28. Depeche Mode
The O2 Arena
28 May 2013
Let’s not kid ourselves, Depeche Mode haven’t exactly aged like a fine wine. Martin Gore now bears an uncanny resemblance to your nan, en-route to a high-stakes bingo session, albeit with more sequins and better gear. Dave Gahan still cuts a cool figure, all slick menace and cheekbones you could dice vegetables on, but he looks like he's been through several decades’ worth of poor decisions, excellent stories, and at least two resurrections. As for the now dear departed Fletch, he always had the energy of an accidental band member; like someone misread the job ad and brought an Excel spreadsheet instead of a Moog. But sweet synth Jesus, they can still bring the thunder.
Once upon a time, they were pastel-drenched Essex lads bouncing around Top of the Pops whilst girls with perms and shoulder pads awkwardly shuffled behind them to “Just Can’t Get Enough.” It was all a bit chipper, a bit Smash Hits, and then: boom, Music for the Masses. Violator. The tectonic shift. The synths got darker. The eyeliner got thicker. Gahan stopped bouncing and started slithering, slowly transforming into a cross between Mick Jagger and a seductive demon in leather trousers.
He is in full snake-hipped high priest mode, commanding the stage like a man who owns not only the crowd but possibly their souls and tax records. The early bleepy stuff has been reengineered into hulking slabs of electro-catharsis, while the big hitters, oh, the big hitters, are weapons-grade.
“Walking in My Shoes” is a synth-goth hymn of such unholy power that I momentarily considered joining a cult. “Enjoy the Silence” and “Personal Jesus” arrive like sonic avalanches, reworked with just the right amount of brutality, all thanks to Mike Shinoda’s remix sorcery. The visuals? Lasers slicing through the air like a Nineties Bond villain has discovered dubstep. At any moment, you expect the mothership to descend and beam up the front row for immediate assimilation. And then the encore hits.
The Goldfrapp remix of “Halo” glimmers like some celestial transmission from another dimension, until it’s bulldozed by that riff. “I Feel You.” Part gospel, part sexual thunderstorm. Gahan struts and writhes like a possessed snake, a cobra channelling all the pelvic fury of rock ‘n’ roll’s past whilst looking like he’s about to sell you sin by the pound. It’s the kind of performance that makes you believe that you too could smoulder in a leather waistcoat at age sixty, with dignity intact.
And as the house lights come up and the spell breaks, there’s this shared, slightly shellshocked energy in the air. We’ve all been willingly, joyously violated by a band that still knows exactly where to hit and how deep to twist the blade.
Depeche Mode don’t just play shows. They possess them. And tonight? We were the possessed. Unashamed. Undone. Like we’ve just come out of a black mass, not a gig.