Gore’s directive is less about activism and more about opening your heart so that it guides your conscience.
get on board.” You can draw inspiration from that lyric whether or not you take to the streets or petition your elected officials. In the bridge of “Where’s the Revolution,” Gahan repeats the line “the train is coming, the train is coming. Nevertheless, this is a band whose effortlessness can misguide you into thinking they’re not trying. But even Flood didn’t imitate himself when he mixed the last DM album, 2013’s far more creatively resolute Delta Machine. Instead, Ford-who is also one half of the electronic duo Simian Mobile Disco-mimics the vibe of the band’s iconic work with producer Flood. If only producer/mixer James Ford ( Florence and the Machine, Foals, Arctic Monkeys) had disheveled the sounds a bit, Spirit could have better asserted its place in Depeche Mode’s body of work. But aside from “Cover Me,” Spirit lacks the ambience of Depeche Mode’s most atmospheric material. The sixth album since the departure of multi-instrumentalist/arranger Alan Wilder, Spirit sees Depeche Mode once again shuffling through the most quintessential components of their sound. On “Cover Me,” Gore’s haunting Lanois-esque guitar twang allows you to close your eyes and picture yourself under the Northern lights Gahan sings about. In some respects, though, their consistency works against them. Depeche Mode still make universal, stadium-sized music that’s limber enough to fit through your bedroom doorframe, as if it had been conceived with your life in mind. A song like “Where’s the Revolution” makes you feel like singing in response to today’s headlines. Later, though, on “Poorman”-which self-consciously references the spartan electronic gurgle of the Violator hit “Policy of Truth”-Gore and Gahan risk coming off as oblivious to the irony when they observe that “corporations get the breaks/Keeping almost everything they make” and ask, “When will it trickle down?” But Depeche Mode deliver anthems with such proficiency that sincerity barely matters. Gahan delivers Gore’s state-of-world address for three songs in a row before going back to the band’s bread-and-butter obsessions. But this time, he’s tasked with looking up from his satin, regret-stained sheets and making us believe that an aging rock star really cares about civil unrest. Gahan turns despair into sex appeal unlike no other. And Gahan, with his ability to invest urgency, soul, and a feeling of debauched weariness into subjects like S&M and tortured love, has never failed to translate Gore’s restless malaise to the throngs who fill stadiums to connect with it. By the band’s 1990 breakout Violator, Gore had basically invented his own syntax for the human condition as a purgatorial struggle between sinful pleasures and a yearning for higher peace. Over that time, few artists have so artfully portrayed the inner dialogue between redemption and indulgence. Apparently, principal lyricist and songwriter Martin Gore is no longer content to focus all his attention on the spiritual searching that has defined Depeche Mode’s music for more than 30 years.
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