27. OMD
Roundhouse
3 May 2013
OMD’s origin story reads like the sort of underdog tale that practically demands its own sweeping synthesiser overture: two Wirral lads fiddling with soldering irons and build-your-own synth kits from Practical Electronics whilst dreaming of Kraftwerk and possibly a minor feature in What Micro? magazine. They were DIY pioneers, if by "pioneers" you mean "blokes electrocuting themselves in a garage, discussing German minimalism."
Then along comes Gary Numan. He taps a Moog key once, growls something vaguely robotic about cars and aliens, and is immediately rewarded with three No.1 singles and a permanent residency on the Top of the Pops. OMD, bless them, were still trying to coax a note out of a Casio with duct tape. If they weren’t fuming, they absolutely should have been.
Still, slow and steady sometimes wins the synth race. A few solid UK hits later, some genuinely great pop moments, and then, bam, America. Not with the brooding menace of Depeche Mode or the stadium-chasing pomposity of Simple Minds, but via Pretty in Pink. Yes, “If You Leave” gifted them their John Hughes moment, soundtracking teenage heartbreak in pastel suits and cementing their place in American high school slow-dance history. They didn’t quite crack full-time transatlantic synth dominance, but Andy McCluskey did go on to create Atomic Kitten, so really, who are the real winners here?
Fast forward to now. My oldest mate and I have demolished burgers and cocktails at Q-Grill and, by divine accident, found a speakeasy so hidden it may technically not exist. Up a side staircase, through an unmarked curtain, and suddenly we’re in a bar where cocktails are mixed at the table by a bartender who looked like he moonlights as a magician. We briefly considered cancelling the gig altogether and just sipping Old Fashioneds. But no, we drift into the OMD set just as they’re powering through selections from English Electric, which is... fine. Modern OMD is like ordering a familiar cocktail with new ingredients. We sway politely, nod approvingly, and try not to ask too loudly if they’re going to play the ones we came for.
Then, finally, the payoff. “Souvenir.” “Joan of Arc.” “Maid of Orleans.” “Enola Gay.” “Sailing on the Seven Seas.” One after another, like a beautifully curated synth-pop playlist from 1982 bathed us in neon. It’s glorious. Euphoric. The kind of nostalgia you feel in your knees and your pancreas. Sure, they’ve got a slightly worrying obsession with Joan of Arc, but when those glittering melodies hit, it’s pure, unapologetic synth pop. McCluskey is still doing his trademark dad-dancing-meets-marionette thing, and Paul Humphreys plays with the calm, detached air of a man who visibly stopped giving a fuck in 1986.
OMD may not have the tortured sex appeal of Depeche or the ego-driven bombast of U2, but they don’t need it. They helped invent synth-pop and have absolutely nothing to prove, except maybe that they still remember all the words to “Tesla Girls.”