If you are interested in a set list, check out this Depeche Mode website, as yours truly was too busy making a fangirl ass out of herself to take notes.
After spending a lifetime in Los Angeles and half of that lifetime involved in this thing called indie rock, you learn a thing or two about concert decorum. Keep your cool. Close your eyes and think of England or something like that and pretend that this isn't a show that you will recall when you are gray at the temples and remembering what was your life. It's just part of a string of events inside sticky-floored venues with bands playing songs that are important enough for you to be there watching, but not so important that you are willing to lose your mind. I tossed this lesson in the garbage along with a few bottles of Amstel Light before entering San Diego's Sports Arena.
Our seats sucked. Having never been to San Diego for a show, let alone the Sports Arena, I failed in this area. But failure only sinks so deep when you are at a show in a city less than half the size of your own where the Sports Arena is roughly the size of a mega-nightclub. That said, our second-to-last row seats didn't suck as bad as we thought, given that there were plenty of people sitting behind the stage(!) and the fact that from the cheap seats we could see that Martin was wearing a beanie at one point and dark angel wings, a skirt over pants and something that resembled a dark angel's Ugg boots. For that reason alone, I am really glad that we chose to drive three hours in Saturday afternoon traffic to see DM in San Diego as opposed to spending three hours trying to park at Staples Center on Monday night.
We missed the Raveonettes on account of the fact that we spent an hour or so drinking beer in the parking lot while listening to the Depeche Mode collection compiled by Estelle's sister on her Ipod interact with the Best Of Depeche Mode collections blaring from every other car in the parking lot (save for the party who were, for some reason, jamming to Simple Minds). San Diego is frighteningly similar to Los Angeles and, that said, the crowd in the parking lot consisted of goths, Dave-a-likes with Moz-a-like friends and nerdy perrenial college kids who could probably ramble on about some German import of "Master and Servant" with a remix by Adrian Sherwood (uh, I think that's me). Were it not for the intense smell of the ocean, this could have been Los Angeles.
We entered the arena to the sound of Richie Hawtin-esq electronic music, found our seats and, ten minutes later, watched the lights dim.
I started screaming. I tried to control it, but some things are just not worth the effort. These were deep, panting screams, the kind that can only arise when, after more than fifteen years of consistently missing one of your all time favorite bands live, you realize that you are finally there, albeit it several hundred feet and a few stories away from the stage. I let out one extended yelp after another as Dave bent backwards like a yoga instructor and threw off his blazer. The only reason why I stopped screaming towards the end of "A Pain That I'm Used To" was because my throat began to hurt worse than if I had smoked a pack of cloves and drank a bottle of tequila.
By the time DM launched into "A Question of Time," Dave had rid himself of his shirt and began to engage in his whirling dirvish routine.
"He has a really good spot," Estelle remarked later on.
"You're right. Do you think he takes ballet?"
It seems like a ludicrous and completely anti-rock question, but, logically, I'm not quite sure that someone could spin with that intensity for a good chunk of the performance without spending at least a year listening to a thin, aging woman in a cut-up sweatshirt, leotard and tights bang her pointer against the ground and holler, "Remember your spot!"
As amazing a presence as Dave has onstage (and Martin, too, for the four songs where he moved to the front of the stage), this night relied on the songs and it was specifically those songs that made me feel like I might just collapse. As a longtime fan of the band, I have an incredibly long list of DM songs that I would like to hear live. Naturally, most of those songs were not played. But, even though I didn't hear "See You" or "A Question of Lust" or "Blasphemous Rumors" or "Halo," I was really happy with the selections for this tour. In fact, I'm actually glad that I waited this long to see DM live as Playing the Angel is as good as Violator and Music for the Masses and I'm grateful to have had the chance to hear the bulk of that album in a live setting. Getting to hear those choice numbers alongside some of my childhood favorites ("Somebody," "Everything Counts," "Behind the Wheel," and "Personal Jesus"), just made it better.