Melody Maker, April 17th 1997
DEPECHE MODE
ULTRA
Mute (12 trks/60 mins)
Long distance love never works out. At first,
it's all letters echoed in the twitch of loneliness. Bonds across
distance that take the map of separation and fold it into a tiny
togetherness. But soon those letters start to get "lost in
the post" and the telephone lines twist into circles,
defining their own independence. One becomes two.
Which is why Depeche Mode shouldn't have made
this album. A bad album. A lazy, disposable album.
She waits by the phone. Four years by the phone.
He dials, pauses, and then says: "I'm fine". His
chocolate voice is as charming as ever but even his thoughts have
grown remote.
Which is why Depeche Mode shouldn't have taken so
long to send the reminder that they invented everything special.
And then invent nothing new. Rhythms and sounds that would
destroy the Chemical Brothers' ambitions, but remain a mere
reminder of their own.
He sends the first letter not to get lost in the
post. 12 paragraphs. All laboured and hollow with other people's
emotion. He says: "I can hear your soul crying". She
reads on, patronised. He says "Let your feelings grow".
She wonders whether she'll have to wait another four years to
read his emptiness. His evasion.
Which is why Depeche Mode shouldn't have written
lyrics so tritely dismissive of new thought. "Freedom's a
state". Freedom's in a state. "Emotional
emancipation". Emotional stagnation.
She remembers old times, young times, through the
filter of jaded memory. Wonders whether she felt any more for him
when he was around. Decides that he's better off away.
Which is why Depeche Mode should have written
just one song as pure and fluid as "Halo",
"Everything Counts", "Never Let Me Down
Again", "Flies on the Windscreen",
"Somebody". Treasures carried off by the cuckoos which
occupy their evacuated nest. The linear tinnitus of
"Ultra" makes ears ring and Depeche Mode's past success
becomes overgrown with the
moss of failure. Which is why David Gahan will never recover. He
was away too long. Somewhere he became a fool. Trapped into
self-pity. Self-absorption. Self-delusion. Which is why Martin
Gore, the broken mother, will waste the remainder of his career
writing lullabies about his son's promise. Sweeping up his
singer's blood-flecked detritus, sterilising the room with a mist
of astringent optimism. She remembers the pain of wanting him
back. She still hurts. But she doesn't want him back any more.
ROBIN BRESMARK
Melody Maker, April 17th 1997
|