickering. Hence, drugs will now be conspicuous by their absence, as will any support band that trades under the name Primal Scream. Bedtime will be strictly adhered to, and if Martin Gore and Andy Fletcher continue to partake of drinks with an alcoholic content, then they shall not flaunt such irresponsible behaviour under the nose of a man who is doing his utmost to behave himself and, this time around, stay alive.

TAKE a look at Dave Gahan today, and it's clear that shampoo has saved him from a fate worse than death. Gone are the ugly tresses that remained unwashed, as his then-wife liked it, to be replaced by a recently cropped style redolent of something he took into the shower not 10 minutes previously. Elsewhere, too, he looks spectacularly healthy, unfairly so, in fact, for one who regularly overdosed on heroin and had to be brought back from the brink of demise by some very conscientious paramedics.

"Mentally and physically, I've never felt better," says the man who found salvation in therapy. "I've finally had time to take stock of my life and put everything into perspective. I've got a couple of failed marriages behind me and a pretty hefty addiction. Something had to change. Thing is, I'd gone down a road where there was no quick turnaround. In many ways I'm glad I went through it, because otherwise I wouldn't feel the way I do now. These days, I realise my life is pretty incredible. Just being able to tour again is a gift. And I feel fine, really I do."

He smiles.

"My girlfriend is more worried than me. But I'll pull through. I have to."

TONIGHT, Matthew, David from Basildon will be Depeche Mode's rejuvenated frontman. And he'll turn in a performance that could well take him all the way to the finals. Upon a very zen stage, the minimal props Feng Shui'd to perfection, the band may lack the visual pyrotechnics that make U2 so consistently dazzling, but a menu of 19 formidable (mostly) hits can hardly fail. Before a subtle screen that morphs close-ups of each band member's face into the torso of a naked woman, Gahan pirouettes with a flourish that further underlines his new lease of life. The crowd love him for it, too.

Despite their proven formula, though, it still seems strange that a band who deal in such oppressive anthems can elicit such joy. Discounting Gore's stage wear - trussed up in Bacofoil, resembling that strange little fellow from Babylon Zoo - there's little humour here, but the effect is riveting nonetheless. There's a moment in the exquisite Condemnation, for instance, in which everyone appears to hold their breath, convinced that the aching delivery is akin to religious rapture. Goosebumps raise, body hair stands to attention, the collective awe palpable. Gore, too, is on magnificent form, his tentative solo spot on A Question Of Lust and Home injecting a little warmth into the band's otherwise black heart.

Occasionally, things drop. Never Let Me Down and In Your Room merely sound gloomy for the sake of a good wallow, but they're most dynamic when the sound veers towards total bombast. Barrel Of A Gun, for one, is pure musical warfare turned up loud and the effect is brilliant. I Feel You, similarly, is an imposing juggernaut, delivered with all the power of something from the Jurassic age. But then, to close the show, they - rather alarmingly - decide to have a laugh, an alien concept in itself. Just Can't Get Enough is Depeche Mode from another era, back when Vince Clarke wrote the songs and the only drugs they'd do were aspirin. It's a happy song, it's fun, and Gahan - in a moment of delicious incongruity - camps up the frivolity with undisguised glee, placing one hand on hip, the other cocked in the air, in a universally recognised pose that suggests beneath the cheerless facade, he remains a little teapot, short and stout.

BACK at the hotel, and the singer immediately heads for the sanctity of his bed.

"I've reached a certain level in life where I can trust myself, but not completely. Until I get through this tour successfully, I've got to watch myself carefully. And to be honest," he laughs, perhaps feeling his 36 years, "I'm so tired after the shows that I'm asleep within five minutes of my head hitting the pillow."

He's turned a new leaf, then. But while this is undoubtedly good news for those around him, the salvation of Dave Gahan from all manner of nasty indulgences has also robbed rock 'n' roll of one of its more colourful characters. After all, when on drugs, he was a figure almost beyond fascination.

"Never mind," he shrugs, smiling darkly, "there'll always be someone to pick up where I left off..." ****

Nick Duerden
Q, November 1998

Reprinted WITHOUT PERMISSION for non-profit use only. Photos by Chris Taylor. Reproduced without permission.

 
Click on image to enlarge

Waldbuhne, Berlin - September 18-19, 1998
The Singles 86>98 Tour - European leg

"A whiff of tragicomic self-parody hangs heavy over Depeche Mode’s mammoth outdoor bash on the wooded fringes of Berlin. This 20,000-seater amphitheatre is, after all, where Hitler played warm-up shows for stadium gigs like Nuremberg. Just across the road stands the imposing stone clocktower through which the Fuhrer made his grand entrances to the 1936 Olympics. And behind the stage, above the trees, a vast power station belches smoke into a darkening sky. You know the German word for power station? Kraftwerk. No kidding.

So here we find the Mode, almost 20 years and 40 million albums down the line, playing the second of two sell-out Berlin nights on their monster post-1986 hits roadshow. No longer a quartet, now a trio with a couple of spare musicians. No longer drug-crazed, mentally deranged rock pigs. Still massive in former dictatorships and countries with high suicide rates. Still wearing black.

