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1993.05.31 Hannover - Sportpark Garbsen 
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So gru 22, 2012 10:31 am Zobacz profil WWW

Dołączył(a): Wt mar 17, 2009 18:16 pm
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Post Re: 1993.05.31 Hannover - Sportpark Garbsen
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Select, August 1993, Andrew Perry
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Germanic Shriek Preachers
Depeche Mode at the Garbsen, Hanover: larks in the park for the Essex boys' impersonal Jesus tour...

"Imagine you've got a band together, you've snatched the point blank opportunity to join Depeche Mode's European tour a few dates in, and after your first number, you have 25,000 people in front of you holding their tickets aloft and screaming the word "pfui!". It's the German word for "boo", of course, and it's probably your fault for being involved in the Jethro Tull-meets-Toyah madrigal nightmare of Miranda Sex Garden. Still, no wonder Spiritualized quit this very job three days ago.

As Mark E. Smith probably said once, treat people like animals and they'll behave like animals. These humungous outdoor gigs bring out the basest mob instincts. The Garbesen ain't exactly a stadium, just a field the size of Finsbury Park, bordered by trees. It's been intermittently pissed on all afternoon, and Elton John was here yesterday. Frankly, it's one huge dehumanising ceasepool.

But what other options are open to a band like the Mode? They did the arena bit with Violator in 1990. Staying indoors would be bottling out. Even though we Brits have consistently been putting them in our Top Ten for over a decade now, we still have a problem with four saucy geezers from Basildon being global pop icons. They are. Check the movie 101 for proof.

Germany's really the Mode's spiritual home. In the UK, Songs of Faith and Devotion has sold 150,000 copies - an awful lot for an album preoccupied with themes of submission, lust, and a desperate belief in humankind. Out there, it's 650,000 in six weeks, and still counting. So while we will have to suffer the ignominy of visiting an athletics ground in Crystal Palace to witness the boys in action on these shores in '93, this hippo's paradise is just one of seven Teutonic ports of call.

A mere hour before they're due to step before their impersonally adoring public, Martin Gore and his two otherwise unrecognised key-tapping cohorts (do all British bands have an Other Two?) are faced with Germany's empathy for their oeuvre at a "meet and greet" with its rock press. Hands sweaty with big-moment anxiety thrust microphones mostly under Gore's nose, while sheafs of questions about his views on Life's Crushingly Vast Complexity fire his way in crap English at a rate of about ten per second. Thickly made-up, sporting that shaved-all-around-but bubbly-blond-on-top hairdo and dressed in what can only be described as a pair of silver glitter bondage keks, the lad's totally dazed. "Well, yeah, faith and religion is, er, a thing I've always, y'know, been interested in."

He's rescued by the appearance of Dave Gahan. It's some entrance. Long black spangly jacket, luscious new mane (beautifully combed), spotless white jeans and a fluffy, white dress shirt right out of Poldark. He's lost his voice, we're warned, and he can hardly string two words together, but the smile, the aura! Thirty freeze-frame seconds that make TV slo-mo seem like a Prodigy video, and he's gone. Effin' Ada! We're talking Jaggeresque.

The effect is only marginally less dazzling when Dave darts between huge, swirling 40-foot-high net curtains during the opener, "Higher Love", giving everyone tantalising first glimpses of their hero. Behind him, way up on a podium that'll have Cecil B DeMille punching his way out of the ground to film it, the other three tinker away with inanimate industry. The crowd goes 25,000 carat apeshit and somehow, it's totally comprehensible.

Whether everything the backroom boys are doing is on DAT or not, you soon realise that Dave's carrying the show with rabble-rousing pirouettes around his mike-stand and a histrionic bow after "World in my Eyes". But (and we were warned) his voice sounds fairly gruff, especially when he asks if everyone's "awroight". It's still daylight when projections, again concocted by Anton Corbijn, start flashing on the backdrops and the screens beneath the podium, making the tinklers seem another ten feet higher up. Those beaky goblins prance around on them during "Walking in my Shoes", and for "Stripped", there's someone writting the song title over and over again, and lots of belly buttons. If only someone would switch off the twilight.

It all gets really rocking on "Condemnation", when Gahan's bluesy confession gets a female gospel backing and images of flickering candles, and "Judas", the one that sounds like Clannad, provokes unbridled lighter waving. They're winning. Gore steps down to warble and strum a couple of songs. The guitar may be stringless and made of inflatable plastic - it has ceased to matter and, anyway, it's hard to tell from 500 yards. He's still strapped on and blasting out feedback when Dave jogs back for "I Feel You", which gives you a hint of what stadium Mary Chain would be like, right down to Gore's head-down bubble-curl silhouette and Gahan's crucifixion postures.

