I think the very first time I heard Depeche Mode, it was via my older step-cousin John. He’d obtained a copy of their then-new debut album, Speak and Spell and insisted on playing it from front to back at every conceivable opportunity over the course of week we spent with him and his family at their summer home up in Maine.
Nine times out of ten, John and I were fairly aligned in terms of our music appreciation, although he routinely sneered at my dogged fandom for a lot of slackjawed heavy metal. John had been an early proponent of bands like U2, R.E.M and the Cure, and gamely tolerated my bug-eyed evangelizing of bands like Black Flag and Devo. But when it came to the first album by Depeche Mode, while I warmed to tracks like “Boys Say Go!” and “New Life,” I initially found their big single, “Just Can’t Get Enough,” to be somewhat irritating. Repeated plays by John did not help matters. By the end of that week, I’d pretty much decided that Depeche Mode were rinkydink lightweights.
That opinion would change, however, two years later, upon the arrival of the single “Everything Counts,” off the album Construction Time Again. A comparably dour rumination on the avaricious machinations of soulless corporate entities, “Everything Counts” — replete with an infectious bass line, angelic harmonies and a killer xylophone hook — was firmly in keeping with the band’s new songwriting regimen, which had been commandeered by Martin Gore following the departure of Vince Clark (who split to form the Association with Feargal Sharkey before forming Yaz with Alison Moyet and, later still, Erasure with Andy Bell). I wasn’t aware of any of those specific changes in personnel and creative duties, at the time. I just knew that the weedy synth band of chinless party boys I’d blithely dismissed a year or two earlier had seemingly grown word-weary and comparatively heavier. Much as John had done with “Just Can’t Get Enough,” I put “Everything Counts” into maddeningly regular rotation, demanding that my friends listen to and appreciate its frowny magnificence.
From that point forward, I became an unapologetic Depeche Mode fan. Sure, their roots were in steeped teenybopper bullshit, but the newer songs now boasted an edge that belied those embarrassing origins. I mean, Depeche Mode were never going to be mistaken for punks or even proper goths, but their moody, electronic pop and newfound glower suited my own gloom-laden sensibilities to a tee.
When one thinks of Depeche Mode, it’s invariably the endearingly histrionic vocalist Dave Gahan or famously freaky Martin Gore that spring to mind. I always thought the since-departed Alan Wilder was the cool one (based on his punky quiff and accomplished handling of the xylophone in the video for “Everything Counts”), but evidently, he was too much of a fastidious studio diva to get on with his bandmates and jumped ship after 1993’s Songs of Faith & Devotion. When it comes to Andy Fletcher — the tall, storky one (or storkier one, I should say) — I never had any great insight into what his contributions were beyond simply being one of the original guys and a synthesizer-bother in some rudimentary capacity. It’s been said, however, that he acted as the crucial liaison between Gahan and Gore, seamlessly enabling the creative exchange between those two figures. It’s been further suggested that without Fletcher in that role, they will not function, spelling the untimely demise of the long-running band.
Like many bands of their generation, Depeche Mode gradually grew into a juggernaut, but during their younger years — when I, too, was growing — their music provided the suitably melancholy soundtrack to many of my life experiences. I cannot imagine summer without hearing their electric glockenspiel laments like “Blasphemous Rumors” or their doleful, furrowed-brow observations like “Get The Balance Right.”
If this is indeed the end, I thank you for the music, Mr. Fletcher.
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