The angel on our shoulder loves the Mode. After all, they escaped the naffest concrete town in Thatcherite Essex, reinvented chart pop as something sleek and electronic and European and sexually ambivalent, then sold it by the truckload to middle America. They went up against smelly-socked, sweaty-cocked rock on its own terms and won. They spawned the Prodigy and Garbage and unwittingly predicted the techno boom, even if they were heading in the opposite direction when it finally arrived.

The devil on our shoulder, mind you, wonders what they lost along the way. He notes that Dave Gahan’s LA rocker waistcoat and libidinous swagger are pure Michael Hutchence. He witnesses the processed glam rock stomp of "Personal Jesus" and the lumbering synthetic blues of "Barrel Of A Gun", reflecting ruefully how the Mode conquered rock but then allowed rock to colonise them in return. Did they really rewire the pop rule book nearly two decades ago just to end up playing stadium jamborees like this with guitars, drums and spangle-dressed backing singers? Isn’t this a betrayal, or did they want to be Led Zeppelin all along?

But bollocks to both angels and devils, we say. Because even if Depeche Mode ever had souls to sell, they have long since been replaced by a sure sense of bombastic spectacle allied to songwriter Martin Gore’s enduring gift for boomingly universal anthems. We surprise ourselves with just how many of these throbbing monoliths we recall by heart, and just how magnificent the melancholy twangs of "Policy Of Truth" or the burly punishment beats of "It’s No Good" sound played through crystal-clear speakers half the size of Finland. New single "Only When I Lose Myself" holds up well too, all pneumatic shudders and weightless bleeps.

Sure, not everyone’s a winner. There are dragging lulls when you yearn for a dash of New Order’s spunky cheek or Marilyn Manson’s confrontational theatre. But when Gahan submerges himself in the mile-wide river of gushing electro-gospel that is "Condemnation", or when Gore croons a tremulously tender "Home", 20,000 spines tingle in unison at the naked vulnerability pouring from the stage.

Gore is back on the mic again for the first encore, "Somebody", an even more heartbroken piano ballad in which he pines for a lover who resembles a passive, docile, obedient Stepford wife. He seems to mean it too. Creepy. Then Gahan gets to play the Wagnerian rock lizard once more on a wheezing, snorting "I Feel You" – Mr Sex Messiah, still rocking the Pasadena Rosebowl inside his head.

But all sins are forgiven with a final, triumphant, bouncy gallop through the Mode’s 1981 toytown techno smash "Just Can’t Get Enough", way off the tour agenda and all the more welcome for being so. It feels like a release, a reward, a reminder of innocent times. Futurist vaudeville with the emotional depth of a microchip? Maybe, but in a torchlit Berlin forest full of arm-waving Eurogoths bent on recreating the totalitarian mass devotion of Queen’s "Radio Gaga" video, it all makes a stirring kind of sense.

Depeche Mode have survived self-destruction and transcended self-parody. They are still with us, and still worth celebrating."

Stephen Dalton
New Musical Express, 3rd October, 1998

Wembley Arena, London - September 29-30, 1998
The Singles 86>98 Tour - European leg

"Cited by many electronica artists as an early influence, Depeche Mode began life as chirpy synth-poppers in the early Eighties before moving into superb clangers of scrap metal for their third album. Then they went all industrial, got huuuuuge, and their singer got himself a heroin habit. It’s a soddin’ shame they’re now such pants.

Dave Gahan’s clean now, of course, although with his addiction has gone much of Depeche’s latterday appeal. Indeed, but for the tattoos, he’s again resembling the suburban geek who first wiggled his stuff on "TOTP" all those years ago – complete with snooker player’s mullet and Top Man waistcoat. It’s a sanitised, Sierra-driving Depeche Mode who are out on this "Singles 1986-98" tour, and all the more disappointing for it.

They’ve got groovy gospel backing singers, though, and some massively kitsch "DM" light bulbs that blind with every power chord. And the personal questing is still prevalent on the somewhat glib "Lose Myself" ("Only when I lose myself in someone else/Do I find myself") (sic) and a neo-gothic "Question Of Lust". Some of these songs trawl the darkest recesses of despair, so it’s fairly incongruous to have a prancing, smiling Gahan relaying them so cheerfully.

Those arm-waving to "Walking In My Shoes" recall a load of Blair-ites at a rally, but after some interminable, pseudo-religious dross about redemption and condemnation (err, "Condemnation") it’s a relief to be perked up by "All I Ever Wanted" ["Enjoy The Silence"]. This is vintage Depeche – buoyant, thought-provoking, soulful. That Gahan delivers it while making like a constipated angle-poise lamp suddenly doesn’t matter.

When they follow it with one of their finest, "Personal Jesus", all is nearly forgiven. But they do that obvious there’ll-be-an-encore thing, and come back with some right old cack. Former perv Martin Gore, now in Bacofoil trousers, does an embarrassing ballad ("Somebody"), "Stripped" is skagged-out slop. Only a revelatory "I Feel You" and a triumphant "I Just Can’t Get Enough" [sic] make you wish they hadn’t split a good few years ago."

Carl Loben
Melody Maker, October, 1998