TITLE: Angels With Shining Faces
SOURCE: Record Mirror (1st August 1981)

TITLE: Fresh Depeche
SOURCE: Record Mirror (24th October 1981)

DESCRIPTION: Two 1981 interviews, both taken from Record Mirror and written by Mike Nicholls.

Angels With Shining Faces

There’s something very unusual about these lads. Not just the funny threads and lop-sided haircuts. It’s those faces: Stern, well-scrubbed, shiny, angelic, even. More like cherubs than boys in a band. Or choirboys.

"Andy and Vince both used to sing in church," Martin reveals mischievously, "but then the devil got them. Very evil, the devil, you know," he continues, much to his colleagues’ embarrassment.

But the best is yet to come. Depeche Mode is not the only combo Messrs Fletcher and Clarke have ever had in common. Nor their respective Christian church choirs. No, for five years they both played in the Boys’ Brigade!

Now in case you’re thinking you’ve never seen members of this worthy organisation marching up your high street doodling about on synthesisers, it ought to be pointed out that they haven’t always relied on these fascinating machines.

For the first half of their 14 month existence it was boring old guitar, bass and keys until one day Martin brought along a VC23 or something. "It didn’t take long for the others to follow suit. They’re a lot easier to learn to play from scratch than most other instruments," the third twiddler admits.

"And portable too," Dave (silicon) chips in. "We can fit all our gear into a few suitcases and drop ‘em into the boot of the car. No need for amplifiers, back-lines or anything."

Dave Gahan was the last member to join the group. This comes as no surprise whatsoever since he’s most certainly the odd man out. Whereas the others tend to be guarded and reserved, the singer displays the kind of confidence you’d expect from someone who virtually talked his way into the band.

"Dave started jamming with us in rehearsals one day, so we asked him to join," Martin recalls. "It wasn’t as if he was a total stranger. In fact we’ve all known each other since schooldays. It’s much better that way. You can’t possibly get on as well with newcomers who’ve been fixed up from adverts in the music press," he declared baldly.

Must be more of a crack appearing on TOTP when you’re old pals. What do your mums think? Are they proud of their little boys?

"I try not to tell mine much," the shy chap replies, "otherwise my mum just goes round bragging it to the butcher, the greengrocer… everybody!"

Parental fringe benefit, squire. Any more TV lined up?

"Yeah, we’re on ‘20th Century Box’, too. They’re doing a programme about the music scene round Basildon which is where we’re from."

Now Basildon might not be renowned as a rock’n’roll epicentre but there’s a club where the quartet started attracting a lot of attention. Crocs is its name and Depeche Mode soon became the focal point of its burgeoning futurist knees-ups.

"We were the first band to play there," claims Dave. "The resident DJ, Rusty Egan, liked us and so we then got a spot on one of the Thursday nights he was running at the Venue. Rusty’s my hero," he confides.

Although still holding the affable innovator in high esteem, it is with a rather more low profile entrepreneur that Depeche Mode have decided to entrust their affairs. Daniel Miller, who charmed half a hemisphere (not to mention Grace Jones) with ‘Warm Leatherette’ owns their present record label, Mute, and the boys seem to want to keep it that way.

Mute might only be an indie – and one that can’t pay for its own photo-sessions – but Miller’s use of independent record pluggers makes it a match for the international companies, notwithstanding their heavy sales forces and so on.

Proof of the pudding is present hit ‘New Life’ charting the week it was released before amassing sales currently approaching 200,000. Although not furnished with the title, Miller is to all intents and purposes the band’s manager and is currently producing their debut album which, with expert timing, should be in the (right) shops by the end of next month.

"It’ll mainly consist of the songs we’ve been playing since we started plus a few new ones. No, I’m not going to give away the title or what the next single will be… Actually, we don’t know ourselves yet."

A likely story. How about some dates? Any megatours in mind? I hear you’ve just got a deal with the same agents who book gigs for David Bowie and Adam & The Ants.

"We’re not like those rock’n’roll bands that play night after night. Y’know, I mean it’s just not us, really."

This is true but what about the little robots all over the country who have put you where you are today. Don’t they deserve a live shot of the DPs?

"We’ll be playing some dates," he concedes, "including some major European capitals," adds Miller, sounding for all the world like the President of a multinational conglomerate.

