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LEARNING
THE HIGHWAY MODE
[Melody Maker, 14th
November 1981. Words: Paul Colbert. Pictures: Tom Sheehan.]
"
Backstage it’s all grins, Dave displaying his “collection” for the
night – a gaudy gold-painted necklace that wouldn’t look out of place
dangling from a toilet cistern, and a pair of ruffled, elbow-length ladies’
gloves. “At first I thought they were KNICKERS” he said, genuinely horrified
that someone could have thrown such items on to the stage. It doesn’t stop him
slipping them over his fingers and catwalking round the dressing room. "
Summary:
Melody Maker follows
Depeche Mode on the first UK tour and experience the trials and tribulations
that come with an hysterical fan base. Look out for Andy's underpants and the
maniac at the end. One of the best things I have for 1981. [2966 words]
Apologies
for the poor picture quality: this is because the pages were taken from public
library microfilm copies.
View pages: page 1 page 2 page 3
Try
also: "Hero's Welcome For
Four Boys In The Band" [Basildon Evening Echo, 12th November 1981]
"A La
Mode" [Kicks, 6th April 1982]
"The Name's The Game" [Zig
Zag, November 1982]
"Yes, It's Two Typical Days On
Tour With Depeche Mode" [Smash Hits, 27th August 1986]
[Note -
small parts towards the end of this article were illegible: I was working from a
poor photocopy and parts of the text overlapped on dark patches of photo. A [...]
in the text marks words
that I couldn't decipher.]
When it happened, he hadn’t know what to do… run, fight, laugh, panic…
In other people’s tales the answer always seems so obvious, but when the two guys stopped him in Manchester… on a busy street… at two in the afternoon… and demanded all the money in his pockets, Daryl was stumped for a suitable course of action. They were big these blokes – well, biggish and – Daryl’s mind whirled for some 007 ploy, a breathtaking gambit that would reduce the daylight assailants to awed and quivering jelly.
In a flash he acted. “I said no… and they went away. Mind you, things like that never happen in Basildon.”
Perhaps not, but Depeche Mode do.
And they come on you with just as much surprise; leave the wallet and steal your heart and feet away; front up with so much bare-faced, chirpy cheek you can’t help but love their simple and uncluttered purpose. And it’s not so easy to say no.
But for the moment, home town Basildon is a British Rail sandwich and a couple of hundred miles away. The immediate problem is tracking down Fagins, the third gig on this, their first lengthy tour – a 14 date buzz around England in the wake of the newly released album “Speak And Spell”.
The present guide is Daryl, a roadie and mate, who’s doing any thing but setting minds at ease by relating the story of his last brush with the city of smoke. At least Sheehan’s yarn is more restful. “See that hotel,” he jabs with a finger unhitched from a Nikon, “Albert Tatlock lives there… has all his meals brought to his suite AND doesn’t have to do any cleaning. That’s success…”
In fact, it’s not Tatlock and the rest of the street that concerns Depeche. It’s that while doing the Manchester gigs they’re missing the episode of “Crossroads” which begins the long road to finally offing Meg Mortimer. Such are the sacrifices.
The day had been gloomy, the evening sadly promised not much more. Divorced from the intimate and acquainted audiences of London and the South, Depeche Mode were wary about breaking ground with the northern attenders, especially as the album hadn’t yet appeared in the local shops.
Tucked partway along Oxford Street, Fagins could best be summed up by the word “low” – the ceiling is a rafter-strewn lid which operates to clamp down the sound, the audience and the band. The performance is vague, the reaction cool, the Mode unhappy. Let’s scrub it. Rip today out of the diary and start a new page, a new life.
There is just a small possibility that a major soul-quaking calamity could make Dave Gahan miserable for more than 30 seconds. Unlikely though. In the face of a dodgy gig, a steadily worsening cold and now a fly in the cornflakes at breakfast, he manages a broad beaming grin. “Ask them why it isn’t in the soup,” suggests Sheehan of the insectoid side order.
Depeche Mode travel heavy. I’ve never seen so many suitcases and suit-draped hangers crammed into a minibus – nearly all stage clothes as it turns out, made by an acquaintance in Kensington. Martin Gore has taken to travelling in camo gear, Vince Clarke favours jeans and a leather jacket, Andy Fletcher jumps on to the bus bearing a white t-shirt and a newly acquired chess set for mobile challenges, while Dave flicks the collar of his never distant overcoat round his neck and peels another orange. “Must have plenty of fruit,” he murmurs. Why? “Cos I’m dying.”
