Long Island is an easy target — the accents, the tanning salons, the overconfidence. It can be a lot. On the other hand, the beaches are gorgeous and it was the birthplace of Walt Whitman, The Velvet Underground and, most importantly, 92.7 WDRE.

WDRE was a genuinely alternative radio station before “Alternative” was capitalized or abbreviated as “Alt.” It was born from the ashes of the equally legendary WLIR, which operated semi-legally for over a decade, shining a light on sub-popular music. Based in Garden City, NY, their modest wattage somehow reached all of New York City, most of Long Island, a good part of New Jersey and, when the skies were clear, the eastern seaboard of Connecticut. 

If you were tuned into WLIR during the early 70s, you might hear something from local, up and comers, Bruce Springsteen and Billy Joel. A few years later, you might have been assaulted by — and then converted to — The Clash or The Sex Pistols. But, in 1987, WLIR’s temporary license was repealed and the frequency was taken up by WDRE. Graciously, the new owners were sympathetic to the cause. WLIR’s “Screamer of the Week” became WDRE’s “Shriek of the Week” (an improvement, if I’m being honest). LIR’s motto was “Dare to be Different.” DRE had “New Music First” (less provocative -- an obvious downgrade). Playlists, however, remained daring. As The Police and U2 ascended the charts, DRE stayed committed to New Wave’s darker, underground resistance.

A typical block of DRE programming in 1988 after 8pm would include music from The Cure, Souxsie and the Banshees, Joy Division, Bauhaus, Echo and the Bunnymen and, of course, Depeche Mode. I was only “DRE-curious” at the time, which is to say that I listened earnestly, but cautiously. 92.7 was just four ticks of the dial away from 92.3, the Classic Rock station in New York. And so, I would switch between The Doobie Brothers “Black Water” on one station and Peter Murphy’s “Cuts You Up” on the other. At the time, I owned several pairs of Doc Martens, but I hedged my black t-shirts with brighter pants. I was too afraid to try eyeliner (though I was not not interested) and, on Saturday nights, at the midnight showing of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” I always felt like an interloper. As much as I loved Punk Rock and as obsessed as I was with the Talking Heads, I knew, deep down, that I was not that different. I was not particularly alternative. And, though I probably would have traded my entire baseball card collection to make out with a girl who listened to Tones on Tail, I was absolutely not a goth.

And yet, I was pretty sure I had a handle on the subculture. In 1988, goths were goths. Black fingernail polish. Teased hair in solidarity with Robert Smith. Had seen “Heathers” in theaters more than once. In my school, they were more a smattering than they were a legion, but, across the entire reach of WDRE, the goths had numbers. Moreover, whether you were partial to Souxsie or The Cure or Joy Division did not matter. You were in the club. It was all one, big mopey family. 

While I was never part of the family, I did get close enough to get a glimpse and take some notes. The fledgling teen anthropologist in me identified four breeds of goths, each with distinct features but each similar enough to be able to procreate with the others: 

1. Morbid goths were interested in the vampiric and occult aspects of the subculture. They were partial to Bauhaus and Souxsie and the Banshees.

2. Melancholic goths were either genuinely depressed or alienated or both. Joy Division were their bag but there was some crossover with fans of The Smiths.

3. Romantic goths believed in the power of doomed love. They prayed at the altar of The Cure but could also get down with Echo and the Bunnymen.

4. Industrial goths were the edgiest of the bunch, indulging the noise of The Birthday Party, the high mindedness of Wire and, most of all, the S&M of Depeche Mode.

Obviously I am oversimplifying and, clearly, there was a lot of overlap. My crude taxonomy was less about the differences and more about how bands of relatively diverse styles were all considered “goth” in 1988. At least that’s what I thought. But, apparently, I was wrong. And most wrong about that last variety. While it’s debatable whether The Birthday Party were a goth band, and while it's likely that Wire was just passing through, it now seems, for reasons that I don’t completely understand, that Depeche Mode has been excluded from the coven.  

Unbeknownst to me, goths drew a line at Depeche Mode. Before Twitter and Reddit, I would never have guessed this. Depeche Mode were a staple band for WDRE. They wore almost exclusively black. They sang about pleasure and pain. Their version of romance sounded sufficiently bleak to my ears. Their “masters” and “servants” were not explicitly vampiric but -- I mean, come on -- it’s the same metaphor. Sure, they swapped guitars for computers, but to use that as the line of demarcation felt like nitpicking. According to the gatekeepers on the internet, Darkwave, Industrial music and Synth Pop are, for reasons that I do not fully understand, their own species. They are not goth. And, though it vexes me, I am sure that it in no way bothers Depeche Mode. 

When they first arrived, when Vince Clarke rather than Martin Gore was the group’s primary songwriter, Depeche Mode had a lot in common with the early English New Wave. They were enthralled with synthesizers and European Disco. They worshiped Roxy Music and Human League. They dabbled with drum programs. And although the second track on their first album was entitled “I Sometimes Wish I Was Dead,” Depeche Mode was closer to Ultravox and OMD than to Bauhaus or The Cure. Yes — Depeche Mode was disinterested in guitars. But, moreover, Clarke was a romantic. His next stops were Yazoo and Erasure. It doesn’t get any less goth than “Oh L'Amour.”

