Ahh, that elusive Meet & Greet. For a big name band it can be a luxurious achievement, one that either comes with a hefty price tag or is bestowed by the hands of fate through a promotional contest or some other "lucky break." In the case of Depeche Mode, good luck is priceless.
Depeche is renowned for being pretty inaccessible, understandably so when they regularly sell out 40-50,000 capacity stadiums and their zealous fans were once dubbed the Black Swarm (though we mostly go by the more casual term 'Devotees'). In recent years, the rare Meet & Greet experience with them has become famously perfunctory, a quick handshake down a single file line and a group photo. No bullshit whatsoever.
St. Petersburg Meet & Greet; Dave (center) looking consistently uncomfortable in a sea of Russian women. Martin (left) probably digging it. Fletch (back) umm...
Of course I'm all about the bullshit and granted, there are stories of more involved Meet & Greets, but they are not for purchase with any ticket level, not available for every show, and for those that are, you must win a pass. There's a unique opportunity currently running for German fans, a United Charity auction for a Meet & Greet in Düsseldorf. Though my Deutsch is limited, I can see that the bid is up to nearly 3000 euros, quite the pretty European penny for even the most devoted fans. (Cheeky charities, dangling the carrot of Depeche Mode for their own selfish purposes!) If I paid that kind of money for a meeting with DM I'd need at least a couple of hours, and there'd better be full body massages involved. So what to do to ensure my time with a band that has ensnared me with such intensity? If they do hold a Meet & Greet in Atlanta, I believe I will be there. The tricky part will be staying aware of the fan contests, as I don't live in ATL so am not exposed to the local radio. But if there is no organized meeting? Doing the classic waiting out back by their tour equipment seems pointless, as they likely have intelligent escape routes and don't tour by bus anyway. The next point would be running into them at their hotel. (Not creepy. Not.) Comment below if you've ever had the chance to meet DM, through the official channels or otherwise. :D *Photos courtesy of the Depeche Mode World Tour 2013-2014 Facebook page
I kept hearing them on the radio, these two or three songs. Amid the popular alternative spin of Asheville's 98.1 The River, these particular tunes kept catching me off-guard, the exquisite lyrical storytelling backed by an appealing alt country sound. I didn't know who these songs were by, or even that they were the same band, but sometime after I missed their set opening for Bob Dylan in April, the dots began to connect that yes, I was hearing the same band, and its name was Dawes.
I quickly found they'd be headlining their own show at The Orange Peel on Tuesday, June 11 in support of their new album, Stories Don't End, their third work in as many years, which they recorded right here in Asheville. I bought the album and listened to the shit out of it, so like any good music obsessive with a blog and a will, I decided--duh--I should do an interview with them.
I put in the request with their press agent. He was initially responsive, but when it became clear that I'm only writing for you fuckers he wasn't having it. That's legit. I figured that unless “official publication” meant “a silly chick who writes from a bedroom plastered with Depeche Mode posters,” it probably wasn’t a slam dunk. Still, I was stoked to enjoy and review the show.
Tuesday night, late as usual, I fiercely parked my car along the curb of a dark side street and made my way toward the Peel on Biltmore Ave. I came up around the back of the venue and noticed the blonde, serious-looking fellow pacing casually near one of the tour buses, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. I was pretty sure I was recognizing Tay Strathairn, the keyboardist for Dawes, but I passed him only with a smile, sensing he was getting into the zone before hitting the stage just minutes later. I told myself I'd come back round those parts after the show.
The warmth rushed me as I entered the club. I’d arrived between sets; the opening act, down ‘n dirty husband-and-wife country rockers Shovels & Rope had just gotten off, and the electricity still rang in the thick air. Concertgoers milled, flocked to the smoking deck and mobbed the bar. After a considerable wait in a mitochondria-shaped beer line I clutched my plastic cup tightly and began to snake my way toward the stage.
When the lights faded and the band made their entrance, the anticipation of the crowd released itself in a great roar. The guys settled quickly behind their instruments and launched into "From a Window Seat," their first single off Stories Don’t End and a great song that for weeks hasn’t strayed far from my mind.
They drove through the opening block of songs, which included “If I Wanted Someone,” “Most People,” and the soulfully familiar “If You Let Me Be Your Anchor.” It’s clear that live performance is the medium for them; in an ultra-digitized music world, they’ve placed a high value on being a solid little four-piece band that sounds like a solid little four-piece band.
They soon began to stretch their legs. Each musician had his time in the spotlight, as ya do, but free to shine on the foundation of a collectively and individually capable band is lead singer/guitarist/chief songwriter Taylor Goldsmith. I'm not blowing steam up anyone's ass when I say his storytelling is right up there with the best of them. The majority of Dawes’ work is sensitive and romantic in nature, and the guy sings his songs almost conversationally, mannerisms and all; he is involved, all the way, whether he’s telling his own story or someone else’s. We are also assured that with Goldsmith the sacred Guitar Solo is alive and well. Ow! With seemingly a different guitar for every song, he got a little funky with nearly every instrumental break, and y’all know I won’t kick that out of bed.
