SIGNUM: mu[sic]

In the Zombie Room
or, Why Depeche Mode Won't Go Away

Here in the post-you-name-it world, where even the most paltry of media emissions can be deemed worthy of critical and/or popular re-evaluation, an abiding affection for Depeche Mode still has the singular distinction of being something shameful. Even after shifting tens of millions of units for more than twenty years, the Mode still gives off an inexplicable whiff of marginality pungent enough to fuel its detractors and gain new fans. Even to those over 21 who admit to liking Depeche Mode, the reasons for the band’s deal-with-the-Devil success and longevity appear a mystery, further exacerbated by the out-of-the-box sales of the forty-something group's 12th recording, Exciter, and its contribution to worldwide Top 20 teen-centric singles charts, "Dream On."

This is, after all, a band whose music dotes repeatedly on depression, sexual politics/S&M ("Master and Servant"), moodswing-prone deities ("Personal Jesus"), moodswing-prone deities as romantic metaphor ("The Love Theives"), and the spiritual healing properties of taciturn girls in black dresses. It's common wisdom that their oeuvre functions solely as a disposable soundtrack to the more John Hughesian moments of adolescence. Once one attains maturity, it is assumed, one gladly abandons those mopey Modes for the reputedly more sophisticated likes of Radiohead or the works of assorted Steves (Albini, Malkmus, Merritt). For even the most open-minded musical gourmand, Mode-listening is just a guilty-pleasure gambol down the Linn Drum back alleys of ‘80s nostalgia. If this were truly the case, we'd also be hearing the likes of OMD, Heaven 17, and ABC clogging the Clear Channel airwaves. But we're not.

In order to come to grips with the weird case of Depeche Mode, one must consider three facts. One, that despite some of the most graceless rhymes in recorded history ("People are people so why should it be/ you and I should get along so aw-ful-ly,"), and an image of studied anti-rockist foppishness, DM have accumulated a back catalog of unparalleled consistency. Two, that DM have managed to accumulate an entire new audience to augment their graying original fanbase. And three, that much of the Mode crowd utilizes DM as a sort of therapeutic Judy Garland substitute for, but not limited to, melancholic heterosexuals.

From the beginning (1981's Speak and Spell ), DM have been cognizant of – though not entirely ruled by – Oscar Wilde's exhortation that "in matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing." Rock people – especially American ones unused to the camp-informed gender dualities of the British theatrical/music hall tradition embodied by the Kinks, Scott Walker, Placebo, and all glitter rock – like their messages straight. The Boss reps blue-collar problems; Aerosmith is about the God-given right to get back in the saddle again; Journey is about, um, I'm not sure, really.

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