Ho-mode

If anyone runs into the members of Depeche Mode sometime soon, please give them this message: "Phone Alan."

The Alan in question is, of course, Alan Wilder, the band's former keyboardist and in-house virtuoso whose departure in 1995 precipitated Depeche's slide into stadium-sized mediocrity. But while his former bandmates have had a decade to acclimate themselves to Life After Wilder, it appears to have been a futile exercise: His absence was as tangible as ever at Madison Square Garden last night, when the 2005 incarnation of Depeche played the first of two sold out shows promoting their new album, "Playing The Angel."

True to form, a large contingent of the MOGpac — F, Irene, Matt, Ash, Lurch and myself — shelled out obscene amounts of money for this show, hoping that the band might have finally found its way out of the musical wilderness. Our expectations were buoyed by the fact that the album isn't bad. Sure, it never had a chance of living up to the marketing hype — billed as a return to the "Violator"-era sound that elevated the group to iconic status — but it was a marked improvement over 2001's fabulously dull "Exciter." Adding to the excitement was singer Dave Gahan's renewed passion for the group, no doubt partly driven by his new role as a songwriter, a first in the band's 25-year-history.

And Gahan, to one's surprise, has lost none of his vigor as a performer, despite the best efforts of middle age, comfort and sobriety. His stage presence is so intense and commanding that the big screen projections — a staple of stadium shows for the poor saps in the nosebleed seats — are practically rendered moot. More importantly, Gahan can actually can sing, and when he does he fucking means it. The man is justifiably a star.

But not even Dave's persona was enough to elevate Wednesday's show beyond passable, a problem that comes right back to Wilder. It's not only that Depeche is musically adrift without his musicianship, his stoic professionalism or his acute sense of production values. It's that while Wilder was in the band, he provided a vital counterweight to the group's prima donna, songwriter and guitarist Martin Gore.

Everything wrong with Depeche's latest show smacks of Gore's aesthetic: every conceit, every outrageous costume change, every schlocky visual. He walked onstage Wednesday evening in an outfit that resembled a Roman warrior crossed with a Chelsea rent boy on club night. Never one for subtlety, Gore's costume included a pair of diminutive black angel wings. You know, like the album? Nevermind.

Compounding the embarrassing visual spectacle was the set, a cartoonish amalgam of curved steel and blinking lights that could have been plucked directly from a sci-fi b-movie or the production lot of Star Trek. The coup de grace was the giant silver "space egg" hanging behind Gore, replete with neon lights that flashed words like "sex," "love" and — in case you missed the first reference — "angel." Having seen U2's "lemon" gimmick in person, I was afraid it would hatch at any moment. And I am ashamed to add that the blame for this design probably lies at the feet of Anton Corbijn, the band's longtime artistic director and a favorite of mine.

But it was the music itself where Gore's bombastic presence inflicted the most damage. The two hour set included three songs where Gore sang lead, much to the delight of many screaming girls who were overcome with memories of prom circa 1989. And while he belted out the slow dance numbers, he crippled the show by relentlessly chipping away at its momentum. No doubt, the good songs were great: "Everything Counts," "Walking In My Shoes," "Never Let Me Down Again" and "A Question Of Time" packed as much punch as ever, although Gore fucked up another classic — "Enjoy The Silence" — by adding a terrible Chic funk guitar to a jam during the song's bridge. In the interest if candor, I will be the first to admit that I never liked Gore or the fey persona that his fans adore. But Wednesday's show confirmed what I always suspected: Martin is an insufferable putz, and when he isn't kept in check, the band he founded suffers for it.