170. Depeche Mode

London Stadium

3 June 2017

There are few sights more reassuring in this modern age than Dave Gahan, gyrating like a gothic Elvis. It’s been over thirty years since Depeche Mode first graduated from the synthpop nursery and reinvented themselves as the world’s sexiest funeral procession, but tonight at London Stadium, they proved they’re still the only band who can make 60,000 people feel vaguely violated.

Depeche Mode have always looked and sounded like the end of the world, but at least they make it danceable. When they hit the stage to “Going Backwards”, the screen behind them bursts into life with apocalyptic imagery: silhouettes, static, smouldering humanity. It’s a bit like if Hieronymus Bosch designed a rave.

Then there’s Gahan himself, a man who long ago transcended frontman status and now operates somewhere between snake charmer and televangelist. Every movement is theatrical. Every spin, every hip thrust, every mic-stand twirl is executed with the precision of a man who’s spent four decades studying his own reflection and thinking, “Yes. Still got it.” And he has.

Martin Gore, moody and serene, stands opposite, the yin to Gahan’s pelvic yang, still crooning heartbreak with a guitar that looks too big for him. Together, they’re the ultimate odd couple: one sweating pure lust, the other radiating melancholy and eyeliner.

The set is a glorious testament to their refusal to mellow with age. “Barrel of a Gun” hits like industrial gospel; “World in My Eyes” slinks like a confession; “Everything Counts” still sounds weirdly relevant in a Britain run by spreadsheet sociopaths. Then comes “Enjoy the Silence”. The opening riff drops; the crowd collectively loses its mind.

The visuals are suitably grand: Anton Corbijn’s signature moody minimalism writ large in black and white, but it’s the chemistry on stage that still steals the show. When Gore takes the mic for “Home”, it’s pure heartbreak; when Gahan returns for “Never Let Me Down Again”, waving his arms like a dark messiah, the crowd obeys as if salvation depends on it.

By the encore, a devastating “Personal Jesus”, the entire stadium has turned into a congregation. Thousands of arms rise, fingers pointing skyward. You don’t just watch Depeche Mode. You join them. It’s group therapy for cynics, a reminder that misery, when properly amplified, can be euphoric.