We're pathologically social. We're professional leisurists. We're burrito lovers, bar flies, art whores and music nerds. We dish the good dirt, and we'll risk a parking ticket for a cheap sample sale. Sometimes, we blog drunk.
Catching up with Depeche Mode
Sunday afternoon, I found myself at Amoeba—again. I’ve been haunting their aisles even more than usual lately, thanks to a couple of upcoming DJ gigs. I’d done some major damage the day before unearthing all sorts of sweet vinyl sides. Yeah, I said it: vinyl. I know, I know. I just love it. Is that so wrong? But as it happens at Amoeba all too often, there were a couple of things that I forgot. Which is why I ran in again on Sunday to pick up a particular piece that they happily had in stock.
So I’d procured my treasure, and was heading through the R&B section for one quick pass when I noticed someone that looked extremely familiar. It only took a moment to realize that the slight blonde guy with the basket full of tunes was none less than Martin Gore of Depeche Mode.
OK, I could go on forever about how huge a part Depeche Mode has played in my life. From my first real girlfriend through all sorts of trials, tribulations, parties, concerts, feature films, a certain Detroit after-show where DM came to check out DJ Derrick May—their albums are like bookmarks in my life, the soundtrack to more memories than I can even remember (ha). Which is why I looked like a deer in the headlights when I was finally able to muster the courage to say hi. He was very gracious and shook my hand. I managed to say something about being a big fan and thanks. It was all kind of a blur.
It didn’t fully hit me until I’d made my purchase and stumbled back to my car in a daze that I’d just run into MARTIN GORE. The man that wrote songs like “Stripped,” “Black Celebration,” “Lie to Me”—songs that invoke vivid images and emotions every time I hear them. I just sat there for a moment, quietly freaking out. Martin Gore. Damn, that's just crazy...
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