Even after Clarke left and Gore took the reins, the darkness came gradually. But, as their name suggests, Depeche Mode were unafraid of updating their fashion. The band that, in 1982, looked like art school poodles, stuck between Punk and Madness, began to look like regulars at an East German BDSM club by 1984. Gore with his chains and cuffs and Gahan with his militaristic crew cut slash pompadour. Meanwhile, their music got heavier -- clubbier. The vocals began to sound like orders broadcast from state-owned megaphones. The synthesizers like an urban construction site combined with a late night electrical buzz. “Some Great Reward” was Depeche Mode’s coming out. Whereas before they had been treated as Synth Bubblegum in the U.K. and something headier in Germanic (gothic) countries, they emerged as global superstars once American club-goers heard “Master and Servant” and “People are People.” 

“Some Great Reward” was the apotheosis of early Depeche Mode, the inevitable destination for a band that was comprised of a brooding, irresistible junkie frontman (Gahan), a brilliant, anxious maestro who drank too much (Gore), a preternaturally talented multi-instrumentalist who bore the brunt his bandmates’ vices (Wilder) and the kindly “guy Friday” (Fletcher) who, in keeping the band together, nearly killed himself. “Some Great Reward” also marked the end of their run as a “New Wave band” and a “cult band.” By 1985, Depeche Mode were not just actual “Pop Stars,” they were actual “Rock Stars” (just without guitars). “People are People” was the coda to something simpler and the beginning of something far more complicated, more successful and much, much darker.

As the 80s careened into the 90s and the group approached their “junkie goth cowboy” phase, a lot of shit went down. They played in front of thousands of adoring fans in East Berlin, just before the fall of Communism. Nine Inch Nails exploded onto the scene with “Pretty Hate Machine.” That same year, Mike Meyers introduced “Sprockets” on SNL. And while the theme song for Sprockets was “Electric Cafe” by Kraftwerk, it could (should) have been Depeche Mode covering Friedrich Nietzsche.

During those years after “Some Great Reward,” Depeche mode cemented their hold on German(ic) club culture while also inspiring legions of imitators (and caricatures) in the U.S. All the while, they were drunk, stoned, sadistic, masochistic, and completely thrilling. They were either at their lowest high points or their highest low points. Sometimes, it was hard to tell the difference.

In 1990, on the heels of NIN’s debut and in the dawn of “Alt,” Depeche Mode released “Violator.” And though they were churning — perhaps rotting — on this inside, their seventh studio album was their commercial peak and, according to many fans, their creative zenith. “Personal Jesus” and “Enjoy the Silence” were massive radio (and club) singles and the grist for an eighty-eight date, four continent world tour wherein they performed for over a million fans.

That album and that tour were also very nearly the death of the band. Gahan sunk deeper into heroin addiction, Gore was literally seized by alcoholism and Fletcher struggled with crippling anxiety. In 1993, Gahan suffered a (drug-related) heart attack, Gore had at least three stress-induced seizures and Fletcher took several leaves of absence from the band to tend to his mental health. In 1995, the same year that Gahan attempted suicide, Alan Wilder quit Depeche Mode. The following year, Gahan overdosed from a mix of cocaine and heroin. While “Alt” was dominating the airwaves and while Industrial Music was climbing the charts, Depeche Mode — who were partially responsible for both of those things — were spiraling.

At the time, it seemed probable that Gahan wouldn’t make it and that Gore might not be far behind. But — someway, somehow — Gahan got clean. Gore, on the other hand, was a mess. As a result, “Exciter,” from 2001, was a half step back and a full step away from their stadium-sized club sound. Produced by Mark Bell, rather than Flood, it was the band’s least “Pop” album — more ambient and shapeless than anything they’d done before. There was less Gahan and, though he is the credited writer of every track on the album, seemingly less Gore as well.

“Exciter” was a disappointment. It sold poorly and it signaled a clear introversion following years of the opposite. But, it also served to lower the stakes for everything that came next. Ultimately, “Exciter” was the sound of a band that desperately needed a break.

They took that break. Sort of. And only after an eighty-four date world tour. And after Gahan and Gore both released solo albums. By then, the future of the band seemed less certain than ever. But, beneath the headlines and the gossip, something else was happening: Dave Gahan was growing stronger. Not only was the frontman healthier than he’d ever been but he’d begun to develop his own songwriting muscles. For nearly twenty years, Martin Gore had been the band’s eternal wellspring. It was a burden that had just about killed him. But, just when Gore needed him most, Gahan emerged clear-eyed and ready to work. 

Following Gahan and Gore’s relatively modest solo detours, nobody was expecting — or even hoping for — another “Violator.” Peak Depeche Mode was also self-sabotaging Depeche Mode, and fans were worried for the health of their boys. Fortunately, “Playing the Angel,” the band’s eleventh studio album, is not “peak Depeche Mode.” But it is a beloved album. It’s also a second (third) lease on life, a downing of the ante and a minor miracle. Tales of the recording sessions sound less like art-making and more like a mindfulness retreat hosted at Martin Gore’s home studio in Santa Barbara, California. 