A far cry from the choir, eh Martin?

"Oh, you get some good singing in church," he replies, "why do you think I go?"

Hmmm, sounds like another A&R matter for Mute. On yer bike, Daniel.

Fresh Depeche

No restaurants except for Chinese and Italian. No amusements apart from pool and bingo. No live entertainment save in the Towngate Theatre. No soul in the clubs but then there are no clubs at all.

This is the great British New Town. By no means definitive but an example all the same, Basildon is its name and somehow it has managed to produce sparkling pop sophisticates Depeche Mode.

Despite the surrounding suburban sterility a fabulous Phoenix has arisen out of these ashes. Ashes as in this contemptible conglomeration of breeze blocks, shopping malls, ring roads and chain stores. Perhaps I’m being a little strict. After all, this is home for the boys in the band and it hasn’t had any discernibly traumatic effect on their buoyant personalities.

Having previously spoken to them variously on the phone, in the office, down the pub and après-gig, the natural habitat is the obvious choice for the next rendezvous. The star-at-home situation always makes for much engaging piffle and with Depeche Mode the possibilities seem endless.

Consider the insight! Could their ultra-modern synthesised sounds stem from the fact that they all live in one great air-conditioned astrodome? What do they eat? Endless mounds of silicon chips? Partaken exclusively from hi tech multi-purpose furniture. The mind, as they say, boggles. But, alas, in vain, I see no Depeche domicile, though the lads are hospitable enough to greet me at their local railway station. I actually arrive by road but we won’t go into that.

Basildon British Rail terminal on a crisp autumn afternoon. Innocently framed by the shiny formica photo-booth, my hosts stand in line, like cheery chaps about to embark on a school trip - Dave, Martin and Andy.

Missing, is Vince. His absence is all the more conspicuous by the fact that he’s the group’s sole songwriter [except for Martin - BB]. But he’s still smarting from an obvious trap he walked into when being interviewed by the sensational Daily Star. And won’t talk to the Press any more.

This was some time ago and his colleagues feel it’s time he bucked up. Yet they’re quite capable on their own.

Accompanying them are a couple of chums. And Dave’s girlfriend whose bright-eyed beauty ethereally mirrors his own. The pals depart with arrangements made to meet later. The rest of us decide where to converse. Since Basildon is not over-endowed with coffee shops ‘n’ greasy spoons, someone suggests Littlewoods. A department store with its own cafeteria.

We queue up for "refreshments" and select a booth. Just room for four. Dave’s girlfriend waits patiently across the gangway. Muted clatter from neighbouring tables lends a relaxing soundtrack to our discourse. Also assisting the ease are the pastel-shaded fixtures and fittings. Doubtless designed by a team of industrial psychologists.

There’s no need for psychology in understanding Depeche Mode. They are straightforward, friendly, co-operative fellows. One could almost call them boy-next-door types, if it weren’t for the fact that even offstage they look unusually distinctive.

Lead singer Dave Gahan is the snappy dresser. Shirt, tie, pleated trews and tweed top-coat. Somewhat formal for a Thursday afternoon, methinks. Flash, too. As well as a pin in his tie there’s one in his nose. Both gold. Matching his watch, bracelet and earring. Aged 19, he’s a year younger than the other Modes.

At the other extreme, Andy Fletcher looks relatively rustic. Closely-cropped hair, ruddy complexion and unremarkable denims. Andy has become the resident scapegoat, grudgingly accepting his lot in new life with strained smiles.

Right now he confirms his role of butt of the band’s in-jokes by referring to artics (as in articulated lorries) as "artex". And Martin is quick to pounce: "Ha! Ha! put that down," he earnestly entreats before turning back to the blushing boy.

"Don’t worry, Andy, that’s another few fan letters. Andy’s getting more mail than the rest of us put together these days because everyone knows we all take the piss out of him. They feel sorry for ’im, see."

Notwithstanding such blatant baiting, Martin Gore is the most enigmatic Mode. Sartorially falling somewhere between the other two, he’s diligently probing an obscene dollop of lemon meringue pie. Its fizzy expanse hilariously matching his unwieldy blond curls.

Everything about Martin is similarly funny. His humour is dry to the point that it’s impossible to know whether it’s intentional. Most of what he says is double-edged. He’s not having me on and he’s probably the most easily recognisable of the crew. As he fetches another round of undrinkable teas, a group of lads at another table nod with polite admiration.