"In Your Room" (set closer), "Personal Jesus" and "Enjoy the Silence" (first encore) soar in near-hymnic celebration of melancholy and godlessness. The Mode have taken on this transparently rubbish way of doing live music, and done it with a bit of class and intelligence. When they even have the sense of humour and the total bullocks to finish with "Fly on the Windscreen" (we must look very small to them), and "Everything Counts" (but hell, there's filthy lucre at stake here), they're damn close to earning your faith and devotion. But a sewage farm is no place for worship."
Andrew Perry,Select, August 1993


New Musical Express, 19th June, 1993, Paul Moody
Obrazek
Cytuj:
What Can You Do With A Raging Hanover?
Hanover Garbsen Stadium, Germany - May 31, 1993
The Devotional Tour - European leg


"In a marquee in the middle of a German field, Martin Gore is being cross-examined about the quasi-religious imagery of his lyrics by a fuzzy-haired journalist from Lisbon.

He in turn is surrounded by a gaggle of Euro-hacks who nudge each other excitedly and thrust forward their microphones in search of the perfect earth-shattering response. Martin smiles helpfully and deftly sidesteps everything in his spray-painted silver DM boots. After all, he’s got work to do.

In ten minutes he’ll be on stage in front of 20,000 people, making them dance like they’re lost in the maddest Teutonic disco orgy in the universe. His only aid will be three black synthesisers, two assistants and a singer with eyes the colour of sex and the pout of a lascivious gigolo cavalier.

Fact: Depeche Mode are enormous in Germany. They’re massive everywhere, really, apart from sleepy old Blighty where we’re too busy having wet dreams over the joke shop sex of the Pet Shop Boys to realise that in Depeche Mode we’ve got the real thing: Basildon bondage, all trussed up in dreamy tunes and suburban good looks.

The show is the stuff of Gary Numan’s dreams. An enormous stage looms over a vast green open space on the outskirts of Hanover. It is flanked by two huge mauve Depeche symbols between which three solitary keyboards tower on a platform where the guitar amps should be.

It’s a masterpiece of subtlety; a stark Bauhaus reminder that stadium pomp, when stripped of the hoary trappings of MTV, can still hold you in awe at its sheer mind-blowing magnitude.

Likewise, the dreaded synths. Being regularly in the company of people for whom electric guitars are barely less essential to existence than life itself, it’s amazing to discover that having them surge towards you from titanic speakers is a purely pleasurable experience.

Admittedly, this is just two days after having borne witness to the appalling guitar wank indulgences of Guns N’ Roses, but consider this: no crackling leads, no grisly distortion, just long, smooth blocks of sound that urge you not to clap your hands above your head like a seal, but to swing from the knees and DANCE. You should try it some time.

And then there’s Dave Gahan. Silhouetted for the most part, he is a wriggling figurine in white who manages to turn all those arty film noir videos you’ve seen of Depeche into saucy Caesar’s Palace stompers. "Personal Jesus" (once the twin peak of pseudo faith alongside the entire Sisters Of Mercy back catalogue) becomes a Glitter Band stomp whenever Dave waggles his derriere and screams "Reach out and touch me!"; "Enjoy The Silence", ushered in by a prancing Gore, is ersatz disco camp to rank with Blondie’s "Heart Of Glass"; and even "I Feel You", freed from visions of four blokes wandering through deserts and Dave smouldering his way out of a waistcoat, becomes a loose, danceable old friend.

It’s all in front of a home crowd, naturally (Depeche were always meant to have come from a Berlin satellite town – things just got muddled up), but it’s no less impressive for that.

Afterwards, backstage and distinctly off duty, Martin and Alan Wilder are playing table football when Dave makes his obligatory rock star entrance. With his ceaseless teasing and angelic white blouse, isn’t he a bit Mick Jagger ’69?

"Nah, I think it’s fat Elvis in Las Vegas meself, hur hur!"

Hollywood Soul, through and through."
Paul Moody New Musical Express, 19th June, 1993


pzdr.


Åšr cze 18, 2014 6:01 am Zobacz profil
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Dołączył(a): Wt lis 27, 2012 19:44 pm
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Post Re: 1993.05.31 Hannover - Sportpark Garbsen
super, dzięki! :)


Cz cze 19, 2014 18:22 pm Zobacz profil
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