Tired and depressed

Playing the AngelDepeche ModeOut NowIt’s really easy to write musicreviews of bands you don’t like.Put the promotional CD onthe stereo, ignore the resultantcacophony as a mere formality,bash out six hundred words worth ofsynonyms for “piss-poor” and retireto the bar for a self-congratulatorylibation. Keep to these rules, and theprocedure will be relatively painless.Just remember to avoid introspectionat all costs. Don’t be tempted by somefatuous ideal of fair and balancedjournalism. Take Depeche Mode,for instance. One certainly wouldn’twant to go to the effort of accordingthem a fair, balanced review. It’s justtoo difficult to be nice about them.At first glance, they appear to be themusical equivalent of schoolgirls whofervently believe that stripy tights andrat-nest hair signify a soul of singularbeauty and depth, rather than theaverage hormonal turmoil of puberty.This variety of cheerless pomposity isDepeche Mode’s defining characteristic,despite the fact that, as suggestedby both their quarter-century careerand the publicity photos that makethem look like particularly unwholesomeresidents of Royston Vasey,they are much too old for that kindof nonsense.Nonetheless, their new album,Playing the Angel, bears the supplementarytitle Pain and Suffering inVarious Tempos. Song titles includeA Pain That I’m Used To, Suffer Well,Damaged People and The DarkestStar. They might as well have goneand called the album "My Pain andSadness is More Sad and Painful thanYours", except ace Welsh popularbeat combo Mclusky did that backin 2000. Things are looking unprepossessing,and the music hasn’teven started yet. Pain and Sufferingindeed.The worst element of Playing theAngel is the idea of it. Despite theunsatisfactory premise detailed in theprevious paragraph, it isn’t that bad.Not to say that there aren’t countlessother releases more deservingof the ten odd quid cost of buyingan album. This is more than can beexpected by my profound antipathyto the prospect of listening to it.Actually, the work is dull and a littlepretentious, but alleviated by areasonable production ethic, somecredit for which should go to BenHillier, whose résumé includes workfor Doves and Blur.The zenith of the album, the aptlychosen first single Precious, is a sliceof delicately expansive electroniclandscaping. The exuberant, gospeldrivenJohn the Revelator, despitehaving a synth loop that soundssuspiciously like it came out of somethingby the Sugababes, is a listenableenough ditty, with a particularly emphaticvocal. Both tracks couldalmost be by the Killers, and like theretro copycats they don’t even comeclose to the majestic peaks achievedduring electro-pop’s eighties heyday.Suffer Well seemed to lift a bit fromone of these apogees, New Order’sTrue Faith, transposing it to the perpetualcrepuscular gloom of DepecheMode’s world. It is this stubbornmalaise that makes their new work soboring. As self-indulgent, smack-addledyoungsters, they at least had thesense to inject a bit of style into theirmelancholy. Self-indulgent old fartsjust don’t have the energy to maintainthat. The fact that they are still keptin business by credible labels likeKompakt and Mute is more a tributeto past glories than present strengths.Playing the Angel isn’t too bad. But itisn’t too good either.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005