You must be heroes round here?

"Yes," he agrees.

Well, there’s no point denying it. No need for false modesty. But you can’t help but think he’s surprised by it all: "People come up to us and say ‘well done! well done!’. And women whisper in your ear."

But it hasn’t gone to his head. And like the rest of the group he’s well on the case. All of Depeche Mode are extremely clued up regarding the running of their career. And only months ago they were just another bunch of unknowns with one inexpertly-recorded independently-labelled single to their name.

That, for the record, was ‘Dreaming Of Me’ on Daniel Miller’s Mute label. Sensibly they’ve stuck with Miller and subsequently sold a further half million records. With just two releases. At its peak ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’ has been selling 60,000 copies a week. One assumes that if it wasn’t for the fact that the upper echelons of the charts have been choc-a-bloc with high rollers like Adam, The Police and Madness they’d have made the Top Five.

Andy, Martin and Dave appreciate this and know a whole lot more. Like which labels to sign with abroad – small ones in France, Belgium, Holland and Germany; WEA satellite Sire in the USA – and how to make money touring.

Most bands lose money on the road, aiming to recoup costs with sales of the record they are promoting. Next month sees the release of Depeche’s debut LP, duly coinciding with a tour. They reckon making a minimum of £4,000 out of their 13 projected dates. Which per gig is pretty much what they’ve been earning all year.

The lads have actually been able to live off gigging, whereas most bands of their stature have to borrow tens of thousands of pounds from their indulgent record companies. Who later take the money via the band’s royalties from record sales. When Depeche Mode’s royalties come through, they’ll have no debts to settle.

The group know all about this but aren’t mercenaries. Just suss enough not to get ripped off. Although their tour will be comparatively short, it’s not only because that’s the most cost-effective way of going about it. They have other reasons for not wanting to go on week after week. And are not ashamed to reveal them.

"We get tired after two nights," Dave admits, blanching at the very thought. "I suppose that’s because we mainly play clubs and so don’t get to bed until two. TBA (an agency that books tour for Ultravox and the Ants amongst others) wanted us to play about 30 but we reckon 13 will be enough. Or 14 if we do a second night at the Lyceum. Depends if we can sell it out or not."

Ooh I’m sure you can… Other venues include Poole Arts Centre – something which causes them no small amount of merriment – and 1,000-plus capacity clubs like Nottingham’s Rock City. And just to keep their hand in abroad they’re doing selected dates overseas.

Hopefully these will be a happier experience than their recent Hamburg bash. There the band arrived knackered 24 hours after leaving Basildon following "a rough old ride on a boat." And more peaceful than the Paradise. Where Amsterdam punks and skin-heads kicked the shit out of one another.

"They’re a bit behind there," Dave concludes.

Depeche Mode have also played in Brussels and are about to return to Paris for a TV special. This time they’re travelling by plane. So things are looking up, huh?"

"Well if there’s one regret," says Dave, "it’s that the early fans aren’t still around. The original lot from Crocs (the Rayleigh disco which one understands to be a futurist oasis amidst the R&B desert stretching between East London and Southend) don’t follow us around any more. Because when you play bigger places there’s less contact with the audience You’re no longer able to recognise faces in the crowd."

Guess that’s showbiz, mate. So tell me about the new album. What’s it going to be called?

" ‘Speak And Spell’."

Why?

"Don’t know why, it just sounds nice."

"And it’s funny," rejoins Martin.

"Not funny ha ha," adds Dave.

"Yes it is," argues Martin, "some of it’s so poppy it’s humorous. But then some of it’s also weighty in parts."

Sounds great…

Meanwhile the bubble of this cosy encounter threatens to burst. Shop-shutting time approaches. Housewives start shuffling out of the cafeteria. Cups half full of tepid tea are collected.

"Well have you got enough?" enquires Dave. "I think we’d better go now."

Can’t resist one last question. About money again. They’ve got me at it. How much do you reckon’s gonna be coming your way. Royalties and that?

" ’bout a million, ’e reckons," Martin mischievously replies, referring to the self-same Mute man Miller.

Hmmm, wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe they’ll buy me champagne next time. But not if they’ve got any sense.