The crowd too was digging it. I found this particular audience pretty interesting, mostly good looking cowgirl hipsters and bro-dudes from, like, Florida and shit. For a while I seemed to be competing for swaying space with this happy chick who was either really drunk or hitting on me, or both. Immediately in front of me was a small group of very enthusiastic clean-cut guys; they belted all the lyrics, commented on the details only superfans comment on and even took over-the-shoulder thumbs up pics for each other in front of the stage. God bless 'em.
We were about an hour in and things were going great, the set list chugging along with steady rockers and thoughtful ballads. Then a pale green light embraced the stage, the drums began to pulse, and the guitars fell into a whisper.
The soft tension was suddenly interrupted when this doucheweasel to my left shouts “you’re boring! You’re boring me! Give me something!” Not in a suave heckler kind of way (if there is such a thing), but just a drunken narcissist sort of way. The band heard it--everyone heard it--but they didn’t flinch because they already knew what they had in store for us.
What they were building turned out to be pretty fucking aptly timed: it was an expansive country tune with room for some momentous solos. I wasn’t familiar with it at the time, but on this night I sense that the rudeness of the drunk guy was like gasoline on the fire; Goldsmith delivered a scorching guitar solo, the likes of which I haven’t personally seen in ages. The band was having a blast, Goldsmith literally bouncing around the stage, dirty dancing over the searing waves. At one point he crossed in front of where I stood to deliver a hard, punkass strum in the direction of the heckler who was already getting escorted out due to further asshattery. Rock 'n roll.
¤
The concert crowd is dispersing and there I am, waiting in an admittedly dark, creepy spot by the band’s bus. I’m not the only one; a 20-something khaki-shortsed guy is leaning against the light pole near me, tour poster and black Sharpie in hand. Turns out he just fell in love with Dawes' music a few weeks ago and drove from Charlotte to see them. Might even go to their next gig in Carrboro. We chat for 15, maybe 20 minutes before we notice a thin, dark-haired man approaching. We step toward bassist Wylie Gelber casually; I’m really trying not to surprise anyone by leaping out from around this dark corner.
He’s a man of few words, but Wylie is kind and appreciative. An autograph for my Charlotte friend and handshakes all around. A short time later, a similar routine with friendly, cutie blonde-fro'd drummer Griffin Goldsmith (yes, he and Taylor are brothers).
Taylor is in a fresh change of clothes and a dark coat when he emerges, a thick book rolled expertly into his palm. We all know the deal, so he’s happy to chat for a minute. Another autograph, photo and hug with Charlotte Guy and a firm handshake for me. Mostly I want to know what song it was that blew us all to pieces during the deranged man’s tantrum.
“Oh, it was ‘Peace in the Valley’! Definitely. I mean, I didn’t know he was going to get kicked out though. I felt bad. Yeah he was rude and disruptive, but I felt bad when he got kicked out.” I honor his tolerance and appreciation for his differently-minded audience; I tell him I probably wouldn’t agree. I don’t know, I guess because I was on a Sex Pistols kick a while back I was getting so used to seeing bands spit on their fans. Dawes are not like that; they’re nice boys.
We chat a little more and thank Taylor for his time; his book is nearly dust in his hand and I know he’s itching to finish it. He’s got 60 pages left and a few hours until bus call when they’ll head out for eastern NC. We exchange gracious goodbyes.
At this point keyboardist Tay Strathairn is still nowhere to be found, so after one last cigarette I bid Charlotte Guy a fond farewell.
But minutes later as I'm pulling away, I notice Taylor and an unfamiliar gentleman heading down the street with the signature phone-staring of lost people. I give them directions to a nearby hole-in-the-wall, but thinking they may not find it so easy in the dark, sketchy area, I offer them a lift. They accept.
As Taylor slides into my passenger side and Unknown Dude narrowly avoids hopping into the car seat, I make some quick apologies for the state of my ride, which as some of you know is pretty wild. But they’re Men of the Road and don’t care. The Unknown Dude turns out to be the band’s friend and traveling merch guy, Nate. I like his striped shirt and potential for chain-smoking.
It’s only a 30-second ride to the bar, and it's probably for the best otherwise I would have soon revealed that I had Stories Don't End in my CD player and might have tried to press Taylor for my interview right there. I come in for a beer instead.
This place is a welcome relief from Asheville's growing bar scene; there are maybe a couple dozen patrons scattered throughout. Taylor greets his drummer brother Griffin and a couple guys from the road crew before taking his place at the old school jukebox. Griffin racks up a game of pool. Neither of them appear to have drinks. Everyone falls into their comfort zone, and it isn’t long before Nate and I are outside smoking mad cigarettes, swapping stories of life in Asheville and LA, and everywhere in between.
After a while Taylor swings by to thank me again for the ride. We hug and say goodnight as the party breaks up. I am invited back to the bus for a beer, which I find is well-lit, quiet, and for nine men traveling together, smells freakishly good.
A little tour of the bus exposes me to futuristic travel amenities, secret instruments, and other unspeakable things (just kidding--these are nice boys, remember?). This is no Guns N' Roses scene; it's late, everyone is feeling mellow or already asleep, and after my beer I make my exit to let them rest. If the crowd chanting of their anthemic "When My Time Comes" earlier tonight is any indication of where they're from and where they're going, it's obvious that Dawes is a hardworking band at the dawn of their fame, and they’ve got some big days ahead of them.