Also squeezing into the bus are two-man support band Blancmange who made their first vinyl appearance alongside Depeche Mode on the “Some Bizzare” album, plus Dave and Martin’s girlfriends Jo and Anne who have been drafted in to handle badges, tee-shirts and other DM merchandise at the gigs.
The road to Birmingham, the next stop, will take just under two hours to run, mostly in silence, though I do tap Dave for his views on their TOTP showing. “It was boring making it… we were sitting around for 12 hours though we did get a chance to talk to the other bands – apart from Spandau. They were the only ones who wouldn’t talk to us. They’re getting a bit snobby.”
Shortly before piling into Brum, Andy convinces tour manager Jon Botting to pull in at the service station. No-one believes for a moment the pretence of grabbing a cup of coffee. The entire band is addicted to Space Invaders machines, and they colonise the front hall before you can say “one or two players”. “Worst part of this job is getting them away from the bloody things,” confided Jon before yelling “LAST GAME EVERYONE” at the backs of the band. All credit to his stentorian authority – even the lowly passers-by with nothing to do with Depeche step back from the fire buttons in abashed obedience.
Bowling off Spaghetti Junction, the first recognisable part of Brum to present itself is tonight’s venue, the Locarno. Far more interesting is the dazed street sweeper outside the place who, Andy swears, looks exactly like their publisher. He’s obviously clueless as to why a minibus of hysterically giggling loonies should be whistling and taking his picture.
Birmingham has gone security crazy. Straight through the hotel doors and into the looming presence of a uniformed guard who searches all the bags. Dave is a neat packer, the rest – well…
With an hour to spare before the sound-check, the band and hack settle down for an interview – or at least three quarters of the band do. Vince feels he got a rough deal at the pen of a Fleet Street journalist and is presently off the press. [1] The rest are more than willing to natter… oh yes.
Dave: “We’ve got used to it but when we started, interviews made us really nervous. We just said yes or no. Now it’s the pictures that worry us the most; we’re not really photogenic.”
You’re joking. I know of a few thousand breathless female admirers who’d argue the odds.
Dave: “Yeah, it is important to look good, to be visual on stage…”
Andy: “But we don’t wear suits just so the audience can say, wow, look at what they’re wearing. We wear them to feel good.”
Dave: “It’s all part of a gig, to get dressed; it gets the adrenaline going. The gig really starts a couple of hours before you go on stage when you’re getting ready. I’m more nervous up here, it’s easier in London or when your friends are in the audience.
“When we play Basildon again it’ll be crazy. Martin’s just going to have a loincloth. Mart likes to show his top off… you like your body, don’t you Mart…”
Andy: “He loves it…”
Dave: “Yeah, that’s how he ended up on “Top Of The Pops”, he took his shirt off in the dressing room and said, ‘shall I go on like this’.”
Andy: “He’s even been known to kiss his own body.”
Martin: “You’re making this up…” (gales of laughter and the sound of a ferocious wind-up. Dave leaps off the bed and runs round the hotel bedroom kissing his arm and singing ‘I’m so beautiful’. Martin retaliates.)
Martin: “At least I don’t wear Y-FRONTS. Andy used to wear Y-fronts until a week ago, but we converted him to a briefs man…”
Andy: “WHAT! …I don’t wear them – YOU DO!”
Martin: “Yeah, he said ‘what shall I do if I get a girl on this tour’ …this bit’s going to be embarrassing.” No it’s not Fletcher makes a desperate lunge across the bed and grabs for the tape recorder while Dave and Martin look as if they’ve got terminal giggles. The room’s in uproar when suddenly the phone rings and with the sobering thought that it might be Svengali-esque producer Daniel Miller checking up on his boys, the laughter is stifled.
It isn’t. It’s just a reminder about the sound-check, but seizing the break in the comedy I punch home a question about Danny.
“He’s a damn good producer,” chips Andy with uncharacteristic vehemence, only to be punctured by Martin’s “… and he doesn’t wear Y-fronts.”
The trusty Teac tape recorder that supplies the rhythm tracks for Depeche’s stage shows came about from necessity rather than desire.
“If a good drummer approached us and fitted in with the band, maybe we’d think about it,” mused Dave, “but we never had much of a choice. There weren’t any drummers in Basildon that would do, and anyway they need transport and a place to rehearse.
“We just used to practice at Vince’s place on headphones – and Vince’s
mum didn’t even like the tapping noise the synthesiser keys made.”
[1]
- That's this article in the Daily
Star, perhaps one of the most important - for better or worse - in the band's
career. [continue]