Upon its release, “Playing the Angel” was hailed as both a return to form and a new, more hopeful direction for Depeche. In retrospect, I barely hear either of those things. Instead, I sense a band holding on for dear life, taking things one day at a time. Some of those days produced excellent results and reasons for optimism. Other days sound weary and defeated. But, regardless of the day’s mood, I hear more Dave Gahan. Not simply on account of his songwriting credits — he co-wrote his first three Depeche Mode songs for this record. And not on account of louder vocals or more reverb. It’s actually quite the opposite. Gahan’s voice is stripped down. The megaphone is gone. He’s not the master from “Master and Servant.” But, his instrument is deep and full and intact. In 2005, and against all odds, he was still one hell of a singer. And, throughout “Playing the Angel,” we get to hear him stripped of artifice.

However, while Gahan sounds resolved and reborn, Gore seems to be toeing a line. It’s telling that the album was recorded at his home, in one of the most luxurious and tranquil settings imaginable. Gore was still struggling with alcoholism and was in the midst of divorce at the time. You can hear most of this on the album — the regret, the relinquishing of control and the wistful appreciation. As a result, it is the least “in your face” Depeche Mode record while also being their most “direct” one.

“Precious,” the album’s first single and its greatest song, is all sub and no dom. It sounds as much like a later New Order single as it does like Depeche Mode. The vocals are lilting, the beat pulsing. The synths feel romantic. It is also one of several songs wherein Gahan is asked to conjure Gore’s regret. This time out, he nails it.

Five songs later, he makes another pass at Gore’s contrition. “Damaged People,” is perhaps the least Depeche Mode song of their long career. Gahan straight croons here, evoking Bryan Ferry in a tuxedo, onstage at a small theater. The piano sounds like an actual piano and it’s remorse is miles away from the masochism of their past. For three and a half minutes, they sound closer to Tin Pan Alley than to the clubs of Berlin or, even, the beaches of California.

Unsurprisingly, the Gahan songs edge closer to Alternative Rock. “Suffer Well” has a steady 4/4 beat that sounds like it comes from an actual bass guitar and an actual drum, though I suspect neither is the case. “I Want it All,” meanwhile, very nearly grooves! It’s not unlike Depeche Mode doing Sade — which is neither as amazing nor as terrible as you might think. Gahan’s triumph, however, is “Nothing’s Impossible,” a doomed, vibey track that sure as hell sounds like Goth Rock to my ears. That being said, it also sounds transitional, like a band figuring themselves (again) out in real time.

Like many albums, “Playing the Angel” starts stronger than it finishes. “A Pain That I’m Used To” is about addiction (love, drugs, both) and sounds as though it were recorded in a bunker during a state of emergency. It does things to your nerves that Depeche Mode is uniquely gifted at, pressing the pleasure and pain buttons equally. In contrast, “John the Revelator,” a take on the famous, call and response gospel, is mostly pleasure. The melody has an electric buzz that never grates. It’s an old idea, effectively reconceived as lightly Industrial Blues. Five songs into the record, through “Precious,” Depeche Mode is in rare form.

What starts out earnest and direct, however, ends exhausted and obtuse. The last third of “Playing the Angel” suffers in comparison to its first. There’s a short instrumental that might be functional, but would be hard to call memorable. “Lillian” is poolside fare, with a decent beat, an excellent singer, but not much else. And then, finally, “The Darkest Star,” is almost exactly that — glacially slow and dim. It features a synth impersonating a bird whistle and that single note piano trick that Trent Reznor and Atticus Finch employ to much better effect. It’s not wholly uninteresting, but it sounds lost and bone tired, depleted of the force that defined their best work.

Fortunately, it was not the end of anything. Since “Playing the Angel,” Depeche Mode released three more chart topping studio albums and toured the world several times over. And with the benefit of age and cleaner living, they eventually shed their goth shells. Today, Gahan and Gore resemble a more English, less goateed response to Bono and The Edge. But, like the U2 frontmen, they are nattily dressed, well coiffed, seemingly healthy and deep into middle age.

In 2020, five members of the band — Gore, Gahan, Fletcher, Clarke and Wilder — were inducted to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. In 2022, Andy Fletcher — the one who’d done all the odd jobs, the menial jobs and the inglorious jobs while his bandmates nearly killed themselves — died suddenly from something that sure sounded like a broken heart. At the time of his death, Depeche Mode had sold over one hundred million albums worldwide, an astonishing figure for any band but, also, as much as every other goth band combined (including The Cure).

Many years after it was released, I found it curious to learn that “Playing the Angel” reached number one in the following countries: Austria, Belgium, Denmark, Czechoslovakia, Finland, France, Germany, Hungary, Italy, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Sweden and Switzerland. I’m no historian, and I don’t want to start anything, but I think if you map out those territories, you get something that closely resembles the Gothic Empire. Not that Depeche Mode were goth, of course.

by Matty Wishnow